Disclaimer: Newsies are Disney's. Story contains slash. It also contains political and religious rhetoric, none of which reflects the views of Disney or FFnet or me, for that matter.

A/N: Oh it's good to be back! I thank you all for your patience these past few weeks; now that I'm happily settled updates should be a bit quicker and more regular again. You know, when I started this whole shebang, I was sure this story would be complete in eight chapters. And here I am, just over half way through my outline. Good things just keep happening along the way, and I'm rolling with them. As always, a round of applause is due for my beta clio21000 and the readers and reviewers who stuck with me throughout my absence.


Chapter 9 – Friends and Enemies

"Day games suck."

Mush poked a finger into Blink's side from where he lay, arm's length away, on the dome's turf. "Think of it this way: we'll be done earlier. The game will be over by the time we usually have to start getting ready."

Blink lifted his elbow off his eyes to peer at his best-friend-turned-almost-maybe-kind-of-boyfriend. "Mush, it's not even eight in the morning on a Saturday and I know you haven't slept in like two days. There is no reason to be so . . . upbeat."

"It's delirium," Racetrack suggested from Blink's other side, his eyes closed and drumsticks in hand across his chest. "Sleep deprivation has eroded his more logical thought processes."

"Thank you, professor." Mush mock saluted the air.

Blink rolled his head fully toward Racetrack. The fact that his semi-insomniac roommate was feeling the lack of sleep, too, kicked up his conscience. "I'm sorry you're stuck in the middle of this mess, Race," he said.

Race screwed up his face, eyes still shut. "Great, now you're delirious."

Blink inched up onto his elbows. "No, I'm serious."

Mush chuckled. "That rhymes!" Blink reached over and flicked him in the shoulder. "Ow. Hey."

"Really, Race. Those assholes are making the noise to keep Mikey and me awake, and I'm sorry you can't sleep, either."

Since Thursday night there had been hourly wake-up call raids outside the doors of their suite. Thursday was the worst because "Thirsty Thursday" was the night everyone on their floor usually got drunk anyway, so there had been lots of pounding on the door and shouts about making sure no one in there was "packing any fudge" etc. Then last night there had been a series of alarm clocks snuck out in the hall and set to pop music stations turned up full blast, in addition to the occasional round of loud knocking. Considering some, if not most, of the people behind the pranks were in band, Blink was surprised he didn't see more overly-tired band members this morning, but he supposed they took shifts.

Race shrugged against the turf. "No big deal. I got nowhere else to try an' sleep."

"You could stay with me," said a female voice from above and behind them.

Racetrack didn't bother to open his eyes. "No thanks, Lexie. Been there, done that already this semester, thanks."

"Funny, smartass. I was actually trying to be nice." Lexie posted fists on her hips and toed at Race's hat until he swatted his drumsticks at her ankle and sat up.

"Whaat? Jeez."

"Have you talked to your crabby friend David lately?" Lexie asked lightly. From upside down, Blink read the phrase "drama queen" scripted in sequins on her shirt. He bit his lip to prevent smiling at the truth of the statement.

"I dunno. Not since yesterday, maybe. Why are you botherin' me about him, woman?"

Blink was glad not to be on sleep-deprived Racetrack's bad side.

"Well, I thought he might have told you about our," Lexie frowned a little, "exchange on Thursday."

"What, exactly, didya exchange with him? Somethin' tells me not phone numbers. You're not his type, ya know." Race broke into a grin, lazily spinning a drumstick over his thumb.

Lexie stuck out her tongue before answering. "Yeah, well, apparently even if he was normal and liked girls, I wouldn't be his type anyway because he called me a tramp."

Race burst out laughing while Blink shared an exasperated eye roll with Mush, as much over Lexie's snide comment as her shock at David's statement.

Lexie shifted her stance and crossed her arms. "Let me know when you're finished."

