--author's note.
So. I wasn't really even thinking about finishing this for ages. But I wanted to all of a sudden. Well, my AP Lit teacher, well, I wouldn't say inspired me, but provoked me to write. I'm tired of her calling my style weak, and just basically pissing on my writing. So I wanted to write something for myself.
And do I smell a hint of Javid? Aye. Mm. I think that perhaps the last two sentences of this chapter are my favorite. So deliciously sinful.
--disclaimer.
As per usual, I don't own Newsies, or Bohemian Rhapsody. Go figure. Oh and the last lyric either.
--chapter four.
Jack is too young for the draft, and too old to go back to school. So, he does what he has always done. He sells pills, he buys girls, and he listens to swing records and gets into fights.
He never takes pills, and he never drinks, because David tells him that it's wrong. He smokes, but so does David when he's angry, and he swears because that's how his mother raised him.
Not that she raised him that well.
Sometimes he thinks that it was Davey who really raised him, instead of his now dead, alcoholic mother.
He is in a limbo, resting at the point past his adolescence and just before he will meet the fate he has grown to accept. He will be drafted, he will go where they tell him, and he'll either come home a hero, or die for his country, even though he's never been out of New York City.
Presently, he drops a cigarette on the dusty pavement of the alley and waits for the boys to show up.
Midnight meetings remind him of the days of his youth, playing baseball with Racetrack and sneaking up on girls to put spiders down their backs. He only wishes that this was about torturing Sarah Jacobs and her friends.
The distinct smell of cigar and syncopated clunking identifies Racetrack and Crutchy as they approach. Jack turns to meet them and smirks.
"Ya're late. As usual, boys."
Crutchy laughs, a sound that, although resembling that of a goat, Jack finds soothing in a tense moment like this.
"This gonna take long, huh Cowboy?" Racetrack demands, tapping his cigar and rubbing his arm, "It's damn cold out here."
Jack replies, "If you'se guys knew how to be on time, it'd be done by now."
The shorter boy shuffles impatiently for the next few minutes. His cigar burns out, and Crutchy leans up against the wall. Jack is humming something that Racetrack discerns as a Count Basie tune, and he joins in, to the extent that any self-respecting Higgins boy would. Jack paces, and time passes. They don't talk much.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty minutes.
Fourty five minutes.
And then they hear something.
Snitch's voice, "Come on guys, let's get him back here. The Cowboy'll take care of 'im."
Jack looks up from where he seems to have been napping under the shadow of his hat.
Snitch, David, Skittery, Dutchy. David is draped over Skittery and Dutchy's shoulders as they struggle to almost drag him into the alley. He coughs, and in the dark, Jack can't tell if it's blood that falls to the ground. His eye is slowly swelling up and his usually bouncy curls are matted down, with what Jack only assumes to be blood.
Not thinking, Jack rushes towards them and takes David into his arms. He holds him close and then pushes him away for a moment.
"What happened?" He asks, carefully guiding Davey to a seat on a crate.
Skittery stuffs his hands into his pocket, "We found him like this, a couple blocks back. We think it's Morris."
Jack glances back to David, who nods.
"Well he ain't gonna get away with this-" Jack starts, not knowing quite how to reflect his emotions, "-He ain't gonna- He can't just- We can't just-"
"Jack," Crutchy stops him, "We know."
And Jack, dumbfounded, sits down next to Davey, who looks at him with the widest eyes he's ever seen.
"Say Jack-" Skittery starts, "You don't think this means- I mean, he might not just want... You know."
"Blink." Jack finishes, "He might not just want to get Blink, you mean."
"Yeah."
"Yeah, I know."
"And?"
"I don't know." Jack's expression is difficult to read, and he takes up David's hand next to him, just to make sure he's still there.
Snitch is gaping at him, terrified, "He's gonna make this a war, Jack. He's gonna get us all, one by one. He'll get them boys from Queens down here and-"
"THEN GO." Jack shouts. "Go, leave. I don't care. Keep yourself safe. I can't protect you from them, and I can't stop Morris from what he's doing, so go. I'm not just asking you, I'm telling you. Go to Brooklyn. Tell Spot I sent ya's. He'll know what I mean."
Crutchy looks on him, in empathy rather than fear, "Don't talk like that Jack."
"Especially you, Crutch. Ain't no use in all of us dyin', is there? Just 'cause 'a Blink."
Jack pulls David closer to him, not knowing what to do or say. "I'll meet you guys there tomorrow. Maybe the day after."
They stare, almost blankly.
And Jack yells, "GO. NOW. If you're gonna be cowards, then LEAVE."
And one by one, they do. Until Racetrack tosses his cigar to the ground, and grumbles a goodbye so quiet, that Jack can barely discern it from his regular breathing patterns.
Their footsteps echo in the distance until the city streets are silent again, all but David's soft sobbing.
Jack pushes David's face away from his chest, and rubs the rough cut on David's eye with his calloused thumb. David winces in pain, but Jack squeezes his shoulder lightly, in something as simple and perfect and loving as the comfort of his best friend.
Jack runs his fingers through David's matted hair, and finds the cut. He runs his hands over David's torso, finding each nick and bruise, and treating it with as much care as he can find in his rough and fumbling fingertips.
"You wanna come to my place tonight, huh Davey?" Jack asks after having completed his inspection of the damage.
David shakes his head, "I wanna make sure Mama, Sarah, and Les are okay."
Sometimes, Jack forgets about David's father's death. It has only been six months, maybe less, and Jack forgets about Davey's position as the head of his home.
And then he forgets about Morris.
"Bring them too. I don't want them there tonight."
David gives him a questioning look.
"Morris knows where it is."
And David nods.
Hours later, Jack sits up alone. Sarah is snoring on the floor, with her arm wrapped around Les, Esther snoozes in the chair in the corner, and David occupies Jack's bed, his torso wrapped with makeshift bandages.
And far away, though he can't see it, smoke rises from an apartment building in the Jewish part of town.
---
And Mush groans as Blink's hands and mouth journey to forbidden places. And the world falls down around them, but they don't seem to care. Because It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing...