His Banner
By Funkiechick
(I had to write some David/Jack angst. Well...it's not so much angst as it is drama-ish enlightenment on his part. Listen to me, I pulled an all nighter, and now I swear to god, I am completely delusional. I had popcorn in a bowl next to me, and a cup of tea, and, NOT EVEN KIDDING, started dunking my popcorn in tea and eating it. I don't know why I did. Oh, and I was reading some Newsies fanfics to get me in the mood, and I swear, I started dancing the moves to the beginning of Seize The Day in the basement and I was getting them right. Maybe when I'm half-awake I have some sort of God-given dance talent. Now my neck hurts because if you watch, Mush goes pretty crazy with the neck movements. And I tried to be like him. ANYWAY, on with the fic.)
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The difference between Jack Kelly and myself is simple. It's about him, not me.
Maybe I sound bitter and maybe I sound childish. It doesn't matter how I sound, because what I'm saying is always the same. Jack is the voice, Jack is the leader. As Racetrack says "He's got all da marbles."
The banner we sang about, the banner we all fought to keep, was always his to me. I'm ashamed to admit it, but every time I said the words, I never once believed that this banner I was carrying was mine. I know they did-Racetrack, Mush, Blink, Specs, and of course, Spot wouldn't carry anything unless it was his...they all were part of that banner. They all needed to be there or else it would fall.
But I never was a part of it. I never tried to be a part of it. And never once did I think any of it belonged to me. Everything was his. I don't think of it as being bitter, or vindictive, either.
I want it to be his.
My words, I don't always know what to do with them. I talk so much, have so much to say, but no one will listen. So I tell Jack. And he's the hero. I give him words and he rewards me with words of praise, physical contact of the 'chummy Newsie' kind. He even tells Spot Conlon to listen to me. Tells the most dangerous Newsie in all of New York that he should if he has half a brain.
That's what I get. Like a dog, kind of. I say what I say, he yells it. I convince Spot Conlon to join the strike, and Jack guarantees it. I carry his banner, and he smiles at me. I get treats for being good. For sitting. For staying. Next thing I know, I'll have to roll over...I wish.
Teases me, everyone laughs. Respects me, everyone else does. Lets me in, we become best friends. Suddenly I'm THE Walking Mouth. I get scared sometimes. That if Jack should ever hate me, if he ever pushed me away, then I'd go back to being nothing but David.
David has wonderful parents. David has a beautiful sister. David has a cute little brother. They all have something.
And all I have is the mouth, that isn't loud enough to say what it feels.
He's grinning at me now, over his cup of beer as we all sit in Tibby's and Spot orders another round of drinks. Him and Racetrack are in a contest. They call it a 'Boozing Match', to see who can drink the most. I call it the 'Drink-Until-Spot-Wins-And-Race-Passes-Out Contest. Naturally, you can see who my money's on.
Jack says something. I reply. No one else is listening. When Spot's around you're usually too absorbed in his actions than anyone else's. But with me, all I want is to watch Jack. Watch the way he moves, watch how he knows I need him.
Carry his banner, hold it up when his arm gets tired.
He asks me if I'm having fun loosening up. Tells me I don't do it enough. Yeah. I'm great, Jack. You're great, Jack.
I don't tell him he's great, though.
He says he wishes I hung around with them more. 'The strike may be ovah, Davey, but dat don't mean we's are!'
By "we's", he means the budding platonic friendship that will always be me and Jack. Coincidentally, since Jack is by means, everything, that's what I'll pretend to believe in too. Friends. I've never once imagined you naked! Don't be ridiculous.
I stare at him now. He stares back. And then Racetrack passes out on the table. You have to love drunken stupor, adds magic to all the romantic fireworks.
Note In David's Brain: These fireworks are purely fictional and part of his own fantasies known as the I Love Jack dreams.
If I could, I would tell him everything in my head. Tell him that I don't need him to yell it all for me, it's there, always. But I don't have to. He knows. He knows me with those eyes and with that smile and with the way he can imitate my laugh perfectly.
He's doing it now. I tried to laugh at Racetrack, but then I heard the high pitched end of an 'ah HA' and stopped short.
