Archive of Our Own

In our hearts a hopeful song
We barely understood
Now, we are not afraid
Although we know there's much to fear
We were moving mountains
Long before we knew we could

--Prince of Egypt

1.

As soon as the strike is settled, settled for real by the big hats and names up in their gilded offices, Davey makes his move.

He knows it’s the right day—Monday, the start of the working week, a full five days stretching out before him. The best chance he’s had.

But before he can truly run, he has to shuffle Sarah and Les to the door, inwardly curse his difficult suspenders with another breath, apologize to his frazzled mother, explain to her that no, he’s not always the last ready because he can’t hurry but because he’s got to get the others out too. She doesn’t really hear anything after the apology, her brain already moving on without him.

Then Mr. Rogers calls him out in front of the whole class and tells him that if Davey isn’t going to pay attention, he can trot down the hall and have a chat with the principle. At lunchtime, Jonathan and Jacob and Binyamin crowd around, whispering about Charlotte Meyers’s new green dress and the way it makes her eyes look.

Les trundles over with a skinned knee and a tearful frown. Davey examines it and pronounces that Les will likely live, which cheers him up enough to go back and play.

Davey sits by himself and thinks about the moment playing back through his head all week. The strike buster, and the smack that had registered in Davey’s ears before his head snapped to the side with the impact.

Davey had never been hit like that before, which is somewhat shocking, all things considered. He’s Jewish, mainly, and he’s also other things, things he barely dares think about under his blankets at night, let alone during the day.

He doesn’t want to be hit again. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel his cheekbone smarting still, even though it’s been days now.

As soon as school is out, Davey and Les head for the World distribution desk. The evening edition is hot off the presses, ready to be sold all afternoon to commuters on their way home. Davey grabs his fifty, and sends Les over to Jojo, wiggling his eyebrows pleadingly and meaningfully.

Jojo grins, winks, and takes Les’ hand, talking loudly about a hotdog vendor he saw.

Davey waits until Jack shows up. He saunters in, somehow late compared to everyone else, but also signifying the start of things no matter the time. It still makes Davey’s knees a little wobbly, and he’s seen it happen every day for the last week.

“Give me a hundred more,” he says to Wisel, slamming his coins down and taking the papers in exchange. Then—“Heya, Davey.”

“I want you to teach me to fight,” Davey says, loud and clear and intentional, because if he’s not quick he’ll back out.

It stops Jack in his tracks. Around them, the newsboys bustle, muttering complaints about the first half of the selling day, trading jokes and teasing the Delancys. Someone, likely Race, has set an old paper on fire and the boys are daring one another to touch it. Jack and Davey are still in the middle, the eye of the storm.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack answers finally, squinting. “No, I ain’t doin’ that, Davey Jacobs.”

Hearing his name come from Jack’s lips is as intoxicating as ever, but Davey forces himself to focus. “Please.”

Jack takes off his hat and puts it back, seemingly not noticing how crooked it is. “Why? Strike’s over.”

Davey closes his eyes and feels the imprint of a meaty hand against his face. “Jack, there’s always gonna be a fight.”

“Tell me about it,” Jack grunts, scuffing the street with the toe of his boot. Without meaning to, he’s started walking, and Davey’s kept up effortlessly. “Couple of guys started harassin’ me last night, on account of my name.”

“Your name?”

Jack’s stare is frank and patient. “It’s Irish.”

Oh. Davey scrunches up his face in sympathy.

“I told ‘em I didn’t know my dad anymore than they did, or care what name the fucker had left me with, but they didn’t care.”

“What happened?” Davey asks, tucking his papers more securely under his arm as a passing streetcar sends wind swirling their way. Apparently, the trolley workers had come to terms with their employers too.

Jack shrugs. “I’m a fast runner.”

“Well, I’m not,” Davey says, snatching that opening up. “So, I need to learn to defend myself.”

Jack shot him a look. “You’re a fine runner. There someone givin’ you trouble I need to know about? One of the fellas?”

“No,” Davey says quickly. “No, no one. I just…I wanna be prepared, Jack.”

Jack shakes his head. “I ain’t teachin’ you nothing, Davey. You don’t know what you’re asking.” He stares at nothing a few more seconds, and then hollers, “Raving lunatic steals baby from unsuspecting mother!”

Davey jumps and then finally looks at the headline of the paper he’s holding. Explorers discover nest of rare bird eggs in the Orient. “Oh Jack.”

Despite all of Davey’s cajoling, Jack stays firm all evening. They part ways miffed at each other, Jack grumpily telling Davey to lay off, and Davey changing from pleading to outward threats.

Stomping home, he’s the only one of his siblings there. His parents both look up hopefully, see he’s alone, and their faces settle in identical frowns.

“I’ll go look for them,” Davey says resignedly, and turns right around.

Les isn’t hard to find, he’s finishing up with Jojo and only happy to go home for dinner. Sarah is harder—she’s still at work as far as Davey’s concerned, so he trudges up the river toward her factory.

He finds her in the employees’ coat room, yakking up a storm with the other girls, all of them huffing and muttering in one of the girl ways Davey has never understood. It seems to be full of hidden meanings and unspoken questions, and Davey doesn’t know why they don’t just come out and say what they mean.

“You’re late,” he says as soon as there’s a slight gap in the conversation.

“I’m coming, oy,” Sarah says, giving her friends a conspiratorial look, as if to laugh about how irritating and blunt her brother is. “See you all tomorrow, and don’t you fret, Bess.”

Davey sets a brisk pace on the way home, hungry and tired, and still mad at Jack for refusing him. It’s not much trouble, is it? Would it be so terrible just to spend ten minutes a day making sure Davey won’t break his fingers the next time he tries to throw a punch?

Sarah follows him well enough, but keeps brushing her hair back from her face, and it doesn’t take much to make Davey boil over. He loosens his necktie and all but throws it at her.

“For God’s sake, Sarah, tie it back. Didn’t Ema and Aba tell you to, anyways?”

Sarah takes it and ties it into a loop before sliding it over her hair. “David, none of the other girls tie theirs.”

“Great. You’ll all end up bald together when it gets caught in the machinery.”

“It’s not like we’re thread girls,” she complains. “What, is our hair going to catch on the sewing machines?”

They both paste on automatic matching smiles as they pass Mr. Hamstein the butcher, and then go back to their glaring.

“It’s stupid to take risks,” Davey says finally. “When you could just braid the whole thing back and the problem would be solved, easy as that.”

“No one else does it!” Sarah repeats, eyes flashing.

Davey frowns at her. “So? No one else is Sarah Jacobs. Who cares what everyone else is doing?”

She tosses her head irritably. “David, you’ve always been fine with being strange and different. I don’t want to be. I’m already Jewish, I don’t want to stand out any more than I can help.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed about being Jewish—”

“And I didn’t say there was. Just that they already treat me certain ways because of it. I want to fit in, David. The odds of my hair getting caught—”

“How you look is more important than your safety,” Davey says, trying desperately to keep his brain from calculating the actual odds and throwing them in her face. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Sarah frowns. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Davey bites back a response to that, and marches on. He doesn’t understand. Why won’t she see what he’s trying to tell her? Why can’t she see it isn’t about him and her, it’s that clearly one way is idiotic and dangerous, and the other makes sense? Davey curses his parents for having children, and stomps up the front steps.

“There you are,” their mother says reproachfully, serving Les and their father at the table. “Sarah, sit down, you need to eat.”

Davey hangs his cap up and tries to breathe deeply.

“David, stop dawdling, the food’s getting cold,” Ema says, and sits down to listen to Sarah’s story.

Davey sits.

2.

There’s laundry to put away the next morning before School. Ema hands Davey his stack and calls loudly for all of them to come fetch theirs. Davey pushes back from the breakfast table and goes over to the small dresser next to his and Les’ bed. He tucks his clean shirts into the proper drawer, and then because Les is still washing his face, he puts his away too.

After school, Davey corners Albert. “Teach me to throw a punch,” he says hopefully.

Albert chews loudly on his piece of stale bread. “Okay,” he says, shrugging, and spends the entire time talking about how hungry he is, just moving Davey’s arm around.

Davey tries Race next. Race actually has a few useful tips, ranging from “Make sure your thumb is tucked up outside ya fingers, or you’ll snap it off,” to “You gotta use all the power in your shoulder—pretend youse a battering ram!”

Davey practices, and Race lights his cigar and tells him that he’s shaping up very well for one of Race’s students, and at the rate he’s going, he’ll be a boxing champion before winter’s over.

It’s a little—not enough, but a start. Jack doesn’t make an appearance, likely still mad at Davey. Davey pretends he’s still mad back, but at this point, he doesn’t even know who he’s mad at anymore.

Learning to fight, it helps. He feels like he’s doing something with all this anger, channeling it for something purposeful.

That night, when he’s undressing, Sarah’s laundry pile is still sitting on her cot. Davey closes his eyes and groans, not wanting to deal with it. She’s got to do it herself, he’s not always going to be there to have her back. But she’s still mad at him too.

“Your laundry,” he tells her, keeping his voice cool and impartial.

“One minute,” Sarah says, not looking up from her schoolwork.

Les rolls over in bed and snores quietly. Davey makes sure his bag is packed for the next day. He balls his hand into a fist, pleased to see how instinctive leaving his thumb out is. Sarah doesn’t move.

“Laundry,” Davey says, more forcefully.

Sarah throws her pencil down. “Stop telling me what to do! Mind your own business, can’t you?”

“Sarah, listen to your brother,” their mother calls from her room.

Sarah glares, standing and spinning to put her clothes away. “Goddamn you.”

“I’m sorry,” Davey hisses. “For reminding you to do your job. Maybe if you did it the first time Ema asked, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Leave me alone,” Sarah says, and goes back to ignoring him.

Furious, Davey throws open the window and climbs out on to the fire escape. The breeze is brisk in only an undershirt, but he’s not about to go sniveling back inside for something warmer.

As he watches the streetlights light up the inky sky with hazy halos, his thoughts turn toward the lodging home. Where is Jack? Up in his secret hideout above the city, watching the same sky? Is he drawing, dark head bent, lip between his teeth?

Statistically speaking, he could be thinking about Davey. It’s possible. They could be blocks apart, thinking about each other.

If I was an orphan, Davey thinks to himself, I would hop over this rail and watch the night pass by from the rooftops. It’s a tantalizing thought, but an impossible one.

Les is in the middle of the bed when he goes in. Davey sighs and rolls him over.

Wednesday, Race doesn’t show up for the evening edition. “Probably grabbin’ lunch down in Brooklyn,” Albert mutters, looking sour when Davey brings it up.

“You need something?” Finch asks kindly, kicking Al.

“I need to learn how to fight,” Davey tells him straight up, Finch tall enough to stare him right in the eye, all openness.

Finch grins, crooked. “Well, I’ll be pretty worthless unless you want to learn to shoot. But ask Mush, he knows a thing or two. Tommy Boy also, and maybe Buttons and Elmer.”