Race slapped his thigh and reeled to the side some, still laughing, though Blink thought maybe he was playing it up just to irk her more. Or maybe he was just so tired it really was that funny. Race's guffaw trailed off and he swiped the back of his hand under his eyes, one at a time. "Whew. That David Jacobs sure can call 'em, eh boys?"

"Yeah, joking aside, Anthony, what do you plan to do about it?"

The smile promptly fell off Race's face. "Do about it? What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Defend me!" Lexie flung her arms in the air. "Tell him off. Something. I mean, I was your girlfriend, and for some reason you seem to be friends with people like him. . ."

Race put up a hand. "Woah. I'm stoppin' you right there. Contrary to your belief, which ain't exactly the popular one, the world does not revolve around you, Lexie. If Dave called you a tramp, I'm sure he's already apologized. He wouldn't come cryin' to me about it, and I don't know why you are, either. You got no sympathy from me. I'm more likely to agree with Dave on this one."

Blink watched Mush's eyes widen. That was dangerous territory, even for Race to enter. Especially since he didn't seem to be joking anymore.

And Lexie was fully aware of that. "Oh. I see. That's what I am to you. Just an occasional easy lay."

Racetrack narrowed his eyes. "Well, you don't make it easy on a guy, but you do it so much --"

Before he could finish, Lexie slapped him. Open palm, right across the cheek.

"You will really, really regret this, Anthony Higgins." She turned around then spat, "Count on it," and stormed back to the trumpet row where David and Jack were already at their coordinates, pointedly ignoring one another.

"You okay?" Mush ventured to ask after she was a good way off.

Race pressed his wrist to his cheek. "Yeah. Fine."

Blink had to let the stunned feeling dissolve before he could speak again. "Damn. Now I'm really sorry, Race."

"Will ya knock it off with the apologies?" Race gave his cheek one last rub. "You're startin' to sound like Dutchy."

"Okay, but still, thanks," Blink half-mumbled. Mush nodded, seconding that.

"Whatever guys. No big deal. I'd had it with her this last time for good anyway."

Unintentionally, the three boys glanced over at the trumpet row. Lexie was engaged in an animated but whispered discussion with a clarinet, probably already repeating what had just happened. Blink thought that if she didn't want people to think she was a tramp, she probably shouldn't keep telling people David had called her one. A solitary David was hunched over his music folder, tapping out fingerings on his trumpet while Jack lay on his side, head propped on his bent elbow.

"They're a happy bunch," Mush remarked, and somehow Blink knew he wasn't truly including Lexie in that observation.

He shook his head. "I don't really get why Dave's mad at Jack. We should have figured he was just doing it for a stunt to get the Delanceys off our backs. That's just how Jack is."

Mush shrugged and looked at the turf. "I dunno. I think there's more to it than that."

"You think he's really gay?" Even though it had made sense that first day, Blink was having trouble remembering why or how. Of course, Jack hadn't been denying the new slew of rumors about his sexuality, but he wasn't confirming them either. And he just seemed straight.

Well, then again, so had David. And Mush.

For actually being homosexual, Blink decided, he had terrible gaydar.

Mush shrugged. "I'm not sure. He says he's not, so I'll believe him, I guess. I just mean I see where Dave could be coming from."

Blink squinted, still not sure he understood David's perspective as well as Mush seemed to, but he realized Racetrack was being uncharacteristically quiet. And, now that Blink thought about it, he hadn't said anything yet about his best friend possibly being gay at all. "What do you think, Race? You've known him longest."

"What do I think about what?" Race hedged. "Oh, you mean Jack?" Blink and Mush both nodded. "He never said anythin' about it before. Never had a reason to think he was." He shrugged. "Always had a swarm of girls after him."

Mush blushed. "Well, that doesn't mean anything."

A smile blossomed across Racetrack's face. "Yeah, but Jack actually slept with some of 'em." He stood and clocked Mush gently at the ear as he drifted to where his snare drum sat in his block formation spot. Just then, Sarah blew the whistle for the start of rehearsal.


