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“I hate how people call me the Walking Mouth.”
Jack looked up in surprise as Davey sat down next to him on the fire escape, the two of them backlit by the glow from the dorms and the sounds of dozens of newsies yelling and laughing coming through the barely-cracked window. He cleared his throat.
“Come again?”
“I said, I don’t get why I gotta be the Walking Mouth,” Davey tugged the sleeves of his shirt down from his elbows to his wrists. The inside of the lodging house was warm from all the bodies in one space, but winter was coming on fast, and the relative isolation of the fire escape now had to be balanced with possible hypothermia.
Jack shifted slightly, putting out his cigarette and tucking it into his shirt pocket. Dave was always complaining about the smell. “‘S your name, isn’t it? What’s wrong with it?”
Davey shrugged slightly, his shoulder brushing up against Jack’s. “Just isn’t very flattering, is all.”
“You think Mush thinks his name’s flattering?” asked Jack with the beginnings of a smile. “Or Skittery?” Davey rolled his eyes.
“I guess not.”
Jack leaned into him, bumping their shoulders together for a brief second. “There you go, then. Ain’t nobody’s choice what they’s gonna get named when they come here. It just happens, you know? Whatever sticks, sticks.”
“But Walking Mouth, though?” Davey was grinning good-naturedly now, swinging his legs in the air where they hung over the edge of the platform, leaning back on his hands. Jack looked away for a second, focusing on the brick wall of the building across from them. “Just seems a bit much. There’s more to me than how much I talk. Which isn’t even a lot.”
Don’t I know it, Jack thought, then hummed noncommittally for Davey’s benefit. “If it really bothers you so much, tell the boys to stop.” When he didn’t get a response for a few seconds, he glanced back at Davey. “Somethin’ wrong?”
Davey seemed to almost squirm under Jack’s look. “I dunno. If I told them to stop, then I’d. You know. I’d just be Davey again. I don’t mind the concept of nicknames, I just don’t like being the Walking Mouth.”
Jack put two and two together after a moment of confusion. “Oh, okay, so what you’re sayin’ is you want a new name.” Davey seemed a little embarrassed, but nodded all the same. “Alright, well, that’s not very hard to do.” He stood up, brushing off his trousers and resting one of his hands on Davey’s shoulder for a moment. “I’ll work on it and get back to you, deal?”
Davey gave him another one of those grins, and this time Jack couldn’t turn away. “Deal.”
Jack cracked open the window enough to swing one leg back inside, pausing to look back at Davey. “You comin’ in or what?”
“I think I’ll sit out here for a few more minutes, if that’s okay.”
Jack waved one hand dismissively. “Hey, whatever you wanna do, Davey-boy. You stayin’ the night?”
“Maybe.”
“Alright, well, don’t freeze out here, okay?”
“Just go to bed, Jack,” said Davey, laughter on the edge of his voice. Jack very suddenly felt his own voice dry up and leave him for greener pastures, just from that sound. He let the window creak shut until it was almost closed, propping it open with a piece of brick. The lamplight of the indoors reflected off the glass, making it nearly impossible to see Davey still sitting outside. Jack wasn’t entirely sure why that bothered him so much.
“Hey Jack!” Racetrack yelled from the other end of the room. Jack turned around. About five or six boys, Race included, were squeezed into the back corner of the dorm, in-between the very last bed and the wall. From the cards and the various coins and cigarettes piled in the middle of the group, Jack would guess they were playing poker. From the secluded location and Race’s lack of a shirt, he’d also guess that it involved some form of stripping. “Wanna join?”
“With you, Race? Not on your life,” he called, swinging up into his bunk. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, way too early to actually be turning in, but Davey had told him to, so there you had it. A newsboy had to get his rest if he was gonna keep moving a thousand papes a week with his selling partner.
His selling partner Davey Jacobs, who wanted a new nickname. Who he’d somehow agreed to give a new nickname to. He groaned quietly, pressing his pillow over his face to muffle it and to block out the sound of Race winning a hand (“Shirt and tie, Blink, you bet on ‘em.”).
The thing was, if any other kid had come up to him asking for the same favor, he’d have turned them down without hesitation. A name was a name was a name and not liking your own had nothing to do with whether it stuck or not. Why did he always seem to end up doing what Davey wanted? He had no idea where to even start with this.
After a few minutes of silent agony, he heard the window creak back open and then click all the way closed, and felt a cold hand rest on his shoulder. Davey.
“Hey, I’m goin’ home, alright Jack?”
Jack pulled down the pillow slightly to peek at Davey over the edge of his bed. His cheeks were pink from the cold and he hadn’t moved his hand yet. “Alright. Seeya tomorrow, Dave.”
