Author's Note: Well, as I noted in the first chapter, this will be a Wednesday update story. However, I was so impressed with the reviews that I got with the first chapter that I decided to add another chapter this week. I figure, as an incentive to review, that I will update this story every Wednesday but, if an individual chapter gets 10 or more reviews, I will update it twice a week instead of once. If you like the story and want to see it come along faster, just review. Simple, eh? Also, if anyone is reading who replied to the CC, everyone will have a role – it'll just be a surprise as to what role you get. Our first OC already is mentioned, woot. Well, here's the next chapter. I hope you guys like it as much as the first.

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is property of their respective owner and will be noted in the disclaimer – Annie/Twister is the property of Zippy and is used with her permission. The core idea to this story – the adaptation of the Broadway musical, RENT, is © 1996 to Jonathan Larson.

--

How can you connect in an age where strangers, landlords, lovers, your own blood cells betray? – "Rent", RENT
Because one can never be sure if such a moment could be the last...

October 15, 2006

--

How do you document real life when real life is getting more like fiction each day?

--

That moment, those few minutes when the boys could forget that they were facing a Christmas Eve sans electricity, was short-lived. Almost as soon as David perched himself (while still holding tightly to his camera – just in case…) comfortably on the edge of the second-hand sofa, the loud ring of their telephone cut through the apartment.

Jack groaned. "You'd think that, with the power being turned off on us, we wouldn't have to deal with that."

"Don't worry about it. Let the machine get it," David answered, making no move to reach for the phone. It was an old office phone they had gotten off of one of their old roommates; despite its age, it served their purposes – at the very least, it came with an answering machine and, given that all Jack and David ever did was screen their phone calls, it worked for them.

"I wasn't planning on getting the phone, Dave," Jack tossed back, relaxing into the folds of the couch. He appeared as if the ringing did not bother him in the least. "I was just trying to figure out why we still have a phone when we don't have anything else."

David rolled his eyes. "It's called batteries, genius."

"Yeah, whatever. We need to get these damn lights on batteries then. Then we wouldn't have to use candles when our lovely landlord decides to be a fucking prick," Jack answered, sneering a bit at the mention of Spot Conlon. Their ex-roommate turned landlord was the only one they knew that was messed up enough to cut off their power on Christmas Eve. The boys could only imagine what reason he had.

David did not get a chance to reply to Jack. He had much he could say, ranging from 'stop with the language' (which he knew would do no good; Jack could not help but use more colorful language when he was pissed) to 'Spot's not that bad' (which they both knew was a lie; Spot was, as Jack put it, a 'fucking prick'), but the ringing had stopped. The answering machine had gone off:

"Hi. You've reached the residence of David Jacobs and Jack Kelly. We're not here – Dave, what are you doing? You sound like such a pussy. Didn't I tell you that I would redo the outgoing now that Twister dumped your ass? … Jack, Annie did not dump me, per say. She needed some spac— She left you for a girl, Dave. That's quite a bit of sp— Jack? Must we discuss this on our answering machine?... Oh yeah, I forgot. Leave a messa—… BEEP."

"Remind me to change that the next time you leave the apartment. If you ever decide to step out into the real world, that is," David muttered under his breath as he heard the rambling that was their answering machine.

Jack mimicked the serious way that David was slightly shaking his head. "Oh, so funny, Dave."

"Shh. I want to hear who called us," David shot back as the beep cut off Jack's 'attempt' at a normal outgoing message.

"David? David, are you there? It's your mother. Are you two boys screening your calls again?" The woman sighed before continuing in a high-pitched, New York accented voice. Even though Esther and Mayer Jacobs, along with their younger son, Les, traded their Lower East Side apartment for a home in the Northern Jersey suburbs after Sarah's death almost two years ago, his mother never lost her stereotypically nagging voice.

"Well, if I know my son – and you know I do. I used to wipe your little tushy, remember? Ah, where did my baby go? Oh, that's right. He's standing in a dirty apartment with his best buddy, probably listening to me gush on and on rather than doing the decent thing and picking up the phone to talk to his poor mother."

Jack could not hold back his laugh. Despite the dim lighting – really, what could a bunch of scattered candles due to illuminate an entire industrial loft? – Jack could see the beginning of an embarrassed blush sneak up on David. He was such a Mama's boy, trying hard not to look like her words were hitting home with him. Esther Jacobs was one intuitive woman. It was almost as if she was peeping in through their window.

"But that's alright, David. I'm sure you mean well. Even if you didn't come home to celebrate Hanukkah with the family. Or call. Your father and I still love you. I assume you won't be coming home tomorrow either, then. We planned on having a nice big dinner and then going out to see a movie. Maybe that new one that just came out – somebody or other's 'List'? I think your father would like to see it. You can bring Jack along, if you like. He's family and we haven't seen much of him since… Sarah's accident…"

David froze. Without even turning to his right, he knew that Jack had gone rigid and would be staring at the answering machine in disbelief. It had been two years since 'the accident' and this was the first time it was brought up in so casual of a conversation – and termed as such. Accident. Sarah's death could hardly be considered an accident. As soon as the girl, sweet, innocent, naïve Sarah Jacobs discovered that a one-night stand (during one of her and Jack's many splits,) had given her a disease, a disease that she, unwittingly, transferred to Jack after they got back together, Sarah ran out in front of a bus. Death was instantaneous; the police ruled it as an accident.

David and Jack knew better, though. She had left a lengthy note underneath her pillow, explaining just what she had done. The boys never told anyone else of it but there was no doubt: Sarah had committed suicide rather than live with the guilt of infecting the only boy she had ever loved. Jack often wondered how she did not know then that he would prefer to spend the rest of his days sick with Sarah than be perfectly healthy without her.