The night continued as all other night's at Tibby's did. Me watching him. Everyone laughing at his jokes. It may as well have been any other day, any other place. The only difference was now that Race had somewhat regained consciousness, he was singing 'My Lovey Dovey Baby' on top of one of the tables.
That usually didn't happen on a normal day. Race singing like Medda, drunk, on top of a table, that right there was very and unpleasantly new.
Jack laughs. Jack cheers on Race. Jack ruffles Mush's hair. And when he looks at me, he calls me 'Davey' with affection and tells me to join in the fun. I do.
Anything, Jack Kelly.
Whatever you want, Jack Kelly.
You're the center of the universe, Jack Kelly.
I love you anyway, Francis Sullivan.
And I'll watch you and never tell you what's in my head. I'll continue knowing I'm just David and you're the whole damned world. I'm just The Mouth and you're Cowboy.
I'm Davey. Everything is about you, and that's the difference. The banner isn't mine, it never will be, I don't have a spot. But when you take a break, I'm the one who holds it until you're ready to have it back. If someone looks real close from where they stand, they can see me holding it for him while he goes through a stage, because I'd do anything for him. Maybe he's confused, maybe he wants Santa Fe too badly. In the end he always comes back.
The banner is his, not mine. And it's about him, not me.
Pathetically, I watch Race sing that stupid, erotic, only meant for Medda song, and find myself still watching Jack like some sort of corny dream, with Race's horrible singing voice bellowing in the background.
"Sing on, Racetrack!" I bellowed, and then downed my entire bottle of beer.
I'd never done that before.
It was going to my head.
Fast.
Fashhtt.
Reealllyyy faassshhtt...
I don't know if it was ten minutes or an hour (the latter, obviously), but I'm on the floor now, staring up at Jack and Dutchy. "I didn' know anyone could pass out from one bottle before..." Dutchy mused.
"Davey always had his underweah in a twist 'bout booze." Jack said.
"My lovey dooveeyyy BAAABB-"
"RACE, IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP, I'M TYING YOU TO A HUGE ROCK AND HURLING YOU OVER THE FUCKING BROOKLYN BRIDGE!"
What Spot Conlon says goes. Especially when he gets mad. So Race shut up. Well, not really, he passed out again.
Luckily, Race regained enough consciousness to wobble back to the Lodgings when we all finally left, because after the display he had put on, no one was really that eager to carry him on their back. Who knows what Medda move he'd try to pull next?
Jack carried me. Jack hoisted me onto his back and carried me like the big, strong guy he is. I can walk though...I can talk, too. In fact, I got a lot to say. Why don't you hear it? I can run, really fast, have you ever seen? I can calculate high numbers in my head, I can stand on my hands for a total of five minutes, and I hate cheese. You don't know any of this. That's why my nickname is The Walking Mouth, I talk. That's all you know.
Everyone can talk. I'm just the only voice that feeds Jack, and I would never admit to the perverse sort of pleasure that brings me.
Maybe I should push myself off. Maybe I should yell at him. Maybe I should do anything. But I don't. And Jack keeps me on his back, carrying me. Keeping me from falling, and when Bumlets asks if I'm alright, I don't get to tell him I am because Jack answers for me. Because he knows what I'll say.
I feel myself shift, and Jack catches me. "I gots ya back, Davey." He's got my back. He's carrying his banner. And he's speaking for me.
God. I love you. I slurringly tell you so. I say it against your ear and no one hears me but you. I can feel the words come out. I can feel the weight lift. "Jacckssh...I love you..."
You stiffen. You don't say anything. We keep walking. You don't know what to do. Because what I said was about me. Not you. What do you do now, Jack? What do you do now that you've seen there's more to me than just carrying around your banner and forgiving you every time you screw up?
You tell me to be quiet, tell me we'll talk in the morning. You tell me that you wanted to hear that when I wasn't like this.
With a grin, I realize that the difference has changed. It's about us now. And now you're trusting me to carry the banner until you tell me you love me too.
Our banner. About us.
END
(I really think this could have been better. I love it, but I think it sucks, damnit. Hopefully, you don't all think it does. I re-wrote it about a million times. Anyhoo, review pleasies, thanks for reading!)
