Title: Cold Walls, Cold Words, and a Frayed Piece of Twine
Chapter: 3- There's Something I Should Have Told You
Rating: PG
Synopsis: As David watches Teddy Roosevelt's carriage drive away with Jack in tow, he can't help feeling a regretful despair over the fact that he never told Jack how he really felt, even when he had the perfect opportunity to the night before, when they were alone after the printing of the "Newsies Banner".
Category: Jack/David slash
POV: David
Feedback: Any and all constructive criticism would be lovely, whether e-mailed or left in a review.
Disclaimer: About the only thing I own in this fic is the piece of twine.
Notes: I apologize profusely for the delay with this chapter. I've been extremely busy, and I have had absolutely no time to do this. But, I finally found time, so, here it is, chapter 3. It's a long one- about twice as long as the first two chapters were- and I'm pretty satisfied with it, especially now after it's been beta-ed by the lovely and talented Shimmerwings. (Many, many hugs and thanks to her!)
Two specific notes: 1.) Any words that are written as word are intended to be italicized. I just couldn't get that to work right in my uploading. 2.) I feel bad that I haven't done shout outs with this story, so I think I'm just going to lump all shout outs into the last chapter, which should be written and posted relatively soon. So, anyway, here it is. Enjoy, and leave a review if you care to.
Cold Walls, Cold Words, and a Frayed Piece of TwineBy Angel of Harmony/Harmony/Jen
We still hadn't spoken a word by the time we met up with Les and Sarah, who had somehow managed to get their hands on a delivery wagon for their use. I had no idea how they'd gotten it, and, knowing my siblings, I had the feeling that I didn't want to find out, so I didn't bother to ask.
Carefully, we climbed one by one into the back, and once we were all loaded Les gave a shrill whistle, signaling the driver to begin our short journey. Despite the fact that Jack and I were forced into physical closeness by the cramped space of the wagon, we still didn't speak, avoiding even the slightest instance of eye contact.
Sarah, perceptive as she is, noticed our distance. "What's wrong with you two?" she asked, looking puzzled. "I've never seen you like this before."
I quickly plastered on a very fake smile. "We're just tired, is all," I responded. It wasn't a total lie; the exhaustion of the sleepless night was definitely catching up with me.
Sarah looked at my skeptically, then glanced in Jack's direction. "Oh my, Jack. Your eyes- they're terribly bloodshot. I suppose you two really are tired."
I looked up automatically to see what Sarah was talking about, despite my desire not to look at Jack. She was right- his eyes were bloodshot. But I knew it wasn't from sleeplessness. My stomach twisted as I took in the full effects of my cruelty, and I bit my lip, looking down again.
No one in the wagon said anything after that, and we got to the square a few minutes later. Everyone else had already arrived, and a few called out "Hey, Cowboy!" and "How's it goin', Davey?" as we climbed down from the wagon. Mostly, though, the boys just nodded in acknowledgement of our presence. It seemed everyone was just as worn out as we were.
Jack tore away from Les, Sarah, and me as soon as we got to the base of the statue, walking off to talk to a group that included Racetrack, Bumlets, and a few others. My eyes followed him, but I didn't.
Instead, I leaned tiredly against the statue, watching Les play-fighting with Boots and Snipeshooter. Sarah, obviously realizing that I was upset despite my efforts to convince her otherwise, stayed with me, putting her arm around my shoulder in a maternal hug. I returned the hug, but I felt nothing. Physically, I was numb.
Mentally, though, I'd never been more alive. My thoughts were still swimming, and had been ever since I'd left the basement. Now, as I watched Jack pointedly avoid looking in my direction, feelings of guilt began to grow larger, adding to the swirling mess of emotions already running through my head.
Why had I hurt him like that? Even if I didn't reciprocate his feelings (and I wasn't quite sure that I didn't), I could have been nicer about everything. What was I talking about, back there in the basement, when I'd spewed all those awful words? He'd acted wrongly, sure. But he'd done it because he loved me. Wasn't that enough? Why did I have to react like I did?
Because you were scared! A little voice inside of me screamed.
Scared of what? Scared of his love? Scared of my own possible feelings?