Unaware of the impact her words had, David's mother continued to prattle on.

"Well, I'm sure your answering machine is going to run out of tape soon, so I'll just say Merry Christmas, dear. And don't worry too much about Annie. I always knew she was a little off. She doesn't know what she's missing with that new girlfriend of hers, if you catch my drift. Poke, poke." She laughed. "Merry Christmas, David."

As soon as the message was finally done, David shook his head slowly. "My mother is a nutcase."

Normally, such a statement would have garnered at least a chuckle from the old Jack. But this Jack? Just as David had predicted, he was staring stonily at the answering machine. David could almost hear his thoughts: Jack was adding the phone call as another thing that was pissing him off that night. No electricity, no story and a reminder that my girlfriend gave me AIDS and then offed herself. Wonderful.

David stood up from the edge of the sofa and crossed the room, placing his camera down onto the small table that housed the phone. With an embarrassed laugh, he quickly erased the message that his mother had just left. He was sure that neither of them would want to listen to that again. It was hard to find the right buttons in the dark; he pressed one and, at once, he could hear his mother's voice – he had restarted the message. Before she could get any further into the message than David? David are you there?, David jammed his thumb on the next button. There was a quick beep and the message had been erased.

It was silent for a minute before David tried to engage Jack back into conversation; any rapport they had had before the phone call was obviously gone now. "Well. That was weird." Jack did not say anything. He just leaned forward out of the sofa and began to play idly with the flame. David sighed and moved the candle out of Jack's reach; the last thing he needed was for the boy to burn his hand up – then he never would be able to finish that great novel of his.

Jack made a bothered noise and stood up. As he walked around the table, looking for the notebook and pen that he had impulsively kicked onto the sticky floor, David took his seat back on the sofa's arm. He tried again. "Seriously. How weird was that? My mom was just talking about mine and Annie's sex life. 'Poke, poke'? What the hell was that? And if she thought that Annie was 'off', why didn't she tell me? You know?"

This time, Jack snorted as he scooped up his stuff and walked back around. He tossed the book back on top of the coffee table; the pen he placed behind his ear. "Why do you still call her 'Annie', Dave? You know she hates that. She wants to be called 'Twister'."

David smiled wryly. Even though Jack could not see it, there was a bit of mischievousness at home within his blue eyes. "That's exactly why I call her by her real name, Jack."

Despite his mood, Jack laughed again. He was trying so desperately to cling to his misery but, sometimes, David said something that struck him as funny – like admitting that the only reason he called his girlfriend of three years – well, ex-girlfriend now – by her real name rather than her adopted nickname was to piss her off. "And, yet, you were surprised when Twister ran off with Kara."

"Hey. I'm not that stupid. I know that she cheated on me. But that was always with guys. How was I supposed to know that she would finally leave me for a girl?" David almost could not believe that he was having this conversation with Jack. It had damn near crushed him when she announced two months ago that she was moving out of the loft in order to move in with her girlfriend. And, here he was, on Christmas Eve, making the whole thing sound as if it was nothing. Maybe he was finally getting over her.

Ring. Ring.

Jack, who had been standing as he spoke to David, glanced over his shoulder at the phone. He shrugged and sat back down onto the couch. "Not it."

"Let the machine get it," David responded automatically. Then he remembered what happened last time when the caller had to leave a message and they had to listen to it. He would not put it past his mother to call back with something else she wanted to tell him; maybe it would be better for the both of them if someone actually answered the phone.

David stood up again and began to navigate his way over to the phone. By the time he got there, the machine had already picked up and he was, once again, treated to the rambling mess that was his and Jack's outgoing. He figured he might as well wait to see who it was that was calling.

"… Leave a messa— …BEEP!"

"Jingle bells, shotgun shells, Santa Claus is dead… Rudolph took a 45 and shot him in the head…"

David reached for the phone. "Blink?" he asked, speaking into the receiver.

He could hear the rich laugh of Hayden 'Blink' Moore coming in through the phone. "Are you telling me that Jack freaking Kelly actually got up off his ass and answered the phone?"

"Nope," David said, smiling though Blink could not see him. "Lazy bum is still sitting on his couch. It's David."

"Dave, I knew that. I was just testing you. How have you been, buddy?"

"I'm doing good, Blink. Considering… Hey – where are you?"

He laughed again. "I'm calling you from the payphone right outside of the building. Throw down the key, bitch. Let me up."

"You're back in town? That's great. Here, hold on." David pulled his keys out of his pocket and set the phone down. He jogged across the room, careful so that he did not trip over any of the crap that Jack left lying around, and approached the window. He peered downward. Standing right next to the payphone, underneath the streetlamp, he could see the top of Blink's blond head. He whistled. "Blink!"

He looked up and David could see that he was still wearing the eye patch that gave him his nickname; he had gotten into a fight back when they were all still in school – he had been trying to pick up a straight guy who was offended that Blink was hitting on him. His left eye was real messed up after that; he had worn a patch ever since. "Dave. Here," he called and, his right hand still holding the phone to his ear, he lifted his left hand up.

David tossed the key downward, totally missing the target of Blink's open palm. As Blink bent down and searched the pavement for the key ring, David hurried back to the phone. He picked it up off of the table and placed it back to his ear. "Blink? You find the key?"

He heard the jingling of his keys as a response and rolled his eyes. "Alright. I'll see you in a few," David added.

"Sur— wait, Dave. I might be awhile." The humor was gone from Blink's voice. It sounded a bit strangled.

"Blink? What do you mean, 'awhile'? Blink?" David asked, almost franticly. He could feel Jack's brown eyes on his back. The other boy was probably wondering exactly what was going on; as it was, he only heard David's side of the conversation.

But there was no answer to David's questions. The line had gone dead.