Threshold

A/N: In keeping with my tradition, here is an end-of-the-year story to cap off 2022, though this one-shot is a deviation in that it is not Christmas-related. Truth be told, it's actually rather melancholy (unlike my previous year-end offerings, which ranged from downright silly to fluff with just a hint of bittersweetness). You probably won't walk away from this with the warm winter fuzzies (I'd recommend Hidden Kindness or New Neighbor for that), but if you're feeling or have felt disheartenment around this time of year, there might be a bit of encouragement in these words for you - at least, that is my hope.

Please be advised that this installment comes with a content warning as an extra precaution (you can find it below the closing author's note).

This story takes place approximately six months prior to the start of Something Worth Winning, and while familiarity with that fic is not necessary to understand this one, some of the details mentioned here will be a bit more significant if you've walked with that version of Davey and know where he is headed.

More reflection and explanation at the end, but for now, let's get to our story.

December 31, 1898 - Queens, New York

A light snow was falling when David stepped outside of his family's apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him to keep out the draft. Grimacing, he fastened the top button of his coat, his gloveless fingers already beginning to feel the nip of the chilly weather before he quickly stuck his hands into his pockets.

He wouldn't mind the snow so much if it wasn't so cold; the sight of it was actually rather pretty, and when he could observe it falling gently like this from the relative safety of the covered walkway, it almost seemed soft and inviting...

…but he knew better than to be fooled by appearances.

Burrowing his hands further into his pockets, David started down the long passageway, his footsteps instinctively slowing to a trudge. He walked this path on a daily basis, but it was never with any eager anticipation, and his body seemed to mirror his heart's familiar reluctance to depart.

Thankfully, he wasn't headed to school today; there was still one week left of the holiday recess, and classes wouldn't reconvene again until the new year. It was still too brief of a reprieve as far as he was concerned, but any reprieve was welcomed, even if the break meant less so the joyous opportunity for celebration that it did for others, and more so a temporary lessening of the anxiety that hounded him under normal circumstances.

"Enjoy your time off, Jacobs," Fletcher had smirked, waggling his fingers in a mocking farewell as he'd headed towards the schoolyard gate. "I'll see you next year."

The threat underlying the cheerfully-delivered words had not been lost on David, and he had felt his spirit sinking as he'd knelt down to rescue his book from the puddle that it had fallen into when Fletcher had smacked it from his hands. The pages had already been soaked through, and the cover was scuffed and dirty, but he'd blotted it against his coat as best as he could, then had tucked the volume under his arm, located Les, and hurried home. Several hours by the fire had sufficiently dried the book's pages, but they'd remained visibly worse for wear, and the scuff marks on the cover had turned out to be irreversible, so David had grudgingly resigned himself to the now-tattered appearance of the newest book in his collection.

It could have been worse, he reminded himself. There had been no particularly-humiliating insults, no stealing of personal belongings, no subtle but forceful shoves into the schoolyard fence accompanying the book debacle. And Fletcher had been unaccompanied, too, which had made the situation more bearable than it would have been otherwise.

You could have fought back, came the thought. You could have stood up to him and told him to leave you alone.

It was something that always crossed David's mind in retrospect: the possibility of answering his harassers with opposition of his own, satisfying the stirring desire to defend himself by unleashing the words that he knew he was capable of wielding adequately under the right circumstances. He ought to have more gumption than to let his classmates walk all over him (he was the tallest of them by an inch at least, even if his lanky frame did him no favors), and had just as much right to pass through the schoolyard unmolested as the rest of them.

But this conviction, so firm in his mind, crumbled almost immediately whenever he was cornered. Something about his peers' aggressive feints and pointed jeers made any words of retort stick in his throat, as though he was incapable of forming even the simplest sentence of self-defense when he was caught alone and outnumbered. And they mocked him for it, too, mimicking his frightened speechlessness to painfully-exaggerated effect.

It had been like that almost from the beginning, when he'd shown up to class as the unknown new kid, expecting the familiar disquietude that came from changing schools, but not the pointed animosity harbored by this new group of classmates. He had never been particularly gregarious on the whole, but he'd also never had trouble making at least a friend or two, and the jarring difficulty of this particular transition had caught him off guard, especially because he could never figure out exactly what had caused this most recent set of classmates to dislike him so much. He'd pieced together a hypothesis from the snatches of conversation that he'd overheard and from the comments that had been aimed in his direction, but the resulting explanation - that he was loathsome because he was bookish and awkward and because he'd made the mistake of speaking up in class too much on his first day there - was far from satisfactory. He'd stopped asserting himself so much, hoping that it would soften his peers' indignation, but it seemed that they'd already made up their minds about him at that point.

After an especially humiliating incident during the second week of school, he'd learned quickly to be on his guard at all times, keeping his head down, speaking as little as possible, and trying to avoid crossing paths with anyone if he could help it. The bullying had become more sporadic over time, his classmates perhaps losing interest in the diversion, but some, like the brawny Fletcher, continued to hector David at will, and he never felt easy any time he set foot on the school grounds.