“Carrying the banner, yeah?” Davey said, giving him a little half smile. It was almost an inside joke between them at this point. Jack couldn’t help smiling back.
“Yeah. Carrying the banner. You got it.” He considered reaching across and patting Davey’s hand where it rested on his shoulder, but Davey was already moving away. He heard a couple shouts of “Hey, Dave!” and a few more calls directed at the “Walking Mouth”, which Davey pointedly ignored. Jack sighed and dragged the pillow back over his face. He needed to fucking start thinking before he said shit.
***
Nicknames were an art, not a science. They were a grand newsboy tradition stretching back before there had even been newsboys- a consistent facet of an entirely child-oriented and community-based culture. Almost no newsies went by their actual names, and some of the younger ones probably didn’t even remember what they had been called before taking up the banner.
The purpose of nicknaming someone was to simultaneously welcome them into the group while ensuring that they would always have their own distinct identity. Without the names, there could be four boys named John, and seven named Charles, and two named William. But with them, there could only be one Racetrack, one Kid Blink, one Specs. Jack could understand, then, why Davey didn’t want to give up his nickname entirely. It was a mark that he finally belonged to the newsboys, really belonged, and far be it from Jack to take that away from him.
‘Cowboy’ wasn’t the best nickname either, but it certainly wasn’t ‘the Walking Mouth’. Nobody really used Cowboy anymore, not since the strike happened. He’d taken up some mantle of responsibility then, had become more adult in the eyes of the other newsies. Seventeen seemed a little young to be a political leader, but he could deal with it. He’d already had years of affirmations that the newsboys both accepted and respected him. He could deal with being Jack until he outgrew the lodging house. Davey, who lived at home and sometimes even went to school, probably needed a good name to feel accepted. The least Jack could do was give it to him.
***
The next day’s headline was a good one. Jack squinted up at the chalkboard above the circulation building, making out the words ‘fire’ and ‘dead’. He smiled to himself. He could work with that. He shifted his gaze from the board to the growing crowd of newsies standing at the gates, spotting Davey and what must have been Les (too short to really be seen) near the front of it. He shoved his way closer to them, feeling a grin inexplicably growing on his face. A part of him dimly realized that this was getting out of control, but he didn’t really care.
“Good MORNING, boys!” he cried, nearly falling forward and slinging one arm heavily around Davey. The angle was perfect if he wanted to rest his chin on Davey’s shoulders. He wanted to. He didn’t.
“Hey Jack,” said Davey calmly, taking the extra weight like he’d been expecting it. He probably had been; Jack had been greeting him this way for the past six weeks. “You see the headline?”
Jack made a sound of affirmation, still leaning all his weight onto Davey. “‘S a good one. Won’t have to hardly embellish it at all. Heya, Les, how’s it hangin’? You ready to sell some papes?” He pushed off of Dave a bit to ruffle Les’ hair, but kept one arm around his shoulders.
“Yeah!” Les exclaimed. “I wanna sell a hundred today!” Jack and Davey shared a look and a bit of a smile that said, That’s cute.
Jack laughed a little at the enthusiasm. “Maybe don’t jump to a hundred papes just yet, huh? Think you could do fifty?” Davey gave Jack another look, which he responded to with a shrug. They normally only let Les sell about thirty or forty papers, since he was small and had a brother who was making more than enough cash for the both of them, but maybe it was time the kid had a bit more responsibility.
Les screwed up his face, considering it. “Hm. Okay, I think I can do fifty.”
“Oh, you totally can,” Jack assured him (and Davey as well, tangentially). “With the- with the big eyes and everything? You got it in the bag.” He flashed Dave another grin, squeezing his shoulder tighter for a second. “Aw, don’t look at me like that, Blue. It’s a good headline day. Won’t be hard at all.”
Davey blinked at him for a moment. “What’d you just call me?”
Jack froze, replaying the last few seconds of the conversation. Oh Christ. “Uh. Thought you wanted a new nickname, Dave. What, somethin’ wrong with that one?” He pulled his arm away from Davey’s shoulders. Davey was still looking at him, eyes narrowed, like Jack was a math problem he was trying to puzzle out.
“...Why Blue?” he asked after another few seconds, but Jack was saved by the bell ringing and the gates swinging open, the sudden crush of newsies putting a halt to any more conversation.
***
Names weren’t random. While there was no universal base to pull them from, no dictionary of approved newsie names, they weren’t just plucked from thin air. They were special. Personalized.