I didn't know what to think, and I had even less of an idea of how to feel. I knew that I wanted to help Jack, apologize, tell him that I hadn't meant what I'd said, at the very least. I couldn't stand knowing that I had caused the hurt and pain I could see so clearly behind his brown eyes.
But, somehow, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. My doubts and conflicted feelings held me back, and I pressed my hands to the sides of my head, which was suddenly throbbing violently, in a desperate attempt to squeeze out the confusion.
"So when're the others comin', Kid?" I heard Mush ask, somewhat despondently, bringing my thoughts back to the realities of the morning. Mentally, I berated myself for focusing on anything else. My situation with Jack was tiny in importance compared to the strike, and I knew, as one of the leaders, that I had to keep my mind on it, not on my personal problems. Even if those personal problems had to do with the other strike leader.
Jack, who had squatted down next to Sarah a few moments earlier, still ignoring me, stood up and responded to Mush before Blink could, his tone cynical and dejected. "They ain't comin'. Ain't gonna be nobody but us." It was the first time I'd heard his voice since we'd left the distribution center.
I flinched at the bitterness in his voice, wanting desperately to reach out and console him, give him back the hope he'd always been brimming with, but I still couldn't move.
My brother, meanwhile, had stopped playing with Boots and was quietly surveying our group, taking in our dejected, defeated faces. Full of childhood optimism, Les seemed to be the only one left with any hope for our success, and he tried to cheer us up, reciting parts of the inspiring words Jack had given on the day the strike started- my words. Even though my outlook was just as negative as everyone else's- probably even more so, considering everything else that was going on in my head- I pretended to look optimistic once again, not wanting to spoil Les' admirable hope. Soon enough, the others followed suit.
As everyone began to gather into a cluster, I finally found the courage to walk over to Jack and tentatively place a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. Snapping his head in my direction, he immediately hissed, "No, Dave." My hand dropped like a stone, and my guilt multiplied.
Suddenly, there was a roar like I'd never heard before, and a swarming mass of kids rolled toward us from all sides, screaming, cheering, and holding their strike signs proudly. I saw Spot leading the Brooklyn gang, easily the rowdiest of all, his cane held high above his head. I also saw a few Western Union messengers I'd passed on the street from time to time and had sometimes struck up a conversation with.
Mostly, though, I saw hundreds, maybe even thousands, of kids I'd never met, kids from all different jobs and from all parts of the city, converging on the square, ready to fight, not just for our rights, but for their own. My heart, so twisted with dark emotions, suddenly began to feel lighter as a new emotion filled it: pride. We'd done it. We'd really done it.
Almost automatically, I turned to Jack and threw my arms around him in a congratulatory hug, and he reciprocated. All thoughts of the night before had been squashed away by the joy of the moment. But the second we looked into each other's eyes, our arms fell uncomfortably to our sides, and we looked away, destroying my temporary illusion that everything could be ok.
Why would everything be ok? That inner voice screamed again. You're the one that caused the problem. Why should it be fixed if you haven't fixed it?
But that wasn't what was important right now, I reminded myself. This was it: the strike was finally happening, for real. I needed to focus.
The crowd was pulsing wildly, screams and chants filling the air, but somehow I still managed to pick out Race's voice from the din. "Deah me, what have we heah?" he asked, his tone hinting that he'd noticed something important. I followed his eyes to see what had caught his interest.
An older, white-haired man in expensive clothes had opened the distribution gates and seemed to be discussing something with a couple of younger police officers. A second later the two men came over to our group, searching the crowd with their eyes.
"Who are your leaders?" the shorter of the two asked, narrowing his eyes. Before I could even blink, I felt someone pushing me from behind, and suddenly Jack and I were front and center, staring at the uniformed men.
The shorter cop looked at each of us in turn, sizing us up and down, before speaking. Finally, grabbing my arm in his fist, he said, in a cold monotone, "You are to come with us." Looking to my left, I saw that the other cop had grabbed Jack as well, and we were quickly led through the chanting crowd to the distribution gates, where we were released to the white-haired man Racetrack had noticed.
The man didn't introduce himself, or even directly acknowledge our presence. He simply stared down at us for a few seconds, then said, "Come with me," and turned abruptly toward the World building.