Davey thanks him and goes looking for Mush.

Mush is asleep in his bunk, strangely still for a boy who always seems to be moving and sharing his opinion. Davey doesn’t know much about him, except that he had folks once and doesn’t anymore, and one of them was Jewish. Or, Davey didn’t know any more, because Mush is sleeping on top of Blink, who’s lying there and reading, his good eye tracing back and forth across the book’s pages.

Davey stops, wrongfooted.

Blink looks up. “Whatcha need, Davey?” he asks, not at all concerned about being draped in a blanket of Mush.

“Oh, nothing,” Davey says, grabbing nonchalance from somewhere and throwing it over himself like a coat. “Wanted to ask Mush somethin’, but I can come back later.”

“He is a deep sleeper,” Blink says apologetically, and then twists around. “Mush?” he says softly, and Mush rolls half off him before grabbing ahold of Blink’s shirttails to keep from going too far.

“Don’t go,” Mush mumbles, and then lets out a soft snore.

Blink presses his lips together at Davey to keep from laughing. Davey smiles back.

“I’ll come back later,” he says, and leaves them alone in the empty bunkroom.

Davey’s not surprised, he doesn’t think. He looks up from his haze and finds himself in a small park, so he sits down on a bench to keep himself from wandering out to Queens or something.

Alright, he’s a little surprised. That Blink would be so uncaring, that he would let Davey see that. That they would be so intimate in near public, where anyone could walk in. Sure, it was nothing but sharing a bunk, but there’s something else, something Davey can’t put his finger on, but knows intrinsically.

They’re like him.

Davey feels a little like crying. Alright, he’s a lot surprised. He didn’t think—he didn’t know. For a moment, he lets the feeling overtake him, the way Blink and Mush had somehow found each other and were able to exist in their shared bubble. Their happiness, evident in Blink’s lazy sprawl, Mush’s tight grip.

It can never be Davey, but at least he isn’t alone anymore.

Suddenly he wants to sing, or dance with joy. He isn’t alone. Biting his lip to keep from grinning like an idiot, Davey stands, shoves his hands in his pockets, and starts towards home.

3.

“I’s sorry,” Jack says, waiting at the gate as soon as Davey arrives from school on Thursday, not late for maybe the first time in his life. “I don’t wanna fight no more, Davey.”

Davey, who’d ignored Sarah all day, had to clean Les up at lunch yet again, and had spent the previous night thinking about Blink and Mush instead of sleeping, smiles widely.

“We alright?” Jack asks cautiously, but his eyes sparkle.

“Sure,” Davey allows, and knocks his shoulder against Jack’s. They walk through the gate together.

They sell on the same corner, that day. Les scampers around, chasing pigeons, charming old ladies, and eventually slumping to the ground behind them to sing to himself.

Jack is Jack, loud and boisterous in his happiness, lewd and smirking in his jokes. He keeps up a running commentary on all the pedestrians as they pass, whispering into Davey’s ear and then laughing when Davey has to keep from snorting out loud.

“You think that woman there is late?” Jack mutters, leaning close. “She’s forgotten her lemon cake in the oven, and if the house don’t smell like lemon all the time, her husband beats her.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Davey says, but halfheartedly at best.

“If it smells like burned lemon,” Jack says, “He jumps her as soon as he comes in the door. Rips her clothes off and everything, crazed with lust.”

Davey laughs out loud. “What’s this fella’s problem?”

Jack shrugs sagely. “How the hell should I know, Davey pal?”

He walks them home, so Davey invites him up. Everyone in the family loves Jack, has since they first heard about him, and they immediately rush to lay an extra serving, pull the chair out of Ema and Aba’s room.

Davey can’t help but feel an odd pride about Jack’s charisma. That’s my friend, he thinks, watching Sarah laugh for the first time in two days, their father grinning into his cup when Jack gets a word wrong and scrambles to recover. He charms everyone he meets.

And he’s still here with me, somehow.

“Eat,” Ema urges, thrusting more fried cabbage into Jack’s face. “You too, David, you’re so thin. Isn’t he thin, Jack?”

Jack’s eyes laugh. “I think he looks just right, Ms. Esther.”

She tuts disapprovingly. “Always studying, is our David. He’s going to starve himself away at this point.”

Davey stares at her. He’s studying because she wants him to. She wants him to become a doctor or something, graduate with flying colors. Davey would be happy dropping out of school and learning to write, maybe. Katherine could get him a job somewhere, he knows she could.

“Ema,” he begins, but she’s moved on, complimenting Jack on his hard work selling that day.

And Davey is. He’s something. He looks down at his plate, where the potatoes aren’t as tasty as they were a few minutes ago.

He likes Jack, he does. Wants him over anytime, wants to talk to him, joke around. And his family is messy, but he loves them all. Even Sarah, the stubborn idiot. Even his mother, who is loud and crazy and wants too much for her children, who puts all pressure to succeed on their shoulders.

There’s none of that, for Jack.

He doesn’t have a mother breathing down his back, waiting for a diploma, a steady job, a girl. He doesn’t have a mother to constantly berate him for not helping enough, to guilt him into apologizing for something he thinks is wrong, to hold him when he’s sad and promise him everything will work out in the end.

He has all the freedom and none of the security. And Davey is jealous.

Learning to throw a punch won’t fix this. Becoming a writer won’t fix this. This is Davey’s, his whole life. Familial expectations, familial duties. Jack doesn’t change a thing.

So, Davey packs it away. Boxes it up tight, ships it to the North Pole, and lets it go. He tries to enjoy this, his friend over for dinner, everyone happy and smiling. He succeeds, he thinks.

The next morning, on the way to school, Sarah loiters until Les has scampered ahead, and tugs on Davey’s sleeve. “I need your help,” she says, and is Davey still angry with her? It doesn’t matter.

“Tell me,” he says.

Her foreman, she explains. “His wife’s about to have a baby, David. He needs the time off. He’s kind to us, doesn’t hover or yell, just leaves us be. He’s exhausted, and he doesn’t have any support to give him even a day off.”

“Surely one of the other foremen—”

“They’re all rotten,” Sarah says fiercely, winding her hair around her finger. “They threaten to fire him if he acts up. Mr. Woole—that’s his name—is at his wits end, and we don’t know how to help him.”

Davey sighs. “What can I do?” he asks. “Organize another strike?”

He means it half jokingly, but he doesn’t like the gleam in her eye. “We can’t afford that now, I don’t think. But something else maybe.”

“You know it’s not just the newsies who don’t have enough rights,” Davey tells her. “All over the city the working class is kept from unions, safer work conditions, and good wages.”

“What can you do about it?”

Davey stares at the schoolhouse ahead of them. Not go to school and sit there like a moron, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Their ema really would kill him if he accidentally convinced Sarah to drop out. “I don’t know,” he ends up with, wishing there was more. “I can ask Katherine about it.”

“Jack’s reporter friend,” Sarah says triumphantly. “Yes please, David.”

Jack’s reporter friend. “Sure,” Davey says, something dull in his stomach. Just like that, their last fight is forgotten. “I’ll try and meet her later this week.”

It’s Shabbat on Friday, so Davey doesn’t get much done, running home as soon as his last papers are sold in time for dinner, and then Saturday they go to synagogue in the morning. Finally, Les runs off to play ball in the street and Sarah disappears to who knows where, and Davey goes back to sell papers.

Mush, who likes to skulk around the outside of his own synagogue on Saturdays, teaches Davey to put the full thrust of his punch into his first two curved fingers—“Not the knuckle,” he says quietly, hand wrapped around Davey’s, “Cause the skin is fragile there. You wanna hit with the meat, not the bone.”

“But the knuckle hurts more,” Tommy Boy argues.

“Shut up and let the man talk,” Blink says, shoving Tommy Boy away.

Tommy Boy stomps right back up into Blink’s face. “You think I’s dumb, Kid Blink? You got somethin’ to say to me?”

“Hey,” Mush says sharply, breaking away from Davey to split the other two apart.

“All a you, quit it,” Jack interrupts, appearing from nowhere and scattering the would be fight. “Get outta here, stop hangin’ around, ain’tcha got papes to sell?”

He waits until the guys mutter and walk away, Blink grabbing Mush’s papers and dancing away to avoid a smack, and then throws his arm around Davey’s shoulders.

“You scared away my teachers,” Davey complains, but without any real heat.

“You ain’t dropping this, are you?” Jack asks in Davey’s ear.

“No.”

Jack shakes his head and smiles as crooked and vast as the Brooklyn Bridge. “I don’t know why I thought you might. Alright, Trouble, I’ll teach ya how to fight.”

4.

On Sunday, Davey finds Albert and Finch involved in a loud and angry argument that he comes close to intervening in before they turn from bitten off words and frowns to kissing almost as aggressively.

So, there’s that.

Now that he knows, it’s like he sees it everywhere. Unknowingly, Davey landed in a huge fat pile of queers when he started selling papers. Albert and Finch don’t have the same steadiness of Mush and Blink, but a kiss is a kiss. Elmer watches Buttons with a sappy look on his face when he thinks no one is looking. Race gets a strange smile when mentions of Brooklyn come up.

They’re all of them unashamed, keeping quiet but loving loudly. Davey is glad, he is, he’s so glad. And he’s sad too. Sad they have to stay quiet, sad there’s no place in the world for them thanks to other people’s fear.

And sad he can’t have the same freedom.

But Davey is their friend, Davey is their protector. It’s enough. It has to be.

Katherine meets him in a small coffeeshop run by a grimacing Turkish woman who serves from the counter with a mouth that looks perpetually sour.

“Yeesh,” Katherine whispers, sitting down and tucking a chunk of unruly hair behind her ear, “She’s a barrel of sunshine, isn’t she?”

“Times are tough,” Davey says darkly. “A frown is a lot less effort.”

Katherine stares at him. “And you too, Mr. Happiness. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sarah,” Davey says, and proceeds to tell her the whole issue, from the boss and the other foremen, to Mr. Woole and the girls’ predicament. When he’s finished, Katherine sips her bitter coffee and bites her lip. Davey’s knee dances under the table.

“I can go snooping,” she offers at last. “Whip out my notebook, ask a few harmless questions. But Davey, most factories are run that way. Shy of changing everything, I don’t know how to change something.”

Davey grinds his hands into his face. “I know. I feel so useless in school, learning knowledge that won’t ever help me in life. If I were working on the scene, with you, I could be writing pieces the world would read, changing working hours, petitioning for better care all across the city, across the country.”

Katherine studies him. “What else is wrong, Davey?”

“Nothing,” Davey says automatically. He’s fine. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. School on top of selling, and Sarah’s coming in late and I’m worried about her. If the bosses are cruel to one of the better paid men, just think of what they might do to the working girls.”

“She could look for work elsewhere.”

Davey shakes his head. “We need the money, Kath, I’ll be honest. And besides. That won’t solve anything—the others can’t afford to just walk away.”

