AN: This was written for the Newsies Pape Selling Competition.
Prompt: Your favorite newsie gets sick.
Item: A lantern.
Dialogue: "What do we have here?"
Colors: Yellow and red.
Word Count (minus author's notes): 1,999
Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, not mine.
Sick Day
Jack really hated it when David was right.
Which was a real shame, considering how often it happened.
Not to deprive his best friend of any credit; David had at least held off from saying "I told you so."
He may as well have, though, because—although Jack would never give him the satisfaction of hearing it—David really had told him so.
He'd told Jack to wear his coat when it got chilly outside.
He'd told Jack to wash his hands on a regular basis.
He'd told Jack to be careful not to catch the cold that was spreading around the residents of the Duane Street lodging house.
He'd told Jack that he would get sick if he didn't listen to him.
But, like the stubborn idiot he seemed to be, Jack hadn't listened.
And now he was sick.
And if there was one thing that Jack Kelly hated more than David being right, it was getting sick.
Still, there he was: sprawled out on top of the covers of David and Les's shared bed, feeling sweaty and achy and bored out of his mind as he played with the knot of the red bandanna tied loosely around his neck.
Despite Jack's protests, David had insisted on staying home that day to watch over him—not that Jack needed him to; he could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much—and with Mayer, Esther, and Sarah all off to work and Les at school, they were the only two people left in the tiny apartment for the day.
Although, Jack couldn't exactly say he minded spending some time alone with…
Anyway.
"Daaaaave!" he called loudly, and then winced as a sharp pain seemed to slice through his throat.
He was met with a muffled response before David pulled back the curtain that separated his bedroom from the kitchen. Clutched in his hands were a rag and a dented tin mug.
"Okay," he said, walking over towards Jack, "this should help you cool down a little—"he carefully placed the cool, wet cloth on Jack's burning forehead, causing him to sigh with relief—"and this should soothe your throat."
Jack sat up, holding the cloth in place with his left hand and taking the mug in his right. He examined the dark, steaming contents suspiciously. "…What is it?"
"Garlic tea," David explained. "My mother usually gives it to us when we're sick."
Not fully convinced, Jack hesitated for a moment before finally taking a sip. A harsh, bitter taste filled his mouth and he choked, nearly spitting it out all over himself.
David seemed awfully amused by this; he looked like he was trying really hard not to laugh. Jerk. "You don't like it?" David asked with feigned innocence.
Sputtering, Jack thrust the mug bag into David's hands. He wiped his mouth with the side of his sleeve. "Ugh, it tastes like…old socks or somethin'!"
"Mm-hm. And how would you know what old socks taste like?" Jack opened his mouth, but couldn't think of a good enough retort. So instead, he opted for just sticking his tongue out at David in an incredibly mature manner.
David rolled his eyes, and then moved to the other side of the bed where a rickety wooden chair still sat and set the tea down on the small table next to them.
"Hey, Dave?" Jack asked once the other boy had taken a seat. "You sure it's okay for me to be usin' your bed? 'Cause I don't want Les or you gettin'—"
David cut him off. "It's fine, Jack. I've already told you that." He grabbed the book he had been reading earlier and opened it back up. "Just try to get some sleep for now, alright?"
Jack groaned, falling backwards and thumping his head against the pillow. "David, I don't feel like goin' to sleep right now!" He ignored how whiny his voice sounded at the moment. "'Sides, I got plenty last night." Which was true. He'd pretty much passed out on the Jacobs' couch not too long after arriving for supper, when he got too dizzy to stand. He'd even slept the whole night through, which was extremely rare.
And besides, he didn't much care for staying still for too long, anyway.
"Well," David said matter-of-factly, "getting more sleep will help you get better faster."
"You just want me to shut up, don'tcha?" Jack shot him a crooked grin.
"That, too. Now sleep."
Jack was beginning to fully understand why Racetrack sometimes referred to David as a "Mother Hen." "Fine," he grumbled, begrudgingly squeezing his eyes shut.
He didn't fall asleep, though.
He couldn't. He was just too hot and too uncomfortable. The rag on Jack's forehead had warmed up easily, rendering it useless, as had the sheets and pillowcase beneath him. It was suffocating.
Not only that, but his stomach was queasy, and his throat felt dry and raw and it hurt to even swallow, and his nose was too stuffed up for him to really even be able to breathe, and there was a dull ache pulsating in his head.
Yeah, sleeping definitely wasn't going to be an option right now.
Still, Jack lay there for a little while longer, if only to appease David, keeping his eyelids closed and listening to the sounds of the rain falling outside. It was coming down heavy that day, probably flooding the streets. Jack worried about the other newsies who were all out selling, soaked to the bone and freezing, no doubt. Their papes would get all soggy and useless—not that there would be many people around in this weather, and those who were wouldn't want to stop and buy one. What if they couldn't pay enough for food or a bed that night?
Jack allowed his eyes to snap open then, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned over slightly and looked over at David, who was still staring intently at the novel in his hands, oblivious to the world around him.