Jack and I followed, the crowd cheering louder with every step we took. We walked about two feet apart, and neither of us spoke for a few moments. Despite the incredible amount of noise in the square, it was this silence that seemed the most deafening. Finally, it was Jack who decided to break it.
"Hey, look, Dave, you said it yaself. The boys is dependin' on us," he began, staring at me with his bloodshot eyes. "So, I know I'se not ya fav'rite person right about now, but wherevah we're goin', ya think you could maybe at least pretend ta like me? To show 'em solidarity an' all?"
Oh, God, I thought. He really thinks I hate him. He really, really thinks I hate him.
Dumbstruck by this realization, my head spinning, I could only manage a slight nod in response. I wanted to tell him that I didn't hate him, take back every awful word I'd said the night before. But my mind was a mess, and I couldn't seem to form the words. By the time I'd gotten myself under control, we were inside the World building, facing a heavy oak door.
Slowly, the white-haired man opened the door and let us in. That's when I realized where we were: in the office of Joseph Pulitzer.
Never, in all my daydreams about how the strike would end, had I ever even considered the possibility that I would have to confront Mr. Pulitzer himself. A certain nervousness flooded my body at the sight of him, and I hung back, staying near the far end of the office to give myself time to figure out how I could possibly approach someone of his stature. I hated him for what he had done to the newsies, and I hated him even more for manipulating Jack. But seeing this man, this legend, in the flesh, was still an awe-inspiring event.
Jack, on the other hand, shared none of my apprehensions or my awe. Boldly, he marched right up to Pulitzer's desk, pulling a copy of our banner out of his pocket and slapping it down on the desk. "Extry, extry, Joe. Read all about it."
I watched, amazed, as Pulitzer's face contorted in anger. His nearsighted eyes blazing, he lashed out at Jack, threatening him. But, just as suddenly, his anger seemed to partially deflate. "Now, I gave you a chance to be free," he said, puffing heavily on his cigar. "I don't understand. Anyone who doesn't act in their own self interest is a fool."
Emboldened by Jack's brashness, I stepped out of the corner and, taking a deep breath, responded. "Then what does that make you?"
Pulitzer snapped his head up, squinting past Jack to try to see me as I made my way to the desk. "What?" he asked.
Jack, grinning with arrogant defiance, put his arm around me, flinching only slightly when his hand touched my shoulder. "Oh, dis is my pal, Davey. The Walkin' Mouth," he explained, smirking.
My own smile, as false as Jack's but not nearly as convincing, wavered slightly before I could continue, but I gathered up the rest of my courage and managed to speak. "You talk about self interest," I began, carefully, "but since the strike, your circulation's been down seventy percent. Every day you're losing thousands of dollars just to beat us out of one lousy tenth of a cent. Why?"
Breathing deeply, I turned to look at Jack, searching his face for a reaction to my nervously delivered words. As I watched, Jack's subtle grin spread a little bit wider, and when he looked at me for a split second, his eyes, while still so obviously full of hurt, seemed to be sending another emotion as well- pride. Jack, I realized, didn't think I was weak, not at all. He was proud of me. You did it, the eyes seemed to say. And I always knew you could.
Then, suddenly, he was turning back to Pulitzer, carrying my argument forward with a passion like I'd never imagined. Pulitzer made his idle threats, his weak comebacks, but Jack was on fire. Walking behind the desk, he threw open the windows, letting in the full, potent force of the sight and sound of the chanting mob. He screamed at Pulitzer, commanding his attention, letting him know that he and all the other big shots no longer had their power; that the power belonged to us, the newsies, the kids- the people. Jack's face was flushed, and it seemed I could almost physically see the intense emotions ripping through his electrified body.
And he was beautiful.
That's all I could think, as he yelled and pounced and pounded his hand on Pulitzer's desk. He was beautiful, handsome- stunning, even.
Because it wasn't just physical beauty. The way his tousled hair and bronzed skin seemed to glow in the sunlight pouring in from the open window, the way his eyes caught that same light and turned it into the million fractured embers that made up his irises- that part, that beauty, was physical.
But there was more, so much more. His passion, his feeling, his caring, his determination, his courage; every wonderful quality seemed to shine in those few moments, as if they, too, had been lit up by that same piercing sunlight, making him the most amazing creature in the universe.