“You could strike,” she said mischievously, watching for his scoff. “No, I’m serious! Jack would back you, you know he lives for this sort of thing.”

“Jack,” Davey said, and stopped. There was no point trying to put Jack Kelly in a box.

Katherine leaned forward. “Is he doing alright these days?”

“Haven’t you seen him?”

She shakes her head. “Been busy. How is he?”

Davey tells her of his battle to learn to defend himself. He keeps the boys to himself though, his insights and guesses. He won’t tell anyone about that, ever. “—So, he’s finally consented to help me out, although he hasn’t followed though yet.”

“Well, of course, he doesn’t want to teach you to fight,” Katherine said.

Davey blinks. Sips his coffee, which is dark as hell and twice as rich. “What do you mean?”

Katherine smiles and tucks more hair back. “You know. He’s…he’s Jack. Always taking care of the strays, always looking after everyone and keeping them safe. He doesn’t know how to stop. It’s one of the most endearing and irritating things about him. To teach violence…it’s against his nature.”

“It’s just another skill,” Davey says bluntly.

“And Jack’s very skilled,” Katherine says, and something sad flashes across her face, something Davey doesn’t dare ask about. “I’m sure he’ll teach you just fine.”

“When you say that,” Davey begins, confused, “Do you mean—”

“He hasn’t talked about it?” she asks. “His time in the Refuge, his time on the streets? He wasn’t always the leader, you know. He was scruffy and scrappy, young and scared.”

Davey snorts. “What do you mean was.”

Katherine winks at him and finishes her drink. “Have you talked to him about Sarah?”

“…No.”

“Might give it a try,” she advises. “And I’ll see what I can do on my end. And Davey—” here she pats his arm gently. “Don’t forget to go easy on yourself.”

“Sure,” Davey says, like he knows what that meant.

But she isn’t wrong about Jack. As much as the knowledge sits stagnant in Davey’s stomach, he can’t deny that Katherine knows Jack just as well as he, or maybe even better. They’d been thick as thieves during the strike, and it’s more surprising they hadn’t spoken in a while, than not.

Davey doesn’t like to think too closely on why he’s so territorial about Jack. He has enough going on, thank you.

Still, the feeling lingers. The anticipatory looking, finding Jack talking to Specs, and then the rush of excitement when Jack finally focuses on Davey, all that horsepower aimed right at Davey, and his smile, like sunlight.

“You ready to learn how to kick someone’s ass?” Jack asks, and Davey is.

5.

They’re halfway through lesson number one when they’re interrupted by a small newsie who can’t be more than eight—Alf? Adam? Davey can’t remember. He’s holding a strip of bandage and has tear tracks down his cheeks.

“Jack?” he asks pitifully, and Jack lets go of where he’s holding Davey’s hand, instructing.

“What is it, Elbows?”

Little Elbows—why that’s his nickname Davey has no idea—sniffles and holds out the bandage. “I skinned me arm and I can’t tie it on. Can you help me please?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jack says, and kneels to do the job properly.

Patched up, Elbows pats Jack gratefully on the arm and scampers off. Jack resumes position, moving Davey’s hand around.

“You wanna use the meat of your hand, like this, see? Right in the kisser. But you gotta watch out—if your fingers connect, they’ll snap, hurt you more than him. Palm to target, that’s what you think. Aim right and you’ll have ‘em half unconscious with one hit.”

He’s wonderful, like this. In his element, teaching voice kind and clear, eyes focused on the next tip, the next task. Davey soaks it up like a sponge, Jack’s advice, Jack’s frown.

“When you’re ducking a hit,” Jack begins again, and two more kids come running up the street toward them, waving their arms and shouting unintelligibly. “What’s goin’ on?” Jack demands.

“Found a kid—” one huffs.

“He looks real bad,” the other adds, eyes wide. “Jack—”

Jack’s moving before he realizes it, Davey thinks. “Show me.”

Newsie number one strides off in the lead, Jack hot on his heels. The other one unabashedly takes Davey’s hand and drags him after. Davey tries not to be charmed, and fails. “Jack’ll take care of it, Mouth,” he says, voice high but unworried. “He always does.”

“Remind me your name?” Davey asks.

“Dill.”

Davey isn’t sure he heard that right. “Dill?”

“I used to work in a pickle factory,” the kid informs him. “So, the fellas all call me Dill.”

They round a corner and stumble on what looks like a dying pony. Not that Davey has much experience with ponies, but if he imagined one covered in blood and shaking, it would look a lot like this.

The pony shifts, and it’s not a pony at all, but a rug covered in blood, wrapped around a little kid. Their hair is wet with it, deep brown and matted, and their eyes are wild with fear. Davey inhales and tries hard not to think about being sick.

Jack drops to his knees, hands out in front of him. “Hey,” he says softly, the way you would speak to a spooked pony. “I’m Jack. You got any interest in a warm bath?”

Dill tugs on Davey’s hand. “Where’s he gonna find a warm bath, Mouth?”

Davey shakes his head wordlessly.

They stand and watch in the setting sun as Jack slowly coaxes the drenched kid out from under the rug. It takes a long time. Dill and his friend are quiet, both of them eventually gripping on to some piece of Davey.

Jack gets a hand on the new kid first, followed by a wipe clean with the handkerchief. The kid trembles but holds still as the first layer of dirt and blood comes off. It becomes clear that it’s a girl, her hair in one short stubby braid, her eyes dull and unfocused.

Still talking, Jack moves just a little bit closer, and peels her fully out of the rug. He unbuttons his blue shirt and takes it off, still moving at half speed, and holds it out, showing the girl he intends to wrap her in it.

She lets him, and she lets him brush her bangs away, check her feet for injuries, and fold up the rug. She lets him pick her up after that, and settles vacantly into his side, eyes still open.

“She’s hot to the touch,” Jack says finally, and Davey realizes the sun has set completely. “Fever, I reckon. We gotta get her home, come on.”

Dill and his friend lead the way, small boots pitter-pattering on the pavement. Davey brings up the rear. They leave the filthy rug behind in the street. Davey wonders if they’ll ever learn where all that blood had come from. It can’t have all been the little girl’s, or she’d surely have died from it.

 At the boarding house, Jack shoulders past the front room and up to the bunks. He makes the girl comfortable in one of the far beds and fusses over her before straightening and scrambling in his pockets for a coin.

“Pay for a bunk for me, Davey?” he asks, distracted, furrow between his brows. “I’d take her up to the roof, but she’s already caught a chill.”

“Sure,” Davey says, quiet.

When he returns to the bunk room, Race is there, pacing, cigar puffing irritably. “—Always like this,” he says.

“If you say so,” Jack answers, steadily wiping the little girl’s forehead with a cool cloth.

“Don’t ignore me,” Race says, sharp. “You can’t rescue every stray, Jack.”

Jack squints up at him. “That what you’d say to yourself, when you was this size?”

Race reddens, but with embarrassment or anger, Davey can’t be sure. “We don’t got enough room as is. She’s not gonna be in any shape to sell come tomorrow. She’s gonna take time and medicine we don’t have. Jack, come on.”

“I’ll talk to the fellas,” Jack promises. “Ask the littles if they can squeeze in extra tonight. And her food can come outta my pay, no one else’s. Race, I can’t just leave her there—”

“I know,” Race says, quieter, resigned. “That’s the problem, Cowboy.”

He spins and stalks past Davey, yanking his cigar out. Davey hesitates, and walks over to stand behind Jack.

“Is that a regular argument?”

Jack sighs. “On and off. Race is…he’s gonna be leader, and soon. He’ll be great at it, but while the job’s still both of ours, it’s easy to disagree over how to do things.”

“Race, not Crutchie?”

“Crutchie don’t want it,” Jack explains.

Davey bites his lip. “Race wouldn’t...kick you out, would he?”

“No,” Jack says immediately. “A course not. But he’s got a harder heart than me, you know? Had to, from a young age. I don’t blame him.”

Race wasn’t wrong, Davey thinks, watching Jack go back to sponging the little girl’s head. Jack will spend his last cent to keep another kid warm, will walk eight miles to bring someone back to the boarding house for the night. Race is right that he can’t save everyone, but Davey doesn’t know if it’s possible for Jack not to try.

“I’ll stay here with Carpet,” Jack says. “Can you spend the night?”

Davey pictures his mother’s face at the thought and closes his eyes in resignation. “My ema would probably pitch a fit.”

“Okay. You go get some rest. Sorry our lesson today was such a failure.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Davey said automatically. “You sure you’ll be alright here alone?”

Jack grins up at him.

Davey lingers a moment longer to really take in that grin—Jack in his element. Then he refixes his cap and goes home, the deepening evening wrapping around him like a wool coat.

6.

“David,” Les says the next morning, “Do you ever wish you could curl up and never get out of bed?”

Davey whips around at that one. “What?”

Les sighs and buttons up his shirt. “Nothin’.”

“I wish I was still in bed right now,” Davey says carefully as they step out on to the street, Sarah behind them, and turn towards school.

“Me too,” Les says right after, and sighs gustily.

Davey nudges his little brother. “What’s wrong, Les.”

The air is cool and clean-smelling this early in the morning. The streets are only just waking up, a few commuters walking to work in respectable suits, the milkman’s wagon parked just past the dry goods store man unfurling his striped awning. Somewhere above, pigeons coo.

Les takes Davey’s hand and loiters until Sarah’s walking in front of them. “I’m just sick of living,” he tells Davey solemnly in that wide eyed and innocent way children have.

Davey doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t. Making sure there’s no sign of amusement in his face, he looks down. “Tell me about it?”

“There’s this boy,” Les says, and here comes the story now, “And every day he makes life not worth living.”

“Really.”

“Yeah!” Les starts skipping a little. “He says my lunch is dirt cause my mama made it, and then steals it from me. He pushes me off the swing. He throws little bits of paper at me in class and if I move too much to brush it off or look at him, I get in trouble with the teacher.”

Davey listens, something red and gnarled growing in his sternum.

“He’s got three friends too,” Les says, finishing on an accepting note. “Ain’t no chance of a strike against them.”

“Isn’t,” Davey corrects absently, already running the numbers.

Les is right. No way he can take on four boys, and they’re probably the biggest nastiest ones in the class. But. But Davey could ‘strike’. He mentally files that away to tell Jack—that strike now means stand up and fight in Les’ small vocabulary—Jack will love that, and marches toward school a little faster, pulling Les along.

“Here’s the plan,” he says, keeping one eye on Sarah as she crosses in front of a street trolley, and the other on his and Les’ own trajectory, “At lunch, I’m gonna come find you. Make sure you’re not hiding up a tree or something, okay?”

“Okay.”

Davey waits for the trolley to pass and then drags them across the street. “I’m gonna talk to those boys for you, alright?”

Les looks delighted. “Oh, that’s a good plan, David. I shoulda thought of it before—you’re so tall they’ll be so terrified of you!”