The schoolmaster, of course, was quick to curtail and punish any brawling that came to his attention, but subtle shoves and well-timed trip-ups invariably went unnoticed (not to mention any verbal barbs that were deployed), and over a year and a half of this treatment had passed by without anyone in authority being the wiser.

David hadn't mentioned his troubles to his parents; they were preoccupied enough as it was, and he was pretty sure that he already knew how they would respond: his mother would be worried and would insist on informing the schoolmaster, something that might temporarily mitigate the problem but in the long run would make it worse, while his father would scold him for letting small-minded bullies get to him and for failing to speak in his own self-defense. Mayer Jacobs had always been forthright with his own opinions and had regularly admonished David to stand up for people who couldn't stand up for themselves (though the exhortation was usually delivered in the context of a reminder to watch out for Les); he would no doubt be exasperated if he realized how inept his son had turned out to be at applying that very counsel to himself.

"What's the matter, Jacobs? Too scared to put up your dukes?" Fletcher's voice sneered in David's head.

The stories, it seemed, were mostly fabrication, at least as they pertained to the weak and outnumbered triumphing over their powerful adversaries. Such outcomes, where the underdog managed to prevail, made for exciting narrative, of course…but real life was different.

Or maybe, David thought, it was only different for people like him, people who couldn't seem to find the courage to win their battles, no matter how hard they tried. He wanted to be brave, to persist in the face of adversity, to be a voice for the vulnerable as his father had said…but how could he even think of speaking up for others when he was already too afraid to speak up for himself?

"Did you see him flinch that time? What a meater! You'd think all hell was coming for him or something, not just a few chums wanting to have a nice, friendly conversation."

"Hey there, Jacobs - what's wrong with you, ya gutless milksop? Too scared to come out from behind your book? What'cha gonna do if I push you, huh? How 'bout if I give you a little shove?"

"If I had a face like that, I'd keep it hidden, too - I bet even his mom wishes she could send him back."

"Guess he won't be fighting any giants today; he looks like he's about to start sniveling instead. Go on, Jacobs - start blubbering!"

He hadn't actually cried - that time, or any of the times that he'd been bullied at school - his one minuscule victory amidst a string of demeaning defeats. But regardless, it hadn't stopped his eagle-eyed classmates from calling out his obvious distress.

(The occasional references to his name stung more than they should have. David had never been very fond of the title or of its meaning, Goliath allusions included, for it sounded stiff and uptight to his ears, and its deeper significance seemed mockingly ill-fitting, considering his standing amongst his peers. It was only a small irritant in the grand scheme of things…but it still served as an unwelcome reminder of just how ungainly he was).

A haunting, plaintive melody suddenly pierced the darkness of his thoughts, and David found himself slowing to a stop as the sound of a fiddle's warble emanated from the apartment closest to the stairs. He'd heard the unknown musician playing before, catching snippets of song as he'd passed by on his way in and out of the building, but the previous tunes that he'd picked up on had always been rather upbeat: a few bars of a popular ragtime ditty, perhaps, or a sprightly variation on a Sousa march.

This time, however, the music was of a more somber sort, and David found himself taking in a slow, deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs as he stood there listening.

It was as if the music was embodying his own melancholy, and as it swirled through the air around him, shifting and settling like the snowflakes that flurried outside, he found the questions that he'd been too afraid to ask surfacing unbidden in his mind:

Will they ever stop treating me like this?

Why can't I figure out how to stand up to them? What did I do to make them hate me so much?

What's wrong with me?

What's wrong with me?

The fiddle's melody dipped and swelled, now airy and wistful, now painfully tender, and slowly, slowly, the questions in David's head began to blur, fading into a murmur as feelings took their place instead, underscored by a sharp and poignant sorrow…

…and last of all came loneliness.

What if I just kept walking? David thought. What if I just walked outside into the snow and kept walking until I couldn't walk anymore? The urge was sudden and terrible, and a part of his mind warned him not to give it quarter…but there were any number of Davids in New York City; surely the world would be no worse off for one less.

"Shove off, Jacobs. No one wants you here."

The fiddle's tune crescendoed, soaring into a wordless cry, and David dashed away the moisture threatening at the corners of his eyes.

Forcing his feet to move, he hurried down the stairs, the melody of the fiddle fading away behind him.

In no time, he was out of the apartment and walking down the street, snowflakes falling on his cap and his coat as his feet crunched through the packed-down powder of the pathway and the cold air nipped at his cheeks and his nose. The foot traffic was minimal by this time, most of Queens having hurried indoors to avoid the newly-arrived snowfall, and though David generally didn't like it when the streets were crowded, he found himself wishing that this walk could have been a bit less solitary. Everything felt devoid of life, colorless and cold, and even the presence of a few more passersby would have provided some much-needed warmth amidst the chill. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts, or with the terrifying urge that had crossed his mind only moments ago when he'd been beset by the recollection of words that he wished he could forget.