David always hated the required warm-up jumping jacks, but the thing he hated (at the moment) even more than doing said juvenile exercises was having to watch Jack do them right in front of him. And of course Skittery, in his warm-up-exercise-leading wisdom -- a duty Sarah had delegated him weeks ago in favor of taking roll -- had decided to make them do a full forty this morning.

For weeks (okay, over a month -- since the night of initiation, really) David had been effectively ignoring his attraction to Jack. He ignored it because he knew Jack was straight: the fact that Jack had dated David's sister was evidence enough -- Sarah was as girly as girls could get. And Jack was so easy and natural with everyone that every time David had been tempted to think one of his many looks was implying something deeper than simple curiosity, he'd been able to shove the thought aside.

Then Jack had to go and screw things up by giving him hope. For almost one whole day, David believed there was a chance. For one day he believed he'd finally understood one of Jack's looks, that Jack had silently told him it was okay, that he felt something, too.

He knew now that it was just a big, fat Jack-Kelly-sized lie, of course. But that one day of hope had broken open the flood gates of suppressed crushing. Now David was almost drowning in it and being forced to watch Jack do jumping jacks.

"Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-NINE." Band members shouted around him. "FORTY!" David clapped his legs together and hands to his sides and stood as still as possible. Anyone caught reaching up for the next move had to do ten more jumping jacks on his or her own.

There was a moment of antsy quiet as everyone's eyes darted between rows and columns, but no one had slipped up this morning, so Skittery ordered everyone into position for lunges. David flinched and forced his gaze up toward the bleachers to avoid the rear view of Jack in his half-snapped track pants.

While David wasn't forced to be in physical proximity to Jack, he did his best not to think about him. But the more he tried not to, the more often he remembered Jack's loose-lipped smile, long fingers, and self-conscious, cheesy jokes. David thought about the faraway stare Jack fell into whenever he mentioned his childhood or father, and he noticed that his own natural cynicism was more biting without Jack's incessant positivity to counter it. Already he missed hearing Jack call him Davey.

As he crouched lower and forward into a lunge, David shook off the train of thought, mentally scolding himself. I was just making a point, Jack had said. Well, point taken. All those looks had probably been because Jack suspected he and Sarah were related, or that David was interested in him in a slightly different way than the typical male friend. He just had to get over it.

David wasn't at all surprised that Lexie was still frosty toward him; she turned up her nose and cocked her shoulder away from him throughout rehearsal -- a significant change from the days when she used to smile and wink. However, David wasn't quite sure who was giving whom the silent treatment anymore when it came to Jack. He'd been the one to stomp off angry, but Jack hadn't made an effort to extend any sort of peace offering. And, frankly, even though some of the edge had worn off the betrayal, David was pretty sure (based on previous acknowledged-crush experience) he would be less than eloquent if he had to talk to Jack now.

As a consequence, he spent his third consecutive practice in complete silence, obeying Denton's commands as filtered through Sarah and trying not to draw attention to himself.

On the upside, the phone call with his parents he'd been dreading Thursday night went just as well as Sarah had predicted. On Friday he'd talked to his mom first, and she cried a little, but it seemed the tears were because Esther was again realizing her little boy was growing up, rather than because he would never marry a nice girl and carry on the family name. She still had Les for that anyway.

Mayer had been calm and reassuring -- and ready to step up for the cause. "You're a grown man, David. You know how to choose your battles. This is one with the paper, and this organization, together you can win this one."

David suspected his dad had already started scouting gay rights organizations to affiliate with, but he was glad to have his parents' support. It even made him feel a bit guilty for not telling them about what had happened at his former university last year . . . but they didn't need to know everything all at once, if at all.

He was still furious with the paper and Kristy, the editor, but the fact that the administration had put out a statement via e-mail suspending the Cougar News from operation until an investigation behind the anonymous contribution to the Opinion page could be completed gave him some vindication. He'd even been asked to attend the meeting on Monday about it.