“Thanks,” Davey says, the red and mangled thing inside of him quieting at a plan for action. “And don’t fret about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

School takes forever. Davey does his sums and his sciences, calculates angles and atoms and tries not to go insane. For a moment, he mourns. He used to love this; it used to be his whole world. Now it’s just an obstacle, a hurdle to jump so he can go back to running.

Because he’s seen the real world. Seen what he could be doing, instead of just putting his head down and marching along like a kid. Seen he doesn’t need a diploma to make a difference. And now that he knows, he can’t ever go back to the bliss of ignorance.

He wouldn’t want to, if offered the choice. But there’s still something melancholy about it.

At lunch, it isn’t hard to pick out the bullies. Davey walks away from the kids in his own year, and in the time it takes him to cross the school yard, the biggest kid has pulled two littler ones off the swings.

Les runs over. “Them,” he says, pointing unnecessarily, and then yelping as the sharp eyes of the leader bully land on him.

“Hey, Jacobs,” the bully says, eyes bright and thrilled.

“Hey, Charlie Doyle,” Les says, loud and angry.

Davey squares up with the nine-year-old. “Charlie Doyle,” he says, making his voice hard and unyielding.

Charlie spins, as if seeing Davey for the first time. “How’d you know my name?”

Oh boy. Davey puts his hands on his hips and then regrets that move. But he leaves them there—better a bad move than doubting himself and changing it.

“I hear you’ve been taking lunches and pushing people around,” Davey says sternly. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

“At least my ma ain’t a Jew,” Charlie says, of course, trying to flip it that way.

Davey smiles. “Are you telling me that only Jews know manners? You flatter me, Charlie, but we’re not here to talk about me, we’re here to talk about you. You and your posse here.”

He wants to groan as soon as he’s said it, but he holds firm. Posse? Who is he, Jack?

“Huh?” Charlie says, so at least they’re on the same ground.

“I’ll be clear,” Davey says, because it’s clear he has to be. “Stop hurting other kids.”

Charlie straightens up. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll show you how to throw a punch,” Davey says blithely, folding his hands behind his back now that the appropriate time to move them has arrived.

“You gonna beat me up?”

“I’m the one with manners, I think you’ll remember,” Davey says, and leans down, close. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t hit too, Charlie Doyle.”

Charlie looks skeptical, but that’s okay. Better a scared skeptic than a cocky believer. Davey steps back, throws Charlie a smile full of edges, and takes Les’ hand.

“That was so cool,” Les says appreciatively, once they’re out of earshot. “I didn’t understand most of it, but the parts I did were awesome.”

Davey does groan now. “Do you think he understood it? If you didn’t—”

“I’m smarter than Charlie too,” Les says in agreement. “Maybe he didn’t catch a thing, David.”

“Why am I like this?” Davey asks the general Manhattan.

“You’re weird, David, but don’t worry, I still love you,” his little brother says seriously.

After school, Davey’s the first one out, because of course he is, and he’s leaning against the brick wall trying to remain calm and not storm back in yelling for both of his stupid time management challenged siblings. Some of them have papers to sell for God’s sake.

Sarah’s the first one out, and she rolls her eyes at him before sauntering off, arm in arm with a friend. Davey grinds his teeth. If only Les sewed shirts with Sarah, then she’d have to wait and Davey could run off free…

Les appears, and Davey immediately clocks something wrong. His shirt is wrinkled worse than usual, and the way he’s pinching his nose—the back of Davey’s throat drops into his stomach and turns red again.

“Les,” Davey says, and scoops him up. “Where are you hurt, can I see? It’s okay, pal, it’s okay.”

Les tries valiantly not to cry, but a few tears slip out and down his round cheeks. “I’m okay, David. Just bleeding a lot—I didn’t know noses bled so much.”

Davey hands him his handkerchief and shows him how to pinch until the blood flow ceases. “Can you wait here? Can you wait right here for me, Les?”

“They’re over that way,” Les says, pointing with his free hand, the words coming out muffled thanks to the handkerchief.

Davey gives him one last onceover, and runs.

Charlie Doyle isn’t hard to find. He’s holding court with his posse and chortling over something. They’re bouncing chestnuts off the side of the school building, nothing ahead of them but a boring walk back home, no work, no chores, nothing until their mothers plunk down fat plates for them at dinner.

Davey tries to not to get spitting mad, and fails.

“Hey,” he yells as he gets closer, and there must’ve been something in his face, because Charlie’s pals all paled and went scrambling back.

Charlie just watches him come. Davey spares one minute for wondering what damaged the kid so hard that he’s the way he is, and one minute only.

“You ready for your punching lesson?”

Charlie frowns up at him. “I know how to punch.”

“Good,” Davey says, and grabs Charlie by the scraggly blond hair. “Then listen carefully; so do I. And punching isn’t the only thing I’ll do to you if you go near my brother again, understand?”

Charlie wriggles, and Davey kicks him in the shins. A small detached voice in his head that belongs to his oh-so-polite Jewish mother, points out that he is bullying himself, and a kid half his age too, but he pushes it aside.

Davey tightens his grip, and Charlie whimpers. “Just cause my brother is a nice guy doesn’t mean I am,” Davey whispers. “I’m the guy who comes out at night, Charlie Doyle. I creep through windows, and I slide under doors, and I always find out what you’ve done. Don’t think I won’t come after you.”

“Okay, okay,” Charlie cries, eyes screwed tightly shut. “I’m sorry!”

“That’s good,” Davey says. “Me too.”

Still holding Charlie by the hair, Davey twists and yanks the kids pants off. It’s an arduous project, but he’s bolstered by anger. The remaining boys all yell at that, and take off down the street, anxious to keep their bums covered.

When Charlie’s down to his undershorts, Davey lets him go. “I’ll see you around,” he says, and storms back around the side of the building, balling up the trousers as he goes.

He tucks them into one of the school downspouts. He doesn’t want the pants, doesn’t want anything to do with anything Charlie, but now Charlie will hesitate, weighing being humiliated and mocked with calling for help or retaliating. It’s not enough; he can turn around and take it out on Les again tomorrow, but it’s a start.

And if Davey’s there at lunchtime, never too far away, well maybe Charlie will at least think twice before being an idiot.

Les lets Davey pick him up again, and on the walk to the World, even gives back the handkerchief and proclaims himself well.

“Good,” Davey says, setting him down right inside the gate, greeted by Finch’s wave. “Because I am exhausted.”

7.

Wednesday is laundry day, and Sarah’s late again.

Davey pins her aprons and dresses and undergarments out on the line and festers. Maybe he should stop caring. Speak to his mother, tell her that Sarah is two years younger than him and more than capable of taking care of herself, and if Davey can please stop being held accountable for her actions, that would be terrific.

Jack stops by, gets stuffed with leftover cookies, and leans on the fire escape like it’s the most comfortable lounge chair he’s ever seen.

“When we’re grown,” he says, big artist’s hands gesturing like wild, “We should move in together, Dave.”

Davey pins up a lone stocking. “Where the hell are we gonna get the funds to afford that?”

Jack grins. “I love it when you get this way.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Davey demands.

Jack just shakes his head fondly. “Nothin’.”

“Teach me to actually punch, and then we’ll talk,” Davey says sharply, and then feels bad about it. Dropping the clothespins, he rubs his heads over his face. “Sorry, Jack.”

Jack’s hands are on him before he can look up again, running up and down his back, across his arms and around his head. Davey inhales Jack and nearly chokes on it.

“Shush,” Jack sings quietly. “Your brain is huge, but it ain’t made to be chuggin’ on so long, Trouble. Give it break, huh?”

Davey sighs and lets Jack hug him for lack of anything better to do. If he closes his eyes and breathes quietly, it’s pretty damn nice. Impossibly nice, and it can’t possibly last, but for now, it’s pretty damn nice.

“I’m home,” Sarah calls breathlessly from inside, and then there’s a crashing noise. “Ow.”

Davey and Jack pull apart, and one by one, climb through the window. Sarah’s there, a wet cloth held up to her face, Ema steering her into a chair, making worried tsking noises.

“What the hell happened to you?” Davey says.

Sarah pulls the cloth away and there’s an ugly scrap up the side of her forehead. Their ema hisses in sympathy and places the cloth back on. Sarah smiles ruefully.

“The good news is I think our bosses are going to listen to us now.”

“Who did this to you?” Davey asks, nearly at his wit’s end. Jack grabs him, holds him back with one arm, and Jack is shorter than Davey, he shouldn’t be able to do that, but he’s strong.

Sarah wrinkles her nose. “Stop that, David.”

“Your brother’s just looking out for you,” Ema assures.

“Well, stop it a little,” Sarah says, staring right into Davey’s eyes. “I’m sixteen, David, not eight. You can’t take care of every single bully for me, and I don’t want you to.”

Davey can’t help but look over at Les, sitting with his wooden soldier toys on the rug. Sarah’s right. She’s right.

She’s growing up, and taking care of herself, and hadn’t Davey just been wishing she would? She’s not facing Charlie Doyle. She’s facing the world, and Davey is already so damn tired, he can’t take on the world for her. She’ll have to do it herself, and she’ll have to make her own mistakes, and Davey will have to learn how to be fine with that.

“You’re right,” he says, and Jack’s grip relaxes. “It sounds like you did good, Sarah. Even though you’re late and I had to hang up all the laundry.”

Everyone laughs. Ema shakes her head in mock disapproval. “How did I raise such a family of troublemakers?”

“Please, Ema,” Sarah scoffs. “Like you didn’t leave Poland because you were sick of getting in trouble.”

Jack laughs again. “I’m beginnin’ to see a theme here with you Jacobses. Not just Les and Davey, eh?”

“Every single one of us,” Sarah confirms, winking at him.

“I gotta be gettin’ back,” Jack says regretfully. “But I’m glad to be here for a big troublemakin’ moment.”

Les and Ema walk him to the door. Davey puts his hand on the kitchen table and breathes in. When he looks up, Sarah’s watching him.

“Dziękuję,” Sarah says. Thank you.

“For what?” Davey says uneasily.

Sarah lifts one shoulder and puts it back down. “For being my brother, I guess.”

“I’m still mad about the laundry,” Davey tells her, and goes back out on to the fire escape to collect the empty basket. Her laugh follows him through the window, and spreads over the city along with the setting sun.

Davey finally figures out how to throw a real punch on Thursday. Up on his rooftop, Jack teaches him a right hook, and then an undercut, and also says wisely that if Davey can work on his left hand too, it’ll be a real good ace up his sleeve.

“You come in on the other side?” Jack declares, miming it, “Boom, just like that? Oh Davey, you’ll wipe the floor wi’ ‘em. They’ll never see you coming.”

I never saw you coming. It’s on the tip of Davey’s tongue, but he holds it in. I never planned on you, Jack Kelly.

“Thank you,” he says instead. “Dziękuję, Jack.”

Jack smiles wide. “De nada, Davey Jacobs.”