The only source of light in the entire room was a small lantern sitting on top of the bedside table. It seemed to cast the two boys in an almost heavenly glow, casting highlights and shadows all across David's face. His brow furrowed in concentration, and his tongue poked out slightly from the corner of his mouth, and his very blue eyes scanned across the page, trying to devour every single word.
Jack watched him, entranced, and his hand absentmindedly slid back up to his bandanna, pulling at the fraying edges.
Jack spent a lot of time watching David, whenever he was sure that he wasn't looking, trying to memorize every slope, every curve, every crevice of his friend's features.
Almost as much time as he spent thinking about what it would be like to kiss David…
…Anyway.
It wasn't too much longer before David finally noticed him. Embarrassed, Jack's gaze darted away.
"Go to sleep, Jack."
"I'm tryin'!" he argued. It wasn't a complete lie. Well, not really.
"Well, try harder."
Jack snorted. He removed the now mostly dry rag and propped himself up on one elbow. "Whatcha readin'?" he questioned, leaning in closer.
"Frankenstein," David answered simply.
Jack studied the image on the front cover of a hideous-looking monster with narrowed eyes. Odd. It didn't look like something David would usually be interested in.
"What's it about?"
"Well…" His voice trailed off. Jack waited for more. "It's actually kind of complicated."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah." David thoughtfully ran a hand through his hair, like he was trying to think of the best way to explain it. "Okay, so there's this guy—"
"Named Frankenstein?" Jack interrupted.
"Yes, and he decides to build a person out of dead body parts—"
"Why would someone wanna do that?"
Ignoring his comment, David continued. "But the creature comes out looking really deformed, so everybody's afraid of it—"
"Kinda like you, right?"
"Would you let me finish?" he snapped.
"Sorry, sorry. Carry on." Jack waved a hand.
David rolled his eyes again. "Anyway, so it ends up going on kind of a psychotic rampage. It gets pretty deep."
"Sounds interestin'," remarked Jack.
"Uh-huh." David was already getting lost in his book again. Jack frowned.
"…Could you read some to me?"
Looking up at Jack again, David let out a long, low rush of air. It was obvious what the answer was going to be. "I don't—"
"Please?" Jack attempted to mimic Les's best begging face, the one he knew David usually had a harder time saying no to.
"Maybe later," said David, "after you've gotten some more—"
"Oh, c'mon Davey! I ain't even sleepy! Pleeeeaaase?"
David bit his lip. He was slipping.
Jack took a deep breath. "PLEEEEEEEEEEEE—" his voice was high-pitched and shrill; a perfect imitation of a bratty child, and he temporarily ignored the discomfort it brought him—"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—"
Finally, David winced and held up his hands in surrender. "Okay! Okay, I'll read a little, alright?!"
"—EEAASE?" He smirked cockily. "Great. I'm glad we reached this mutual agreement, Dave."
David just looked at him for a minute before shaking his head in disbelief. "You, Jack Kelly, are one hundred percent impossible. Do you realize that?" Then, his face broke out into a warm smile.
Jack smiled back at him. "Yeah, it's one of my many natural talents."
He and David locked eyes then, and Jack got a strange, fluttery feeling in his chest that he sincerely hoped was due to cold-related symptoms.
When the silence dragged on for too long, David hastily flipped the book closed—was he blushing a little?—and opened it back up to the first page. He cleared his throat and began to read.
Jack settled back against the pillow, hands folded primly over his chest, still grinning to himself. He didn't really pay attention to the words being said, but he liked listening to David talk. He liked the sound of his voice, and he liked watching his lips move he spoke; liked the way words seemed to roll off his tongue and flow from his mouth, smoothly and effortlessly.
He must have been staring, because soon David stopped and peered over at him.
Squirming uncomfortably, Jack said, "What?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?" responded Jack, a little too quickly.
The expression on David's face was hard to read. "I don't know, just…"
He could have lied. He could have made up a reason or simply pretended to not know what David was talking about. But for some reason, Jack, like the stubborn idiot he seemed to be, decided to ask the question he'd been wanting to ask since…well, he couldn't even remember how long ago now.
"…Davey," he shakily started, "what do we have here?"
"What do you mean, Jack?" David replied uncertainly.
Jack made a gesture between the two of them. "Us. This. What…?"
Feeling his face grow even hotter, Jack shifted away, suddenly becoming extremely focused on the hand that had instinctively found its way back to his bandanna, concentrating as his slid the coarse, faded red fabric between his thumb and index finger again and again.
Suddenly, he felt thin, cool fingers pull his hand away from his neck and intertwine with his own. Startled, Jack's head snapped up and he saw David, once again biting on his lower lip, looking nervous and confused and maybe just a little bit…affectionate.
The realization of the unspoken meaning behind this small action dawning on him, Jack beamed, and David visibly relaxed. He said nothing else, but simply picked the book back up and continued to read aloud from where he left off, his hand still holding on to Jack's.
And with that, plus the steady sound of rain hitting the rooftop, plus the warmth of the hazy yellow lantern-light, Jack's eyelids began to grow heavy, and he finally, finally, was lulled into a deep, peaceful sleep.