By the end of the three-hour rehearsal, David was exhausted and starving. He considered accepting Blink's invitation out for brunch at the local greasy spoon, Tommy's, until Racetrack and Jack sauntered over from closing up the equipment truck.

"Thanks, Blink, but I think I'll pass. I might go try and sleep for an hour." He shifted his trumpet case to his left hand and scratched his neck, a little nervously, with his right. He stared at the turf, very aware Jack was actually looking at him. Again. For the first time in days.

A few beats of silence went by. Then Jack spoke. "You can come, Dave. It's fine by me. It's not like we're not friends anymore." He glanced down, then back at David. "Right?"

David's head flew up as his internal organs did that weird flip-flop-leap thing. He clenched every muscle in his body to hold himself steady. "Right. Yeah. Of course. Right. And, I mean, thanks." He scratched his neck again. "But this time I -- I think I'm just going to go back to my room, um, this time. I'll see you guys before the game." Faster than he knew was natural and cool, David took off across the stretch of green turf.

As soon as he rounded the field exit, he pressed his back against the wall and thunked his head against it one, two, three times, hoping to knock some sense into himself.


Once the rows of smartly-uniformed band members were within the walls of the dome, the drum line played a halt, the cadence reverberating throughout the arched building. Blink stayed at an alert attention until Denton's gave a polite, "At ease," through the megaphone. Now all they had to do was wait until it was time to line up for pre-game.

One hand cradled protectively around the body of his sax, Blink made his way through the milling band members toward Mush. When he reached him, Mush's face was stern and he pointed over Blink's shoulder, into this blind spot. Blink turned, his confusion clearing instantly when he saw Pastor Snyder.

Die-hard members of the CCC -- the Delanceys, Dana, and a half-dozen others -- gathered at Snyder's sides, forming a bulky horseshoe.

"What is he doing here?" Blink hissed.

Mush wagged his head, "I don't know. I really don't. But there's only a few minutes before we line up, it can't get that bad, can . . ."

He trailed off as Jack shoulder his way into the clearing just in front of the collected CCCers. Blink swore the corners of Snyder's mouth trembled upward as his eyes fastened on Jack.

Jack slipped his chin strap up and removed his helmet. "What are you doing here, Snyder?"

From the other side of the developing scene, David filed to the edge of the jagged circle. Snyder's gaze flicked over him before returning to Jack, then he smiled serenely -- well, what Blink figured was supposed to look serene, anyway. It looked more like an oil slick.

"Mr. Kelly, correct? I am simply here, at the request of your friends," he gestured to the students at his sides, "to lead those who choose to follow the path of the Lord in prayer. Surely you have no objections?"

"That depends." Jack tossed his head slightly to get his longish hair out of his eyes.

"Depends upon what, Mr. Kelly?" Snyder's face was a mask. "Sharing the grace of God is not dependent upon anything."

Jack's stare was stony and he lifted his chin in defiance, but said nothing.

A voice came from Blink's left. "You think it is."

All heads snapped from Jack to the other side of the gathered crowd, to David. Snyder's brow bent in surprise. He spoke a little louder, as if calling over a nonexistent din. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Mr. Jacobs."

David, his helmet and trumpet already elsewhere, crossed his arms. "You think the grace of God depends on a lot of things, like who someone is attracted to, for example. It was in your article. If you believe God's grace is shared equally and without reservation, why would anyone need an 'invitation' to a 'positive Christian life?'"

Mush nudged an elbow into Blink ribs and gestured at Jack. Blink chanced a look. Jack's trumpet and helmet dangled at his sides, but a grin was spreading over his face, and he was looking directly at David.

Snyder twitched. "My article? That is a bold accusation, young man. Questioning a reverend is second to questioning the word of the Lord --"

"So you believe you're second only to God, Pastor Snyder?" David glared.