Like a surge of the river, Davey wants to kiss him. It’s just the adrenaline, maybe. Just his excitement at reaching the first of his goals, of finally learning to defend himself. It’s just his feelings getting mixed up after Jack’s been all over the place, hands on Davey’s shoulders, on his wrists, on his hands, critiquing posture, balance, and force. That’s all.

That’s all. It has to be. Davey can’t even think about it.

“You sure you don’t wanna move in with me when we’re grown up?”

Davey nearly laughs. That’s what Jack’s been thinking about? “It’s a bad idea.”

“Why is it bad?”

Davey runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and at the same time, Jack must inhale funny cause he makes a choking noise. “I don’t know, Jack, maybe because you’re an artist and I want to be a writer and neither of those professions really pay the bills? Or maybe because we’d drive each other insane before the week is out? Or maybe because I have to take care of my siblings, and believe me, you don’t want Sarah’s laundry hanging around, and Les’s soldiers are murder when you step on one in your socks—”

“Hey.” Jack steps closes and wraps one arm around Davey’s shoulder, tugs him down until they’re sitting, legs dangling over the side of the roof.

“Sorry,” Davey says. “Sorry.”

Jack shakes him, just a little. “Don’t be. I like you, Davey, stop assumin’ I don’t. And I can fix all a your problems.”

Davey looks at him.

“I’ll take the job old man Pulitzer offered me,” Jack says, smiling. “You tellin’ me Joe Pulitzer can’t finally do some good and pay for our room and board? And of course, you’re gonna be a writer. You’ll find work, I know you will, you’re a genius. And I love Les and Sarah, so I don’t care if they make me hang laundry and step on soldiers, or step on laundry and hang up soldiers. Davey.”

“I hear you,” Davey says automatically.

“So I drive you crazy,” Jack continues, still talking low, like they’re sharing a secret. “So you drive me nuts. But the rest of the time, Davey, that’s why we’re here. Cause the rest of the time is the best time ever, Dave, at least for me, and I want it all.”

Davey blinks. “For me too, Jack, don’t be a fool.”

“Okay,” Jack says, and he sounds so smug Davey guesses that must have been a laid trap for him, and he can’t even be mad about it. “So, you see my point then. About it bein’ a long term goal. You and me.”

“I’m a long term goal?” Davey teases.

Jack’s gaze is steady. “Yeah.”

Davey’s throat is suddenly dry. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

8.

On the way to synagogue, Jojo runs up to Davey and taps him on the arm. Davey’s family all look bemused except Les, who throws his arms around Jojo and shows him his fancy jacket.

Jojo oohs and ahs, and then shoots Davey a look that means we need to talk. Now.

“I’ll catch up,” Davey tells his family, and lets Jojo pull him under an unlit streetlight to talk.

“It’s Carpet,” Jojo says at once. “Carpet, you know, that little girl Dill and Wilbert found? The one Jack’s been carin’ for?”

Davey nods.

“She died last night,” Jojo says. “In her sleep. The fever was too much, and she was too weak.”

Davey inhales and lets the breath fill him up. “How are the others?”

“Dill and Wilbert are fine,” Jojo says. “We’re mostly distractin’ the littles. But Jack—”

Oh, Jack. “He at Medda’s?”                                                                  

Jojo sighed in relief. “See, Davey, this is why I came to ya. Can you go find him for me? I gotta get back to the boys, but Jack ain’t on the roof, and ain’t nowhere else we can see.”

“Yeah,” Davey hears himself saying. “Yeah, I’ll go find him.”

Medda’s theater is bustling on a Saturday morning. Not with visitors, but with stagehands calling out instructions, and girls stretching and skipping about in their tiny costumes. One of them—probably the one Les first stared at all those weeks ago—waves at Davey and winks. Davey tries to wave back, but just looks bewildered, knowing his luck.

“Davey Jacobs,” comes Medda’s booming voice from behind him, and Davey turns and smiles for real at her.

“Hello, Ms. Medda,” he says, giving her a hug when she reaches for him.

“What brings you to my theater?”

Davey tilts his head. “I’m looking for Jack.”

She frowns. “Jack? I haven’t seen him, dear.”

“May I take a look backstage?”

She waves him in, and saying hello to a couple of men sawing a hole in the stage, Davey wanders up into the wings. There are slides of scenery in the gloom, casting strange shadows and creating plenty of hiding spaces. There are huge crates stacked together, nooks and crannies, extra curtains hanging with folds galore.

Davey closes his eyes and tries to think. Where would Jack go?

He climbs upward, up into the rigging, up towards that small window Jack had led the through the very first day Davey had ever stepped inside this theater. And there, in the shadows, a smear of blue. There, in the shadows, Jack Kelly, curled up into the smallest ball he can manage.

He hears Davey coming, and turns. He’s not crying, but he’s close, if Davey’s not mistaken, just turning and looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and pained.

Davey sinks to his knees and hugs him. Jack turns into the embrace, his arms slinking around Davey’s waist, his face landing in Davey’s chest, finally letting out a huge sob.

“I’m sorry,” Davey whispers into Jack’s hair, the top pieces curling slightly in the dark. “I’m sorry, Jackie. It’s gonna be okay.”

He misses synagogue that week. He misses Medda’s first show, although it’s impossible not to listen as the music soars upward into the rigging. He misses the whole day, really, curled around Jack and his pain, the dark making him sleepy and slow.

After half an eternity, Jack talks. His words are muffled and jerky, but Davey understands them. He doesn’t let go of Davey, and Davey doesn’t make him.

“M’ sorry,” Jack finally hiccups, pushing back and swiping at his face with his wrist. Davey doesn’t say anything, just smiles a little to let Jack know that’s unnecessary. Jack closes his eyes and lets the pain and anger crumple his features again.

Davey can’t help but reach out and cup Jack’s face. The lines smooth, just a tiny bit.

“I can’t face anyone else tonight,” Jack says, not moving away. “I gotta—I gotta stay here or somethin’.”

The thought of facing anyone is a repugnant one for Davey too. “Of course. We can sneak you back to the rooftop or you can camp out in here.”

“Stay with me, Dave?” Jack asks, opening his eyes and fastening them on Davey. Deep brown, nearly black in the gloom. Piercing.

“I can’t,” Davey says regretfully. “My folks already ain’t gonna be happy with me after today. But I’ll come find you tomorrow, I swear.”

Jack half rises off the floor. “You want I should come with and tell ‘em it’s all my fault?”

“No, no,” Davey assures. “You rest now, Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jack says, and slumps back down into a ball between two large coils of rope. Davey hates to leave him there, hates to make his eyes readjust to harsh light and loud noise, but he forces himself down the rickety steps and behind the stage and out to the street.

He makes it all the way home without trouble, and for some reason, his parents don’t seem to mind terribly that he’s been gone all day. In bed, Les sticks his freezing feet on Davey’s, and asks what’s wrong with Jack.

“I didn’t say nothin’ about Jack,” Davey whispers.

“But it is about him, ain’t it?” Les says. “He okay?”

Davey thinks about that little girl they called Carpet and the way they’ll never know where she’d come from or what had happened to her. “We’ll go see him tomorrow. Make sure he is.”

Placated, Les rolls over and goes to sleep.

Sunday starts out with errands, Ema sending Davey and Sarah in two different directions to pick up groceries for the coming week. Davey takes Les with him so they can stop in and check on Jack on the way home.

There’s rice, flour, and sugar on Davey’s list, and he has to find Jewish run stores because everyone else’s day of rest is Sunday. It takes way too long, but eventually, parcels in hand, they start back towards home.

“Come on,” Davey says, shifting the flour over and grabbing Les’ elbow. “This street gets us closer to Ms. Medda’s theater, right?”

“Why we goin’ there?”

Davey steers them around an older woman sitting besides a tin can. “Cause that’s where I last saw Jack, silly.”

They round another corner.

“Hey you!” comes a shout from behind them.

Davey spins. A tall and burly young fellow is marching towards them, fists hanging by his sides. Behind him is a friend, a little shorter but no less wide. For a moment, Davey thinks they’re newsies, bringing some kind of message about Jack. Then he clocks the bowler hat, the striped shirt, the fancy slacks.

“What do you want?”

“You David Jacobs?”

Davey raises his chin while carefully stepping in front of his brother. “Yes sir. And you are?”

“Richard Doyle,” the first guy says, cracking his knuckles menacingly. “And you’re about to pay for what you done.”

Richard Doyle. Charlie Doyle. Davey’s mind runs through possible reasons Richard might state it that way. None of them are good. Ah fuck it all.

“I don’t want no trouble, fellas,” he tries.

The shorter fellow sneers. “Why not, you fucked little queer?” he spits.

Davey sees red. “Les,” he says, dropping the flour and rice to the street. “Run!”

Accompanying the sound of Les’ frantic footsteps, Richard Doyle swings. Davey sees it coming, of course he does, but still doesn’t get out of the way fast enough. The strike buster’s hand flashes before Davey’s eyes as the punch nails the side of his face, smacking his head. Richard’s wearing a ring, and it tugs at Davey’s skin, shredding it along a thin line.

Davey stares. “Anyone ever tell you that you and your brother really need to learn some manners?”

“Still a smartass,” Richard grunts, and he’s smiling, a terrible toothy smile. “Guess we’re not doin’ our job well enough.”

Oh help. Davey squares up, tries to channel Albert’s ease, Race’s concentration, Mush’s intensity, Tommy Boy’s rage. And Jack, Jack’s clear direction, all that force, snapping out from his fist. Knuckles to nose. Left hook, Dave, they’ll never see you comin’.

Davey strikes, nailing Richard Doyle in the nose. The bone grunts, and blood spurts down, smearing across Davey’s knuckles. In his head, his old fears fade, just the slightest bit.

“You filthy shit!” Richard’s friend yells, and then Davey’s been thrown into the brick wall, and before the stars in front of his eyes disappear fully, they’re both on him, knocking him from wall to cobblestone street. Raining blows, kicking with their boots.

Ow, Davey thinks dazedly. And then, Goddammit I shoulda learned to fight years ago.

His vision goes black, but he’d read that in a book somewhere—unconsciousness is a natural result of immense pain—so he’s expecting it, really. It’s not so scary as all that.

9.

There’s a lot of shouting. If Davey’s going to be dead for eternity, can’t it at least be quiet?

“—Touch him ever a-fucking-gain, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Go to hell!”

“I’ll see you there, personally.”

Davey knows that personally. Pwey-sonally. Jack. Davey groans, trying to open his eyes and failing.

“And tell Charlie not to come near me if he knows what’s good for him!” Higher pitched, angry, and infinitely familiar to the core of Davey’s bones. Les.

Jerking upright, Davey gasps, coughs, and focuses on his little brother. Les’s in one piece, no longer holding their groceries, hands balled into fists, eyebrows drawn. He’s fine. Davey sighs in relief and then realizes he himself can barely see out of one eye and that it really hurts to breath, and he’s pretty sure the stickiness on his cheek is blood.

And his head hurts. It really hurts.