He knew, of course, that such a notion was misguided: he had to pick up Les at his friend's house, and then their mother was expecting help with the laundry upon their return. Their father would come home from his job at the furniture factory, and then they would gather around the dinner table for their evening meal before Mayer would share a few words of reflection to close out the year. Disappearing now - or at any time, really - was out of the question, for there were far too many tasks that David was responsible for, and no small amount of inconvenience that he would cause if he were to suddenly go missing.

Even if that hadn't been the case, there was still too much that he wanted to do in life, if he was being honest with himself. He didn't really want to be done with it all - he just wanted a reprieve from the most trying part of his daily struggle, to find relief from the bullying that kept him withdrawn and afraid so that he could enjoy school again like he had before, putting put his energy and emotions towards things that excited him, towards things that mattered. There were books that he hadn't read yet, poems that he hadn't finished writing, questions that he wanted to think about, and skills that he wanted to learn.

Even more enticing, there was a purpose that he hadn't found yet, a meaning to life that went beyond simply getting by from day to day. He had no idea what direction it might take, or what the specifics of its formation would turn out to be, but for some time now he had hoped to be a part of something bigger than himself, to put his mind (and what modest talent he possessed) to work, and to know that in doing so he was making things better somehow - even if only for a few. It was this elusive purpose, more than anything, that made the future feel like a yet-unanswered calling that he would be loath to leave unfulfilled.

It won't always be like this, David told himself as he hunched his shoulders against the cold. It has to get better…it just has to.

…right?

What little optimism he possessed (and it was precious little) must have been asserting itself at this point: realistically speaking, there was only a minuscule chance of his circumstances changing unless his father's job somehow necessitated another relocation. It wasn't outside of the realm of possibility, but it certainly wasn't likely, either, so the sensible thing to do would be to assume that this would be the norm for the foreseeable future.

The thought disheartened David. 1898 had come and gone with little change in his situation, and 1899 would likely be more of the same…

…but what if it wasn't?

He quickened his pace, pushing the thought aside. He didn't want to get his hopes up now, only to have them be dashed when circumstances failed to improve. And he needed to focus on what was right in front of him, to make sure that he arrived on time to pick up Les, and that he kept an eye on the weather to ensure that the flurry didn't turn to something heavier that would pose any danger on their way home. Concentrating on the task at hand would have to be the antidote for his brooding thoughts, for he couldn't afford to seek out a more effective cure at the moment (if, indeed, there was such a cure).

But even as he told himself that it was only advisable to prepare for the worst, the thought of change crept in again, small and slight but irresistible, and instead of pushing it away this time, he let it settle in the corner of his mind. He wouldn't give in to its allurement, for he knew better than to let his feelings override the facts…

…but if moving forward meant living with the sobering prospect of the status quo persisting and the tiny, nascent hope that maybe something would change for the better…then so be it. The coming year would arrive soon enough, and he would have no choice but to meet it, ready or not.

So David walked on, putting one foot in front of the other, his shoulders stiff against the cold as he made his way through the frosty, deserted streets.

He still had quite a ways to go.

And on the other side of one night's sleep, 1899 was waiting.

A/N: So, the irony of this story (as you've probably guessed) is that we, unlike David, know what the coming year holds for him. He is going to find himself thrown into another situation requiring a great deal of fortitude and courage, but he is going to push through his fear and rise to the occasion. He is going to finally find his voice, and in doing so, become a voice for others. He is going to gain new friends, friends who accept and welcome him despite the things that make him different. He is going to learn to be loved*, for his name and its meaning are far more fitting than he realizes (though he'll get a less-formal-sounding nickname thrown in for good measure ;)). And he is going to discover a piece of the purpose he seeks, and in so doing, change the world that he lives in for the better. (He may even realize that he actually rather likes the snow under certain circumstances**…though that's irrelevant at this point ;)).

But the catch is that he doesn't know that any of this is just around the corner. And he's going to have to hold on and endure the cold for a little longer before even the smallest glimmer of light begins to peek through.

I think that's where the primary significance of this story lies.

If you are feeling the cold pressing in right now, perhaps struggling to find hope in a particular area of life, wrestling with questions that don't seem to have answers, or maybe even wondering if disappearing would be a better option, I hope that this story provides a little bit of comfort. You never know what may be coming next. Life, of course, is rarely easy, and the passage of time is not a guarantee of improved circumstances (Davey will certainly be facing challenges unlike any he's ever known alongside everything else that's waiting), but I think that what I'm trying to say - to anyone resonating with this, and to myself - is that your story is bigger than the paragraph or page on which you find yourself at the moment. You may be in a threshold season where you feel deeply challenged and pushed to the brink of what you can endure…but you may also be on the verge of something bright and new that you can't even begin to imagine.

So please keep holding on and pushing through, gracious readers. Let us keep pushing through in the hope that the cold won't last forever.

Chapter Notes:

*The name David means "beloved."

**If you'd like to find out how Davey learns to appreciate the snow, or are interested in reading more of this particular version of him and seeing how the rest of his story plays out, I invite you to check out Something Worth Winning.

Content warning: This story contains references to bullying and very brief passive suicidal ideation.