Snyder cleared his throat. "Boys, I came here to lead the faithful in a prayer over tonight's performance and their continued spiritual well-being in general. I will gladly add you both to my list of intentions." He looked to his left and right, held the hand not clutching his Bible out in welcome and said, in a voice fit for an un-miked pulpit rather than an impromptu gathering, "Dear friends, let us bow our heads in prayer."

Nervous glances darted around before the CCC members and some others in the group closed their eyes and ducked their heads. But Jack, David, Blink, and Mush were not alone is keeping their heads up. In the sea of helmets and feathers, Blink easily picked out Lou and Race and Bumlets, and further back he thought he saw Spot among others.

"Merciful Lord," Snyder began and closed his eyes. "Tonight we simply ask that you watch over these talented students as they perform. Their hard work and musical skill is performed in your name, Lord, and we ask that you bless them and continue to shine your light upon them."

Snyder paused, and for a second Blink was thrilled to think he was actually finished, but no such luck. "And I ask a special favor, Lord, I ask that you forgive young David and Jack for their impertinence in questioning your almighty way--"

"Forgive us?" Jack took a step closer to Snyder, who was again meeting Jack's stare. "How about asking forgiveness for yourself, Snyder? Or for your precious Delanceys, huh? I think you three--"

Still concentrating his gaze on Jack, Snyder spoke over him. "These misled boys have not yet given their lives to you, Lord, and we pray that they will one day see the corruption in their lives as the work of the devil and will choose to be saved by your everlasting grace."

"Homosexuality's the work of the devil, is it Snyder?" Jack taunted.

Nearly everyone's heads were up now, Blink noted. David appeared to be cautiously making his way closer to Jack, or at least that side of the gathering.

Snyder's eyes were narrow slits as he held his Bible out from his chest like a shield. Even the CCC members around him had moved back by a few inches. "Help them to see their sin, Lord. Help them to shake off the bonds of sin and darkness of corruption--"

Blink was so tense he thought he might throw up -- or maybe it was just the corruption of his homosexual soul upsetting his stomach.

Jack's knuckles were white where he clutched his helmet and trumpet. His jaw was tight even as he spoke. "Whatever happened to 'love the sinner, hate the sin,' Snyder? You remember that one don't you?" Whether intentional or not, Jack's voice boomed louder. "Remember how you're suppose to love everyone? Remember that 'unconditional love' thing?"

Snyder said nothing, his face red and Bible still before him.

David arrived at Jack's side just as Denton broke through the stunned ranks of students. David placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. "C'mon. It's over," Blink heard him say quietly.

When he tore his eyes from Jack and saw Denton, Snyder's Bible arm fell to his side. It was a few seconds before he recovered his mock serenity, but the mask was back on by the time a deeply-frowning Denton strode toward him.

Blink checked Mush's expression -- he seemed slightly shaken but okay -- then he swept a look around the corridor. Small knots of passing non-band spectators had grouped here and there, but they were beginning to break apart now that the action was ended. A few of them were definitely just regular residents of the city here for the game, and some looked like parents of students. After the meeting in Denton's office, Blink had sense enough to know that could mean trouble, but he hoped against it.

Skittery's voice boomed out, "Band, ten-hut!" and immediately the crowd of several dozen buzzing band members snapped their attention toward him. Sarah was at his side. "Time to line up. And hustle," she said through the megaphone, keeping her voice low.

Mush reached down and slipped his hand into Blink's, squeezed it once then let go. "Let's get going." As they rounded the corridor's corner, David and Jack stood to one side. Jack was readjusting his helmet while David held his trumpet.

After all the abuse Jason Gurney had justified using lines fed to him by Snyder, Blink was more than a little glad to see the fanatical preacher put in his place. "That was great, Jack. Pretty damn brave to go after him like that. I never had that chance last year, but I doubt I could have done it. I thought you were going to start quoting scripture in a second." His enthusiasm was carrying him away, Blink realized. He shut himself up.