Above him, the sound of shoes clacking away. Two sets. Davey tries to look up again and gets a view of Jack staring after Davey’s attackers, something terrible in his gaze. He’s bruised and dirty, collar torn and hat missing. He looks…awful.

Then he turns and sees Davey, and that horrible look disappears, replaced with something worried and kind. “Dave—”

“I’m okay,” Davey croaks.

Les grabs him from behind and holds tight, burying his face into Davey’s shoulders. Jack kneels and cups Davey’s face, turning him first one way, then the other.

“You still got all your teeth, Davey pal?”

“Yeah,” Davey says, and smiles thickly to prove it. Jack smiles back, relief smoothing the line between his brows.

“Let’s get you outta here, come on.”

With Les hovering nearby, Jack drapes Davey over his shoulders, helping him stand and then walk. Davey fits pretty damn well against Jack, his natural height slotting Jack’s arms perfectly into place. Davey tries not to think about it.

“I was so scared,” Les bursts out, recovering first the sugar, and then the rice, which miraculously haven’t split open. The flour is too heavy for him and Jack scoops it up with his other arm until Davey grabs it back. There’s nothing wrong with Davey’s arms for pete’s sake. “I ran when you said, David, but I didn’t know what to do.”

“What did you do?” Davey groans, limping along. He feels like a train car ran over him.

Les waits for a wagon to pass by. “Went to Jack, of course.”

Of course. Davey thinks again of the warmth pressed up against his side, the terrible look in Jack’s face, and has to suppress a shiver. Get ahold of yourself, David Jacobs. Come on.

“I came as fast as I could,” Jack mutters. “God—those bastards—they would’ve killed ya, Davey.”

“No, they wouldn’t’ve,” Davey says automatically. “Just wanted to teach me a lesson is all.”

Les grabs Davey’s arm, jostling the flour. “David, they were just kicking you—you’re bleeding all over. They were just kicking without stopping. You woulda died.”

“That’s enough,” Davey says, but gently. No use scaring Les over what’s happened. “I’m okay, Les, honest. Let’s go home.”

Jack’s grip is tight, as tight as the words left hanging. You woulda died. Davey closes his eyes and lets Jack do most of the walking.

As soon as they’re inside, Ema demands the whole story, and between Jack and Les, out it comes. There’s no mention of Charlie Doyle at school, just that two thugs had it in for Davey. “Probably after the groceries,” Ema tsks, and Jack is quick to agree.

His mother has a cool cloth on his face, wiping away the worst of the damage, and the swelling around his eye’s already going down. His stomach is tender to the touch—likely going to be a mottled purple that Davey will have to keep from Les for a while.

“Let me go get some clean water,” Ema says, moving into the kitchen in a whirl of skirts. “Les, get your brother something to drink.”

Jack picks up the left behind cloth and pulls his chair close. “Gonna have one hell of a shiner,” he whispers, daubing at Davey’s face. “All yellows and blacks, like a tornado.”

“You a painter or somethin’?” Davey asks weakly, trying for a smile.

Jack looks at him, really looks, and something twists in his face. “Did I do this?” he wonders aloud. “Make you into somethin’ you ain’t? Teach you somethin’ you never shoulda learned?”

“Jack,” Davey says. “That guy’s little brother was bullying Les at school. I put an end to it. I guess he wanted some revenge.”

Jack’s dabbing slows. “He ever breathes near you again, I’ll kill him.”

Davey closes his eyes. “Jack—”

“You didn’t see it,” Jack says under his breath, eyes wide and fearful. “You didn’t see what you looked like, Dave. It was—” his voice falters. “I’ll kill him.”

They can deal with that later. Davey’s mother returns with fresh water and Les hands Davey a glass to drink from. When Sarah arrives home, Ema sends her and Les out and sternly tells Davey to take his shirt off and let her see. Davey tries his best, but his protests are nothing in the face of his stern and set mother.

Throughout it all, Jack hangs back, handing over fresh cloths, refilling the water without being asked. He pales when Davey finally gives in and unbuttons his shirt, but still doesn’t move to leave.

It’s worst than Davey feared. There’s smears of red where blood vessels burst underneath, and a few scrapes where the skin’s actually broken, scabbing over with dried blood. The rest is nearly black with bruising, and when Ema prods and pokes his ribs, Davey nearly faints.

“Nothing seems broken,” his mother says under her breath, lips very tight. She presses again, and Davey falls backwards, reaching out blindly for something, anything, locking his jaw so he won’t scream.

Jack’s there in a heartbeat, holding him up, murmuring in his ear. “Okay, okay, you’re okay. I got you.”

“Ointment and bandages,” Ema prescribes, and bustles off for the ingredients.

Jack helps Davey sit again. “You should go,” Davey says, gripping the table like it’s his new best friend. “The fellas—”

“They’re okay,” Jack says. “

“And you?” Davey asks. “Are you okay?” Carpet, he means. Are you okay.

Jack lifts his chin. “I will be. Once you’re not about to pass out from pain.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Davey warns. “Promise me, Jack. No half-cocked revenge plans. Promise.”

Jack cracks a small smile. “Promise,” he says lazily, and it doesn’t exactly soothe Davey’s fears, but it warms in his chest, and that’s plenty.

“You’ll sleep in my room tonight,” Ema says. “Where it’s quiet. Hold this, Jack. Your father will share with Les.”

“Won’t that just—” Davey grunts at the chilled ointment. “—tell him something’s wrong?”

Ema takes the jar back from Jack and scoops out more. “Something is wrong. But you’re going to be alright. You’ve been ill before, Les will be fine.”

“I wanna go to school tomorrow.” Davey barrels on past the identical frowns sent his way. “Listen. I wanna show up like nothing’s changed. I wanna sell papers like everything’s fine. I don’t want them to win.”

“You’re crazy,” Jack exploded, throwing his arms up. “You nearly died, Davey Jacobs.”

“But I didn’t,” Davey points out. “An important distinction.”

Ema sighs. “I’ll let Jack fight with you. If you make up your mind, stubborn one, then that’s your decision. Come, turn around, let me bandage this up.”

Jack doesn’t take the bait and try to fight. He knows well enough by now not to push Davey. Instead, he stands, waiting, holding the ointment jar, reaching out just once, to brush his fingers against Davey’s pale shoulder. His fingers feel like sparks, electric and shocking, and Davey feels laid bare in a way that has nothing to do with his shirt lying on a chair.

The following morning, Buttons is leaning against a lamppost, methodically peeling an apple into one long spiral as they walk to school. Les doesn’t notice him, but Davey does. Buttons raises his pocket knife in salute.

At lunch, Charlie Doyle seems surprised to see Davey and Les, but doesn’t say anything, and Les and Davey don’t let on that they’ve even seen him. Things are quiet.

As soon as they’re out, Tommy Boy materializes on the corner, shouting about a man crushed beneath the trolley, waving his papers like he’s trying to fly away with printed wings. Davey squints at him, but Tommy Boy doesn’t even look his way.

“Hey, Davey,” Specs says, in front of the bakery.

“Mornin’, boys!” Mush calls from across the street, apparently on his way to the shoemaker’s.

Davey rolls his eyes and waits until Les has bought their papers and scampers off with some of the little newsies. “Jack Kelly, tell me why there are fifty newsies between here and school?”

“Fifty?” Jack asks innocently, tying a faded red bandana around his throat and cocking his hat. “There ain’t that many of us, Dave, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout.”

Behind Jack, Albert chokes on nothing and has to be smacked by Race. Finch grins widely beside them.

“You’re not funny,” Davey says, trying not to eye that bandana, and failing.

“You sure about that?” Jack asks, barreling over and sticking his nose into Davey’s in that mock flirtatious way he’s so fond of. Davey momentarily blacks out and thinks about reeling Jack in by that damn bandana and—

“Lay off, I can take care of myself.” Bold words from someone who had to be rescued just the day before, but Davey’s glare backs himself up. He can, he can take care of himself, he doesn’t need a babysitter on every street corner.

Jack just shrugs. “Come on, Dave, the papes ain’t sellin’ themselves.”

They’re back at Davey’s by night, washing up after dinner. Jack’s over more often than not it seems, and some part of Davey feels a little insane that he’s become so comfortable at their house. The other part feels spiteful and green. He doesn’t want to share Jack with everyone. Jack’s his.

Sarah makes a joke and flicks the tail of the damn bandana and Jack throws his head back in laughter. Davey nearly drops the soap.

“Come here,” Ema orders, and peers sternly at Davey’s black eye. “Hmm.”

“I’m fine,” Davey says, suddenly exhausted beyond belief. “I’m fine.”

His mother sets down her stack of dirty plates and looks at him, really looks. “Are you?” she asks.

Davey blinks.

“My David,” Ema says softly. “Always fine.”

“Well, yeah,” Davey says. “I gotta be, don’t I?”

Her mouth twists unhappily. “No.”

No apology, no revelation. It’s real life, not a book, Davey’s mother isn’t going to tearfully throw her arms around him and beg forgiveness for how she raised him. There’s no time for that. But maybe this, this slight acknowledgement, can be enough.

“Thank you, Ema.”

“Go,” she says, brisk again. “Be with your friend. Send Sarah in to help me with the dishes.”

She waits in the doorway, watching Davey pick his way around the table, the towel on her shoulder. Her hair’s curling around her face, and her eyes are thoughtful. It crinkles Davey’s shoulders up, makes him feel confused. He focuses on Jack instead: Jack is smiling, grinning wide, the collar of his shirt crumpled and unbuttoned beneath the red bandana.

It’s not hard to focus on Jack these days.

10.

“Come on, throw me another one,” Jack calls, bouncing on his toes in the boarding home entryway.

Laughing, Davey swipes for him. Jack ducks and springs back up, hands up to block. Behind Davey, Les waits, drooping in the doorframe with hunger.

“Can we go home now?” he whines.

“One minute,” Jack orders. “Davey here’s a regular boxer now—” he punches out and Davey reflexively knocks the blow to the side. “Look at him!”

Les sighs and slinks outside.

Davey smiles and smacks Jack’s next attempt away. The strike buster is a bad dream now. “Yeah, next time I’m getting beaten up in an alleyway, I’ll wait till they ask me to have another turn.”

Jack frowns. “Hey. Don’t joke about that.”

The black eye has gone from blue to a pale yellow, only slight discoloration showing any sign of previous injury. The scrape on Davey’s cheek is faint, likely won’t scar. His ribs…his ribs still ache as the insides heal, the bruising there the worst.

Davey’s ready to joke about it. Joking about surviving, that’s what he’s used to, what he’s grown up surrounded by. He survived, isn’t that a laugh?

Jack is different, Jack is petulant and guilty whenever Davey brings it up. If I’d been with you, he says. Or If I’d only gotten there sooner.

“You can’t save everyone all the time,” Davey reminds.

Jack sticks his jaw out stubbornly. “I ain’t tryin’ to, I just—”

“Yes you are.”

He glares.