And I knew, right then, that I was in love.
I must have been in love before that moment. But watching him right then triggered something inside of me. I don't even know what it was, but suddenly, all of the doubt and confusion and fear that had been tearing up my mind and heart slowly dissipated, and all that was left was love, pure and unhindered by indecision and cowardice.
I had to tell him. Now, the need to take back all of my vicious words from the night before became overpowering. I needed to explain, to tell him the truth, to tell him that I loved him- all the things I should have said last night. I imagined pulling him to the side as soon as we left that building, maybe into some alley or behind a wagon, and soothing all of his pain and hurt with a loving kiss.
But, first, we needed to win the strike.
Over the course of my revelation Jack had calmed down slightly, and the window was now closed. Once Pulitzer discovered that it was his press that we'd used to print the banner, his face fell, and he was suddenly much calmer. Finally, he knew he'd been beaten. Calling over the white-haired man, Seitz, Pulitzer sighed. "All right, boys," he said, wiping his glasses on his shirtsleeve. "What is it that you want?"
The deal was settled quickly, a clear victory for us. As we shook hands with Pulitzer, Jack shot me a warm, albeit hesitant, smile of congratulations, and I returned it. We'd won. As impossible as it was to believe, we'd won.
When we returned to the crowd, Jack quickly whispered the results to Les, then lifted him onto his shoulders and screamed, with all the jubilation anyone would expect, "We beat 'em!"
The explosion that followed was louder than anything I'd ever heard in my life, as every single child in the crowd screamed with joy. I immediately found myself surrounded by newsies, all of them hugging me, patting me on the back, full of congratulations. I almost thought I would suffocate.
But my happiness was overwhelming. We'd won the strike, and I was in love. In a few minutes, I would tell Jack my feelings, and then everything would be wonderful. Just wonderful.
I'd lost Jack somewhere in the crowd, but I didn't worry about it much. I knew he was probably being as swamped as I was in hugs and pats, and I knew I'd find him soon enough, to tell him what I felt. Besides, too much was going on at that moment for me to concentrate fully on Jack. I saw the Delanceys and Weasel being led to a police car, just as Jack and I had insisted. But I also saw, even more importantly, the appearance of Snyder's police carriage in the crowd.
At first, I was gripped with fear; they couldn't take Jack back now, not after all of this! But soon, my panic was replaced with even more happiness, as I saw the boys from the refuge leave the carriage, one by one, and there was Crutchy, looking much healthier and happier than the last time I'd seen him. He climbed out and, to the elation of everyone in the square, shoved Warden Snyder into the back of the carriage to be carted off to where he belonged. I grinned wildly. Now, nothing could take Jack away from me. Nothing.
I could hear Crutchy babbling excitedly from about ten feet away, and, turning in that direction, I saw that he'd found Jack. I only caught a few words and phrases as the voices of Crutchy and Denton blended together: Teddy Roosevelt, governor, problem, anywhere you want to go.
But the next phrase I heard was quite clear. "So, can he drop me at the train yards?" It was Jack's voice.
"Yeah, if that's what you want," I heard Denton reply.
Train yards? What? What was Jack talking about?
Looking around, I spotted the Governor, Teddy Roosevelt, sitting in a grandiose carriage, waving and bowing to all of the kids. Then, turning in the carriage, the Governor motioned to Jack, who began to walk through the crowd toward him.
That's when it hit me, the reality of everything. Jack thought I hated him. He'd won the strike, and he'd fulfilled his obligations to the newsies. What was stopping him from leaving, now? What was stopping him from going to Santa Fe?
I wanted to scream, to run, to yell to him and beg him to stay, confess everything, right there, in front of everyone, just to stop him. But I was paralyzed, trapped by my own shock and disbelief.
I could feel Sarah and Les approaching me, leaning against me, as I watched Jack climb into the carriage, my mind a blur of miserable futility. Within seconds, the carriage was beginning to roll, and kids were scrambling out of its way.
A second before, I'd been happier than I could ever remember being, filled to capacity with joy and hopeful love. And now, all of that hope and happiness was rolling away on the Governor's carriage, destined to become buzzard food in the scorching deserts of New Mexico.
I'd lost it. I'd lost my chance. I'd lost everything. I'd lost him.