They were usually the first thing you noticed about the newsie they belonged to. Whether it was something physical, like Crutchie’s limp or Kid Blink’s eye, or something more abstract, like Racetrack’s betting obsession or Jack’s interest in Santa Fe, the names were based on the thing that stuck in your mind about their owner. You never really had to guess how a newsie got his name; it was usually obvious.
The first thing Jack noticed when he met Davey was the color of his eyes.
***
It was a sunny day, so they hung around Central Park for a few hours, counting on the nice weather to bring out more customers. They spread out along the east side of the park so as not to steal each other’s business, and got to work. Normally, Jack got annoyed selling with other people; he always felt like they were cutting in on his profits, hampering his hawking, taking money right out from underneath him. Usually, though, he loved working with Davey- the camaraderie, the rapport- and it bummed him out that they had to stand so far apart all the time. Not today. Today was different. Today the distance gave him some room to breathe and figure out how to recover from that conversation.
He’d liked Davey for a while now. It wasn’t something he was afraid of, or ashamed about. It just was. But there were certain realities and hard truths he had to acknowledge. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you just said to a guy out of the blue. Maybe somewhere in the world you could, but not in New York, no sir.
If Davey were any other newsie, it would be different. There was a way of doing that kind of thing in the lodging house, a simple and universally acknowledged code. Phrases like, “Y’wanna go up to the roof later tonight?” and,“Wanna sit on the fire escape?” and, “Let’s go out back.” Everyone knew how to communicate what they were really trying to say. More dangerous sentences hid behind the casual ones, an implication that was collectively both accepted and ignored.
Davey was not any other newsie. Davey did not know the codes. When Davey said, “Let’s sit on the fire escape,” he meant it like that and only like that. Sometimes Race or Mush would raise their eyebrows knowingly as Jack and Davey left the room, but it never became anything more than what it said on the tin. Jack had tried being subtle and he’d tried being as obvious as he knew how, and then he’d decided that it just wasn’t working out. He didn’t get his hopes up anymore. Either David knew and just wasn’t interested, or he didn’t know and he didn’t want to know.
Calling him Blue, however, would wise him right up if he wasn’t wise already.
The problem was that he’d approached it too literally. When Davey had asked for a new name, after hours of thinking, he’d decided to go about it like they were taking in a new kid- that is, he would just say the first thing that popped into his head. That’s how Boots had gotten his name, after he’d stumbled into the dorms fresh from a month out on the streets, ten year old feet shoved into a grown man’s boots with the soles peeling off.
He’d thought his brain would come up with something better on the spot, something more neutral. Something like Brains, or maybe something more conceptual, like Strike. Jack paused mid-headline shout. Those were pretty good. Too bad he’d already made things weird by starting with Blue.
He’d been honest, though, he could say that much. He didn’t know about anyone else, but Davey’s eyes had definitely left an impression on him. If the guy had introduced himself as Blue, he’d have no trouble figuring out what it was referencing.
The thing was, though- The thing was: Davey’s eyes were not exceptionally blue. They were not memorably and intensely blue, or at least they probably weren’t for anyone else. Jack was just...drawn to them. They were smart eyes, shrewd eyes, warm eyes. Not the kind of eyes you typically saw in your run-of-the-mill newsie types. Davey’s eyes had been the deciding factor in Jack offering to partner up with him, as much as he played it off as being about using Les. Davey’s eyes were unique.
He had been too obvious. Too obvious, especially for broad daylight right before the circulation bell. If Davey figured out the connection between Blue and his eyes (which he would, because he was smart), things could get bad very quickly. Unless he felt the same feelings Jack did, which was so unlikely as to be completely out of the question. Best case scenario (which was still awful): Davey felt uncomfortable. Their friendship would wane and die. Worst case scenario: Davey got angry. Jack didn’t want to keep thinking about that one.
Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, snapping him back to reality. Half of his papes were sold somehow in-between all of his worrying, and Davey and Les were standing by him. “Jack,” said Davey. It seemed like it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get Jack’s attention.
“Oh, hey, didn’t hear you guys come up,” he said casually, passing off a paper to a man and getting a coin in return. It clinked against the others in his pocket- the second-best sound in the world. “Just completely cleanin’ these folks out over here. How ‘bout you?”
Davey laughed a little bit. The first-best sound. “Cleaning them out, huh?” He snatched Jack’s papes out of his hand, flicking through them quickly. “You got fifty-five left. Les already sold all of his.”
“He’s up the street!” Jack cried, grabbing his papers back. “By the time folks get down here, they’ve already got a pape and I got nothin’ to sell ‘em!”