Davey shrugs and smiles again. I know you, Jack Kelly. You can’t hide from me.

Jack wrinkles his nose and contorts his face into something truly dreadful. Affection blooms up in Davey’s ribcage; parched soil suddenly turning lush and green in the space of two heartbeats. Jack’s still wearing that stupid agonizingly noticeable bandana.

“I gotta go,” Davey says regretfully. “Les is waiting…”

“Stay over tonight,” Jack offers.

Davey pauses. Stay over tonight. For a moment he allows himself to imagine. It’s dark, and Jack’s messy and true, down to his striped undershirt and curled up in something soft. He says, tell me a secret, and Davey can never tell him. But Davey knows how to make him laugh, and that’s just as good—that damn smile. And Jack’s teeth glow in the moonlight.

“You know I can’t,” Davey sighs, already picturing his parents scolding him for not bringing Les home and helping with the dishes and preparing his homework for the following day.

Jack sighs and walks with him out the door. “It’s Saturday. You had all day to be pious and shit. You don’t have school tomorrow. It’s the perfect time.”

“Pious and shit?” Davey repeats, trying not to burst out laughing. “That’s what you think I do on Saturdays?”

“David, don’t swear,” Les reproves. “Can we go home? I’m hungry.”

“Les, don’t you know the way back on your own?” Jack tries, but Davey shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna come with you and beg your ma,” he decides, and won’t take no for an answer. “Come on, Les.”

Davey follows him; doesn’t he always?

At home, it’s chaos, Sarah cooking up a storm and Aba home and scolding her for leaving her books by the door, and Ema takes one look at Les and sends him to wash up. “David, take this laundry up to the roof and hang it out for me,” she says distractedly.

“It’s nighttime,” Davey says blankly, holding the basket thrust his way so it doesn’t spill.

“Don’t talk back to your mother,” his mother warns, so Davey goes.

Jack follows him, likely trying to get away from the battlefield below. Two more flights of stairs and Davey pushes open the door to the roof, the stars lighting the way through the inky black sky.

“Weren’t you just doin’ laundry a few days ago?”

Davey puts the basket down and goes groping around for the line. “Jack, laundry is eternal. Just when you think you’re safe, when you can finally turn your back—that’s when it strikes.”

Jack laughs aloud.

“I have nightmares about unmatched socks,” Davey says seriously, just to make him laugh again.

“Stop takin’ everythin’ so hard,” Jack wheedles, hopping up on the low wall that surrounds them. If it were light out, there’s be geraniums next to him, if Davey’s memory serves. Red, just like his bandana.

“When you have two parents and two little siblings, you talk to me again,” Davey retorts.

Jack just sighs, and looks up at the night sky. Davey locates the clothespins.

He’s just hanging up the first sheet when a window blind next door gets opened abruptly, throwing warm yellow light out across the roof. Now, combined with the cooler luminance from the moon, shadows and shapes appear. Latin name Luna, Davey thinks nonsensically, and pins up the sheet.

“Are you gonna help me or what?”

Jack sighs again and lurches back to his feet. He swipes around until Davey hands him a handful of clothespins, which he promptly stores in his teeth. Then he roots around and finds a skirt of Sarah’s, and stands on his tiptoes next to Davey to hang it.

Davey pins another sheet.

The fabric is gossamer in the low lighting, Jack’s outline a clear shape on the other side. The light blurs and reforms as he moves closer and further. Davey holds out his hand to touch, and only meets cool cloth.

Where he brushes against it, shadows deepen.

Jack’s form shifts again, and the sheet at Davey’s fingertips solidifies, turns unyielding and soft against Jack’s palm. The fabric is trapped between their skin, but Jack’s heat soaks through.

“I can’t see you,” Jack’s silhouette says. “But you’re there all the same.”

“You know what I look like.”

“Sure do,” Jack drawls, and Davey presses his whole hand up against him, palm to palm. The sheet is damp and cool. Jack is warm.

Jack’s shadow shifts, and his other arm moves up and over. Davey automatically reaches up to meet it, the mirror image.

“Come back with me,” Jack says. “Come on. Davey.”

“You know I can’t,” Davey murmurs back.

“I know you want to.”

Davey sighs. “Of course, I want to.”

“Then come.” Davey doesn’t see it happen, but then the sheet billows and Jack’s moved close enough to wrap his arm around the small of Davey’s back, and the embrace is cool to the touch and slightly damp, and then Jack’s mouth is pressing against Davey’s, burning hot beyond the sheet.

Davey exhales without meaning to, sinks into it. The kiss is everything kept bottled in his chest for so long. Under cover of darkness, with plausible deniability, two faceless people meeting in the middle.

It’s Jack, kissing him. They break apart and Davey is so, so glad for the hanging laundry shielding Jack from view. He couldn’t bear to see the expression on his friend’s face. Never mind that Jack would never judge someone, never mind that he’d started it. Boys don’t kiss other boys.

Jack lifts the curtain between them out of the way and steps closer, taking Davey’s hand. “Come back, lay under the stars with me, tell me all the constellations you learned in that school of yours.”

Confused, it takes Davey a moment to realize Jack’s picking up right where they left off, cajoling and smiling. As though everything’s the same, as though it could possibly be.

“Jack—”

Jack kisses him again. Without the sheet between them.

Davey panics. Pushing away, he trips over the laundry basket and nearly goes careening over the side of the roof.

“I’m sorry,” Jack blurts, hands outstretched. “Be careful, Dave, jesus.”

Davey’s crying. He’s horrified to realize he’s crying, fat tears spilling down his face faster than he can mop them up. It’s just—it’s just—he can’t lose this too. He can’t. Not the one good thing in his life, the one thing keeping him going when the schoolwork piles up and Sarah forgets to do the dishes and Ema’s angry again.

But the feelings in his gut churn, unable to go back quietly into their box. Shut up, Davey thinks stubbornly, still trying to shovel tears back in. Go away. I have enough problems.

“It’s okay,” Jack says, smiling, but with something wrong in his face. “You don’t feel the same as me. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

You don’t feel the same as me. It’s an old tune, one Davey’s been singing since he was old enough to know what love is.

“But I gotta say it, while we’re putting our cards on the table,” Jack continues. “Please. I’m just gone on you. You’re always in my head, I’m always thinkin’ bout you. There. I’m done.”

Davey pauses. “What did you say?” he asks, his voice rough.

Jack grimaces. “I think about you all the time. And I was scared to tell you, but you said before—you said courage is when we face our fear, and it stuck with me, you know, that bravery was really when you were the most scared and you did it anyway—”

Davey can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You can’t stop thinking about me?”

“God, no,” Jack laughs. “I wake up, there you are. I get lunch, there you are. I lie awake at night, there you are.”

“Do you know about Mush and Blink?” Davey bursts out. Fists by his sides, in case Jack doesn’t know and doesn’t want to.

Jack’s gaze is steady. “Sure. And Finch and Albert, although that’s just goofing around right now as far as I can tell. And Race and Spot. And Buttons, and Elmer, and Smalls, and—”

“All of them?” Davey whispers. His heart is heavy with the knowledge.

“And now me too,” Jack answers. “Maybe it’s catching.”

“It’s not,” Davey points out, wiping the back of his hand on his face. “We can’t help it, it’s just the way we are, like brown eyes. Don’t joke about that, Jack.”

Jack holds up his hands. “You’re right. Sorry.” Then he tilts his head. “We?”

Davey forces himself to stop crying, holds his head up high. “I’m just the same, Jack. Like Mush, Race, Finch. Just the same.”

“Ain’t you been listening?” Jack half yells, throwing his hands up. Davey flinches and takes a step back. “I’m not gonna deck you, you idiot, I got there first, didn’tcha hear me? If we’re both this way, then can’t we get the good stuff along with the bad?”

Davey shakes his head, uncomprehendingly.

“I love you,” Jack says, earnest and intense. “And every day I’m jealous of Finch, jealous of Race. Because they’ve got what I don’t. No secrets anymore.”

It’s not his head that’s shaking, it’s his whole body. “It’s dangerous,” Davey mutters. “It’s—foolish and worthless—”

“It is not,” Jack says vehemently, taking Davey’s hand and tucking it against his chest. “I don’t care that it’s dangerous. I want what the others have. I want the time we got now. I want you.”

Davey can’t breathe for wanting back, just as hard. But it can’t work. Davey is the eldest son, the golden child, and nothing he can do now will change that. He has to support his father and care for his mother, and make sure his siblings make it to adulthood. He doesn’t have time for anything else.

“I know you’re mine,” Jack says stubbornly, not taking silence for no. “You’re my best friend, Davey Jacobs. You’re the one who understands me best in the world. Why can’t you let yourself have a good thing?”

“Because!” Davey shouts, ripping away. Because it can’t last. Because I can’t live with myself if I hurt you. Because it will be too painful to have everything in my hands only to lose it. Because I would rather suffer a little now than be ripped in half later. “Get out, Jack!”

He doesn’t wait to see if Jack listens, just tears back down the stairs, vision going blurry again. He rounds the corner for the main stairwell, and slams into something smaller and soft.

“David?” his mother asks, worry leeching from those two syllables.

Davey doesn’t want to talk to her. Davey wants to tell her everything. Davey wants to be alone. Davey wants very much to be held.

“Come here,” Ema says, and wraps her arms around him. Davey’s so much taller than her—when did she get so small? They sink down together, until they’re sitting on the top step, his legs hidden in the folds of her skirt, the way he used to hide his entire body when he was small and shy.

“Sorry,” Davey says mechanically.

Her arms tighten around him. “Stubborn boy, don’t you know you don’t have to carry the whole world on your shoulders?” She smooths one hand over his head.

Davey can’t help it—he starts crying again.

It all pours out of him, down his cheeks and into the rough spun feel of his mother’s skirt. Stress and fear and anger and pain, worry for the other newsies, care for Les, anger at Sarah, feelings for Jack, dread for paperwork, want for the open sky. Davey cries and cries and it feels like he’ll quite possibly never run out of things to cry about.

After what feels like forever, he runs out of things to cry about, or at least he runs out of tears. It’s easier to stay with his face buried, but instead he lifts his head and tries to smile apologetically at his mother.

For a moment he’s terrified she’s going to wrestle it out of him, every reason for dread, ever tiny defect. He’s scared, he’s terrified, he’s in love with a boy.

But in some modern day miracle, his mother doesn’t say a word. She just pats his cheek clumsily, and says, “Are you ready to come back inside?”

It’s not the heart of the problem, but Davey says the first thing that comes to mind. “I want to be a writer, Ema.”

Her face gives nothing away.

“I want to be a reporter, or an editor, or something—I wanna hunt out stories and share them with the world, I want to write about the working place, advocate for the people. I can’t be a doctor, Ema, I don’t want to study law. I’m going mad with the strain of it. I just want to finish school and get a job where they’ll teach me everything I need to know. Please.”

