It isn't that he hates Jack Kelly, he's decided, it's more that he loves him, if that makes any sense. But that's why he would rather fight with Kelly than talk; rather punch him than converse, because he loves him. Of course, it's also why he would rather kiss him than do any of those other things, but Conlon doesn't like to think about that aspect too much. It's sort of in the way Jack's hair is constantly mussed and how his lip sort of curls up against his teeth when he smiles. Conlon knows it's in the angle of Jack's jaw and the breadth of his shoulders. Those are things he attempts to avoid thinking about, but doesn't do very well. Conlon hates not succeeding. At least, most of the time he does. In this case, when he doesn't succeed in not thinking about Jack's hands, or his mouth, it feels pretty good, and he sort of loves it. But he hates it. It's less hate and more love, but still some hate. Conlon confuses himself when he thinks about Jack.
Every time a new boy comes to Spot looking for salvation, sanctuary, shelter, Spot tells him "fight or flight. If you wanna be a part of this, you gotta know when to do what. Fight or flight."
"Fight or flight," Spot said to Jack one night when the smell coming off the river wasn't too bad and they had their feet hanging off the dock and their hands sort of, barely, too-far-to- be-satisfying, but-too-close-to-be-comfortable touching. "It's what I've learned here. Fight or flight."
"Or fuck," Jack says and Spot stares at him. Jack doesn't look back and Spot is reminded that it's in the angle of Jack's jaw, in the muss of his hair. Spot swallows hard.
"Yeah," he said, looking out over the water and pretending he can't feel that sick strange attraction in the pit of his stomach. "Or fuck, but that's a rare one."
"Really?" Jack sounds surprised. Spot levels him with a glance and Kelly has the decency to grin sheepishly. "I just always thought..."
"That I fuck a lot?" Conlon rolls his eyes. There's a pause and a seagull squawks sleepily, hearing their voices and thinking that perhaps it is daytime and he has just gone blind. Spot shrugs. "I guess it comes with the reputation."
Jack laughs and Conlon doesn't appreciate it, that sick strange attraction fading some. Spot hopes that Jack continues to make him angry so the feeling will go away, but secretly roots for the other side.
"Reputation," Jack says. "Your reputation." This earns him another look.
"We both have reputations, Kelly," Spot says, brushing his thumb lightly across a splinter that's sticking out of the wood. He wants to bleed a little bit, to taste the salt, feel the shiver of pain down his spine.
"Yeah but..." Kelly's voice fades. "People don't...talk about it."
Conlon snorts and rolls his eyes again. Sometimes it's that Kelly is so smart it makes Spot want to deck him one, but sometimes he's so dumb that Spot could kiss him. But not kiss, because he doesn't want a kiss. He wants...he doesn't know what he wants. "People talk about it, Kelly. Don't be a jackass."
"Talk about what exactly?"
Sick strange, unnerving, quickened breath and avoided glances, it's all back in a rush and for a moment Conlon can't get the air to answer him. The side of his hand is brushing Jack's and he has to close his eyes. "I don't know. Us, maybe. What we do." He's making it worse and he knows it. He wants it worse. Worse is closer to the truth, because the truth is awful. No, he thinks as their hands brush again, the truth is amazing.
"So our reputation is that we fu-..." Jack stops himself just in time. "I mean, we, separately, as separate...things. Whatjacallum, entities. People. Things. We separately with different...er…girls...at different times. Entities."
Spot has to marvel at this string of nonsense. "Jack," he mutters, gritting his teeth, "you're a moron."
"Yeah," Jack says, still sounding nervous. Spot isn't looking at him, but he can hear how the pitch of his voice has just barely risen. It's odd, hearing Kelly be nervous, as it doesn't happen often. Conlon thinks it's one of the things he likes, no loves. It's one of things he loves, that Kelly is suave and cool and infuriatingly collected, and yet...yet he is still a moron. And apparently doesn't know when he needs to shut up, Conlon thinks, because the idiot is still talking.
"I just meant, that our reputation, that is, yours is yours and mine is mine, not as joint...er...entity..."
"Stop saying entity. You don't know what that means."
"I do." He's indignant now and Conlon wants to smile. Jack's eyes are blue and he can't look at them for long because...well, because they're blue and they make Conlon want to kiss him. "It means...things."
"Genius. You should write a book." He gets shoved and the snort of laughter escapes him before he can contain it. Conlon steadies himself on the dock and squares his shoulders. "I know what you mean." He says this because he knows Jack is sending him a look that means, "For the love of god, throw me a bone." So, Spot throws him a bone. "And yes, I think that is our reputation."
"I don't." Jack is pleased now and crosses his arms over his chest, happy that the subject they're both engrossed with has once again avoided being spoken out loud. Conlon mourns the loss of contact when Jack moves his hand. "I think you have that reputation, but I think people consider me a gentleman."
Spot doesn't even dignify this with acknowledgment. He could tell Jack that he is full of shit, which he is, or that he's delusional, which he is also, but the space next to his hand on the dock is bitterly empty. Conlon is cold where he wasn't cold before, but he doesn't shift, in the hopes that maybe Jack will replace his hand.
They fall into silence, although the city around them still rumbles. It is that constant roar that Conlon loves so much. He thinks of New York as a dragon, sometimes, when he's feeling young, with fire roiling in its belly. That's where the sound comes from, like the crashing of surf, endless, rhythmic. Nothing ever breaks it; it never changes pace or takes a holiday. He can press his back to the East Tower of the Brooklyn Bridge and feel the dragon rumbling through his entire body. He showed this to Jack once. It was the moment when Conlon first thought that maybe he loved Jack, because Kelly neither laughed, nor scoffed. He closed his eyes and embraced the stone, smiling like a child in his mother's arms. Conlon knew that Jack understood, that he loved the city as much as he did. Understood that it is a love he can't really talk about, because it hurts, a tight ache in his chest, right around his heart. In fact, Spot thinks as he turns his head to watch Jack as he watches the harbor, it's a lot like how I love Jack Kelly.