By Funkiechick
(I had to write some David/Jack angst. Well...it's not so much angst as it is drama-ish enlightenment on his part. Listen to me, I pulled an all nighter, and now I swear to god, I am completely delusional. I had popcorn in a bowl next to me, and a cup of tea, and, NOT EVEN KIDDING, started dunking my popcorn in tea and eating it. I don't know why I did. Oh, and I was reading some Newsies fanfics to get me in the mood, and I swear, I started dancing the moves to the beginning of Seize The Day in the basement and I was getting them right. Maybe when I'm half-awake I have some sort of God-given dance talent. Now my neck hurts because if you watch, Mush goes pretty crazy with the neck movements. And I tried to be like him. ANYWAY, on with the fic.)
------------------
The difference between Jack Kelly and myself is simple. It's about him, not me.
Maybe I sound bitter and maybe I sound childish. It doesn't matter how I sound, because what I'm saying is always the same. Jack is the voice, Jack is the leader. As Racetrack says "He's got all da marbles."
The banner we sang about, the banner we all fought to keep, was always his to me. I'm ashamed to admit it, but every time I said the words, I never once believed that this banner I was carrying was mine. I know they did-Racetrack, Mush, Blink, Specs, and of course, Spot wouldn't carry anything unless it was his...they all were part of that banner. They all needed to be there or else it would fall.
But I never was a part of it. I never tried to be a part of it. And never once did I think any of it belonged to me. Everything was his. I don't think of it as being bitter, or vindictive, either.
I want it to be his.
My words, I don't always know what to do with them. I talk so much, have so much to say, but no one will listen. So I tell Jack. And he's the hero. I give him words and he rewards me with words of praise, physical contact of the 'chummy Newsie' kind. He even tells Spot Conlon to listen to me. Tells the most dangerous Newsie in all of New York that he should if he has half a brain.
That's what I get. Like a dog, kind of. I say what I say, he yells it. I convince Spot Conlon to join the strike, and Jack guarantees it. I carry his banner, and he smiles at me. I get treats for being good. For sitting. For staying. Next thing I know, I'll have to roll over...I wish.
Teases me, everyone laughs. Respects me, everyone else does. Lets me in, we become best friends. Suddenly I'm THE Walking Mouth. I get scared sometimes. That if Jack should ever hate me, if he ever pushed me away, then I'd go back to being nothing but David.
David has wonderful parents. David has a beautiful sister. David has a cute little brother. They all have something.
And all I have is the mouth, that isn't loud enough to say what it feels.
He's grinning at me now, over his cup of beer as we all sit in Tibby's and Spot orders another round of drinks. Him and Racetrack are in a contest. They call it a 'Boozing Match', to see who can drink the most. I call it the 'Drink-Until-Spot-Wins-And-Race-Passes-Out Contest. Naturally, you can see who my money's on.
Jack says something. I reply. No one else is listening. When Spot's around you're usually too absorbed in his actions than anyone else's. But with me, all I want is to watch Jack. Watch the way he moves, watch how he knows I need him.
Carry his banner, hold it up when his arm gets tired.
He asks me if I'm having fun loosening up. Tells me I don't do it enough. Yeah. I'm great, Jack. You're great, Jack.
I don't tell him he's great, though.
He says he wishes I hung around with them more. 'The strike may be ovah, Davey, but dat don't mean we's are!'
By "we's", he means the budding platonic friendship that will always be me and Jack. Coincidentally, since Jack is by means, everything, that's what I'll pretend to believe in too. Friends. I've never once imagined you naked! Don't be ridiculous.
I stare at him now. He stares back. And then Racetrack passes out on the table. You have to love drunken stupor, adds magic to all the romantic fireworks.
Note In David's Brain: These fireworks are purely fictional and part of his own fantasies known as the I Love Jack dreams.
If I could, I would tell him everything in my head. Tell him that I don't need him to yell it all for me, it's there, always. But I don't have to. He knows. He knows me with those eyes and with that smile and with the way he can imitate my laugh perfectly.
He's doing it now. I tried to laugh at Racetrack, but then I heard the high pitched end of an 'ah HA' and stopped short.