His mother sighs. She turns away from him and blows out a long huff that sends the curls on either side of her face puffing up and back down again. “You’ve been weighed down for so long, David. Would this lighten your load a little?”

Davey can’t imagine a lighter load, but he bets he could figure it out, would learn really fast, if the load ever got less heavy. “Yes.”

Ema looks back at him, and for a moment, he can see the bright and excited girl that left Poland for something new, something better. Can see the fire that must have lit her up from within, young and hungry and full of chutzpah.

“Then you should try to be a writer,” she says simply, patting his knee.

Davey’s heart lurches wildly. “Really?”

“I never say things I don’t mean, my stubborn David.” Ema waves a hand without looking up. “I’m sorry it took me so long to speak it to you. Of course, you should be a writer. If that’s what you want.”

“Thank you,” Davey says, hardly believing it. Then, louder. “Thank you. I promise I’ll work hard.”

She smiles at him, lips pressed together proudly. “Why don’t you stop lurking, Jack Kelly.”

Davey whips around. Jack detaches from the roof stairwell, looking three kinds of sheepish. “How long have you been there?” Davey demands.

Jack doesn’t even look too sorry, the cad. “A while now.”

Davey doesn’t have the energy to be mad anymore. Because not only did Jack ignore some pretty damn clear instructions to get out, he chose to interpret them as eavesdrop a little. But he’s standing there in the shadows, looking all beautiful, and Davey is going to be a writer, and he is so, so, tired.

“Can Davey come back to the lodging house and sleep over with me?” Jack asks.

Ema stands and puts her hands on her hips. “The lodging house?”

“I sleep out on the roof,” Jack explains. “It’s safe, ain’t nowhere to go up there, but there’s a breeze, you know? You can see the stars. I got an extra bedroll, a few blankets. He’ll be alright. And it’s Saturday.”

“I don’t know,” Ema says, turning to Davey with a small furrow between her brows. “You want to sleep on a roof, David?”

Davey does. Davey really does. 

Jack smiles, all sweet and sincere. It makes Davey’s chest actually ache. “A course, if it’s alright wi’ you, Ms. Esther.”

Davey’s mother softens under the full force of that smile; how could anyone not? “If David is back first thing in the morning, then I suppose it would be alright.”

Jack grins triumphantly, and rolls his shoulder in that way he has. “Come on, Davey, let’s go tear up the town! Asleep,” he adds, not missing the stink eye immediately thrown his way. “Tearing up the town in our dreams, Ms. Esther. Cause that’s where we’ll be.”

Ema rolls her eyes and smacks Jack in the arm gently. “Get out of here, you troublemaker.”

“Yes ma’am,” Jack says, taking off his hat and wrinkling it between his hands. His hair is flattened into bangs, the shape of his skull round and soft. Davey suddenly has to shove his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t do something stupid like reach out and touch.

He follows Jack outside.

The boarding house is mostly quiet when they arrive. Albert’s lying on the rug with his feet on Race’s lap and his head on Finch’s back. They look like a pile of puppies, and all of them lift their heads and wave sleepily as Davey and Jack pass.

They pass the bunk room, where Crutchie is slumped down next to Jojo and Specs. He salutes. “I’ll sleep in here tonight, Jack.”

“You don’t gotta,” Jack says. “Davey can have some of my blankets.”

“No, I will anyways,” Crutchie says, and winks at Davey. Winks. “You two have fun now.”

“You two have fun now,” Jojo and Specs immediately echo, shit eating grins and silly voices.

Without thinking about it, Davey rolls his eyes at Jack only to find Jack’s already rolling his back. They smile at each other, slightly uncertain, slightly pleased. Everything in Davey is holding its breath in anticipation.

“Aw, get outta here,” Crutchie says, throwing his hat in their direction. His laugh chases them out the window.

11.

Once he’s out, Davey glances around automatically. Jack smiles and pushes him forward. “Les ain’t here, remember? You don’t gotta worry ‘bout him right now.”

And isn’t that a thought? Davey doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

Up on the roof, all by themselves, Davey starts to get really nervous. It’s just—what was he thinking? And what is he thinking? There are at least three boys right inside who definitely think Davey’s out here to kiss someone. There might even be a boy next to Davey on the roof who thinks Davey’s out here to kiss someone.

Is Davey out here to kiss someone?

Davey finds himself strangely calm, despite. He doesn’t care that the boys guess, or know. He feels safe, with them, surrounded by a motley crew that all have their own imperfections, their own doubts and problems, their own joys.

And he feels safe with Jack. Jack, who taught him to stand up for himself, who taught him to throw a decent punch. Jack, who taught him what heartache was, and also how to heal it.

“Thank you,” Davey says, when a pile of blankets gets offered to him. Keeping one eye on the proceedings happening next to him, he spreads them out in his best copy of Jack’s nest.

“Your ma’s a wonderful lady,” Jack says absently, straightening his own bedding and then standing and unbuttoning his vest. “I’m so glad you have her, Dave.”

Davey stares, all the power usually given to his ears gone to making the blood rush to his face. “Uh. Yes. Me too.”

Jack turns, shirt hanging loosely, face serious. “But I’m so proud of you standin’ up to her like that. You told her what you wanted, for real. I’m so proud.”

“Yeah, you taught me to be a real stubborn numbskull when I want to be,” Davey answers, trying for a casual joking tone, never mind he hasn’t really breathed in a good two minutes.

“Are you kiddin’?” Jack grins. “You taught me that, Mr. Walkin’ Mouth.”

Davey is definitely blushing. Maybe it’s to dark up on the roof to tell? Hopefully? He ducks his head and takes his cap off. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

There’s a quiet pause, and when Davey gets the courage to look up again, Jack’s bareheaded and hanging up his blue shirt and vest, down to suspenders and undershirt.

He jerks his head away, and finds himself looking at one of the many drawings scattered around. This one’s fallen out of its stack, and is face down on the stone. Davey flips it over. Les stares back at him, eyes wide and excited, bangs mussed like Davey recently smacked him with his own hat. There’s love in the curve of his cheekbone, in the straight dash of his nose.

“Hey.” Jack’s standing above him. “You’re having a Les-free night, remember?”

Davey puts the drawing back. “Sorry.”

“Why you so nervous?” Jack asks, slumping down right next to him. “A few hours ago, you were cursin’ me out on another roof.”

“I’m nervous because you also kissed me on that other roof,” Davey explodes, the words hot and embarrassed. “So, excuse a fella for overthinkin’, Jack, after his entire life has flipped on its head, alright?”

Jack leans over and nudges Davey’s shoulder. “The kiss was that good, eh?”

“Shut up.”

“We startin’ where we left off before?” Jack asks, drawl in his voice. “Cause I think where we left off was actually me tellin’ you what I thought of you.”

It was, and Davey’s heart quickens just thinking about it. But Davey had also had things to say, so he starts talking rapidly, so Jack can’t get the jump on him. “Once you start something like this, you can’t go back from it, Jack, or at least, I can’t. This is big, okay? And I’m—I’m not strong enough to have a little, a few days once in a while, and then pretend like it never happened. I can’t.” Jack makes a scoffing noise and Davey glares at him. “Boys don’t—”

Jack grabs him by the collar and yanks him close, startling the hell out of him. When they’re nose to nose, Jack whispers fiercely, “Tell me what boys don’t do, Davey.”

Davey kisses him.

No sheet in the way, no startled tears. This time, it tastes like smoke and sweat and hard work and payoff. Jack is solid and strong against Davey, and his hair feels just as wonderful against Davey’s fingertips as Davey always imagined it would.

Jack bites Davey’s lip—tell me what boys don’t do—and smooths it with his tongue. Davey nearly asphyxiates himself to death.

“God,” Jack says, breaking off and keeping Davey there, forehead to forehead. “Do you think I can do casual anymore than you? After a kiss like that?”

“You like Katherine, don’t you?” Davey says, and now his heart really is threatening on the verge of collapse, but he barrels forward. “You could have a real life with her. Or someone else—Sarah, or some other girl—”

“Sarah?” Jack makes an incredulous voice. “Are you trying to marry me off to ya sister?”

Davey closes his eyes.

“Maybe there’s some world where that works out,” Jack murmurs. “But not this one. Didn’tcha hear me earlier? You’re all I think about, day in, day out. Your eyes, your face—damn I wish you could see your own beautiful face—your fingers, the way there’s ink on them more often than not. The way you stand, with your shoulders just so, bein’ brave all the time. The way you roll your eyes. The way you are with your brother.”

He pronounces it the same way he had the day they first met. Brudder. Davey opens his eyes again.

“Davey,” Jack says, tender and soft. “How can this be bad? How can this—” he brushes Davey’s cheek with his hand, “—be bad? This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Please don’t take it away.”

“Maybe you should be the lawyer,” Davey croaks. “Has anyone told you you’re really persuasive?”

“I mean,” Jack grins uncertainly. “Joe Pulitzer himself once said something along those lines.”

Davey pushes him away for that. Jack laughs but sobers quick.

“You think I could? Stand in that fancy stand and accuse people of doin’ wrong things? Wear a suit and tie, be all fancy and persuasive?”

Davey has a sudden vision of Jack in a suit and tie and nearly bites off his own tongue. “I think you can have anything you want, Jack Kelly.”

“Okay,” Jack says, cheerful. “I want you.”

Davey looks at him; breathes unsteadily. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jack looks surprised. Like all the other emotions, he makes it lovely.

“Okay.”

It seems like Jack can’t decide whether to jump up and whoop or burst into tears. He settles for laying his head down on Davey’s shoulder, curving into him like a cat. Davey smells coalsmoke and something soft like lavender soap, and feels a little like crying himself, but he already used up all his crying earlier, so he doesn’t.

“What’s that one?”

Davey follows Jack’s finger. “Cassiopeia. She always spins backwards because she boasted she was prettier than all the gods.”

“Yikes, that ain’t good.”

“Also, she chained her daughter to a rock to be eaten by a sea monster that was nearby.”

Jack sits up and stares at Davey, horrified. “Forget spinnin’ backwards, I personally would just not make this lady into an eternal constellation.”

Davey shrugs, and grins a little. “I’m just reportin’ the story.”

Jack watches him grin, face softening into something so real and tangible Davey almost has to look away. It feels like a million beginnings are stretching out before him, and for the first time ever, they’re attainable.

“I’m gonna draw you and that crooked smile,” Jack whispers. “Over and over, till I get it right.”

Davey smiles wider.

“Goddamn,” Jack mumbles, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I think it’s been too long since we was last kissin’, Davey Jacobs.”

“I don’t know,” Davey teases. “We’re averaging about one an hour. Statistically, you’d have to wait another forty s—”

It’s good.

And it’s going to be. For a long time, Davey’s pretty sure. The existing evidence certainly lines up. On the roof, the deep blue sky swallows them up, cloaks them in darkness, promises another tomorrow, and another, and one after that too. Davey wants to see them all.

Jack kisses him again and he stops thinking.

Maybe that was Jack’s intention all along.