Jack shrugged, taking his instrument back from David. "Dave's the one who really started it." David looked sheepish as Sarah passed by, waving them impatiently toward the sideline. The four of them started walking. "I mean it, Davey. You're one smart mouth. I didn't know what to say back to him. You gave me the idea, and then he just pissed me off enough."

Blink couldn't be sure because of the sharp shadows the banks of spotlights created, but he thought David might have been blushing under the brim of his helmet.


By some miracle, the football team actually won the game, which meant the drum line was allowed to celebrate with cadences on the march back to the Fine Arts building instead of Racetrack simply playing mournful taps to keep tempo. David marched easily, though he couldn't help being conscious of Jack's presence at his side. He listened as one cadence ended with a splash of cymbals and an elaborate quad solo filled the early evening air. Obviously the soloist was Spot. Adlibbing melodies on the buffet of tenor drums before him, Spot kept the beat established by Race's taps but filled them in with complicated rhythms.

The Cougars' win had nothing to do with the relief and excitement David was feeling. He did wish he'd been able string more words into clear sentences while joking with Jack in the stands, but Jack hadn't seemed to notice he was nodding and smiling more than usual.

Watching Jack stand up to Snyder had crumbled the remaining anger David had been harboring. It was reassuring to see Jack take on the cause without falling back on an excuse, but the ultimate question still pounded through David like the finale of Spot's drum solo: was Jack really straight? Snyder suggested otherwise during their show down, though he only knew what the Delanceys had told him. Jack hadn't given away a thing.

But during the second quarter of the game, David had cheered as the team made a touchdown and turned to look at Jack before raising his trumpet in preparation for playing the fight song, and for a few short seconds the smile on Jack's lips wasn't reflected in his eyes. Something else was. Something a lot like what David thought he'd seen the night Jack punched Oscar.

Sooner than he expected, David found that the band had arrived at the large maple tree near the Fine Arts building where an accompanying sign bore the university's name and crest. Tradition held that after every game the band split ranks down the center and marched in opposite directions around the tree and sign until a halt was played. At that point, everyone tossed an arm over his or her neighbors' shoulders and together sang the school's alma mater a cappella. At first, David had found this tradition tantamount to singing Kumbaya around a campfire and rolled his eyes a lot, but by this point in the season he didn't mind it. And it helped that literally everyone participated, including Spot.

From the corner of his eye, David glanced over at Jack as their row approached the tree. To his surprise, Jack looked over and smiled fully just before their respective columns split in separate directions. The percussion was back in full cadence and, since they were the only section playing, band members half marched and half danced their way around the circles, grooving to the cadence beat. As friends passed each other, some slapped fives or blew kisses. Each time Jack passed David, their eyes made contact, and Jack's smile hung wide on his face.

Sarah's whistle sounded and the concentric circles of marchers kicked up the crunchy fire-colored maple leaves once more around the tree as Racetrack led the percussion in a halt. Denton gave the "at ease" and immediately shoulders slumped and pieces of uniform were unceremoniously wrenched off or open -- jacket collars unclasped, gloves removed, drums and tubas rested on the grass. David yanked off his helmet and swiped his sleeve over his sweaty forehead.

Skittery edged forward and hummed a tuning note, which the band mimicked. David felt the cymbal girl, Anna, on his right sneak her hand through the crook of his elbow and he smiled at her, then scanned the circle. Even today, despite the rift the events of the week had caused, everyone was linking arms. David looked to his left for Scott, the second-chair trumpet who marched behind him, so they could close the gap between them. But as he extended his arm, Jack ducked in below it, singing the first bars of the song, and draped his own arm around David's uniformed shoulder.

David's chest swelled and his grin prevented him from singing. The band began to sway with the tune, and David could feel the vibration of Jack's voice at his ribs where their bodies touched, pressed together by the momentum of the crowd. When at last David found his voice and joined the song, Jack shifted his arm and brushed his fingers up the nape of David's neck, ruffling his matted curls.