The night continued as all other night's at Tibby's did. Me watching him. Everyone laughing at his jokes. It may as well have been any other day, any other place. The only difference was now that Race had somewhat regained consciousness, he was singing 'My Lovey Dovey Baby' on top of one of the tables.
That usually didn't happen on a normal day. Race singing like Medda, drunk, on top of a table, that right there was very and unpleasantly new.
Jack laughs. Jack cheers on Race. Jack ruffles Mush's hair. And when he looks at me, he calls me 'Davey' with affection and tells me to join in the fun. I do.
Anything, Jack Kelly.
Whatever you want, Jack Kelly.
You're the center of the universe, Jack Kelly.
I love you anyway, Francis Sullivan.
And I'll watch you and never tell you what's in my head. I'll continue knowing I'm just David and you're the whole damned world. I'm just The Mouth and you're Cowboy.
I'm Davey. Everything is about you, and that's the difference. The banner isn't mine, it never will be, I don't have a spot. But when you take a break, I'm the one who holds it until you're ready to have it back. If someone looks real close from where they stand, they can see me holding it for him while he goes through a stage, because I'd do anything for him. Maybe he's confused, maybe he wants Santa Fe too badly. In the end he always comes back.
The banner is his, not mine. And it's about him, not me.
Pathetically, I watch Race sing that stupid, erotic, only meant for Medda song, and find myself still watching Jack like some sort of corny dream, with Race's horrible singing voice bellowing in the background.
"Sing on, Racetrack!" I bellowed, and then downed my entire bottle of beer.
I'd never done that before.
It was going to my head.
Fast.
Fashhtt.
Reealllyyy faassshhtt...
I don't know if it was ten minutes or an hour (the latter, obviously), but I'm on the floor now, staring up at Jack and Dutchy. "I didn' know anyone could pass out from one bottle before..." Dutchy mused.
"Davey always had his underweah in a twist 'bout booze." Jack said.
"My lovey dooveeyyy BAAABB-"
"RACE, IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP, I'M TYING YOU TO A HUGE ROCK AND HURLING YOU OVER THE FUCKING BROOKLYN BRIDGE!"
What Spot Conlon says goes. Especially when he gets mad. So Race shut up. Well, not really, he passed out again.
Luckily, Race regained enough consciousness to wobble back to the Lodgings when we all finally left, because after the display he had put on, no one was really that eager to carry him on their back. Who knows what Medda move he'd try to pull next?
Jack carried me. Jack hoisted me onto his back and carried me like the big, strong guy he is. I can walk though...I can talk, too. In fact, I got a lot to say. Why don't you hear it? I can run, really fast, have you ever seen? I can calculate high numbers in my head, I can stand on my hands for a total of five minutes, and I hate cheese. You don't know any of this. That's why my nickname is The Walking Mouth, I talk. That's all you know.
Everyone can talk. I'm just the only voice that feeds Jack, and I would never admit to the perverse sort of pleasure that brings me.
Maybe I should push myself off. Maybe I should yell at him. Maybe I should do anything. But I don't. And Jack keeps me on his back, carrying me. Keeping me from falling, and when Bumlets asks if I'm alright, I don't get to tell him I am because Jack answers for me. Because he knows what I'll say.
I feel myself shift, and Jack catches me. "I gots ya back, Davey." He's got my back. He's carrying his banner. And he's speaking for me.
God. I love you. I slurringly tell you so. I say it against your ear and no one hears me but you. I can feel the words come out. I can feel the weight lift. "Jacckssh...I love you..."
You stiffen. You don't say anything. We keep walking. You don't know what to do. Because what I said was about me. Not you. What do you do now, Jack? What do you do now that you've seen there's more to me than just carrying around your banner and forgiving you every time you screw up?
You tell me to be quiet, tell me we'll talk in the morning. You tell me that you wanted to hear that when I wasn't like this.
With a grin, I realize that the difference has changed. It's about us now. And now you're trusting me to carry the banner until you tell me you love me too.
Our banner. About us.
END
(I really think this could have been better. I love it, but I think it sucks, damnit. Hopefully, you don't all think it does. I re-wrote it about a million times. Anyhoo, review pleasies, thanks for reading!)