Davey held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, so it’s not your fault. But me ‘n Les were thinking of moving somewhere else. It’s gettin’ colder. People aren’t gonna wanna be out here much longer.”
Jack looked around; The crowds were thinning out considerably. He shivered a little bit, rubbing up and down his arms to warm them. “I don’t wanna be out here much myself, but that’s newsie life, ain’t it?” He thought for a minute. “Uh, let’s see. From here we could get to Wall Street by four. That’ll get the businessmen comin’ home- they all likes news and shit, right?”
“That’s a cuss.”
“Sorry, Les.” He tucked his papes under one arm, cocking his head to one side. “You up for that, Davey?”
“Sounds good.” They started walking. Les instantly darted ahead, carrying half of Davey’s remaining papers and calling out the headline as he walked. Davey and Jack went slower, walking close. Jack didn’t even bother trying to sell while he walked; In his experience, it was never a good tactic. Besides, he couldn’t focus on the headline when Davey’s hand kept brushing against his with every step. They didn’t speak. Jack cleared his throat.
“Uh. You hear about that new theatre they’s openin’ up downtown?” Davey shook his head. “Oh. It, uh, looks pretty cool, if I’m bein’ honest. It’s actually three theatres, linked like, and only fifty cent admission for everything at once. Could give the Irving a run for its money.”
“Doesn’t seem like a very sound business strategy,” said Davey. Then he nudged Jack playfully, the corners of his lips curving upwards. “I didn’t know you followed theatre news.”
Jack shrugged, willing his face to stop feeling so warm. “Medda does. Yaps my ear off every time I go an’ see her.”
“Sure.” Davey did not sound convinced. “Medda.”
Jack hesitated for a second, a question poised on the tip of his tongue. Would you like to go with me sometime? It gathered itself for a moment, preparing to leap into the open air, but at the last second retreated silently. He’d already been lovesick enough for one day without Davey misinterpreting yet another coded request.
The selling was pretty good along Wall Street. Les sold out the fastest; Folks always pitied kids more as the temperature dropped. Jack and Davey weren’t far behind, though, and between the three of them they had a pretty nice profit. They split it up 50/50 (Jack had thrown out the whole 60/40 nonsense before the strike had even been over), and started walking east. It was getting dark by the time they swung by the Jacobs’ tenement, and, just like every night, Davey pressed his half of the money into Les’ hand and told him to run on up and give it to their parents. He usually stayed out a few hours later than his brother so he could hang out at the lodging house with the other newsies. Sometimes he slept over.
“You stayin’ with us tonight, Davey-boy?” asked Jack, hands clenched anxiously deep in his pockets. He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be. Davey shrugged.
“If I feel like it. I’ve got some change for board if I end up sleeping over.”
“No school tomorrow?”
“Nah.”
Jack frowned. “You’re not skipping, are you? You shouldn’t skip school just to hang out with us newsies. It ain’t worth it, Blue.” He winced. Did it again. A saying about digging one’s own grave popped into his head.
“Blue. Again. Why’d you pick that?” Davey asked. He sounded genuinely curious and suspiciously neutral, like he was trying not to let Jack see why he was asking. It was working- Jack couldn’t tell where he stood, or where this conversation was heading. He hadn’t answered Jack’s question.
“Uhh,” Jack began, running his hand through his hair, stalling for time. “It’s the color of your shirt?”
“I have more than one shirt, Jack,” said Davey, raising an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t make much sense if I introduced myself and I wasn’t wearing this one.”
“Oh, well look at you, Mister High-And-Mighty Rich Man,” Jack replied sarcastically. “More than one shirt. Would that we was all so blessed.” He nudged Davey with his elbow as they walked, a friendly jab. “‘Sides, you think Boots wears his boots everywhere? You see me in a cowboy getup right now? Some shit’s, uh, what’stheword... circumstantial.” Davey rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Just a little bit, but he was smiling. It faded quickly though, replaced by that sharp-and-calculating patented Davey expression.
“That’s really the reason?”
Jack pressed one hand over his heart. “On my life, Dave. On my honor.”
“You don’t have any of that,” said Davey, “But okay. I’ll take it.”
***
When Jack was younger and he’d just escaped from the refuge to join up with the newsies, he was given the name Cowboy by a kid named Patch (for the patched-up jacket he always wore). Patch had been around eighteen, which seemed nearly godlike to Jack’s fourteen, and his best friend was a guy named Chip (for his teeth). The two of them had the closest thing to a marriage that Jack had ever, at that point, seen firsthand.
They sold together, they ate together, and they probably slept together at some point or another. They were also terrifyingly obvious about it. It made Jack scared for them sometimes, made him wake up at night with his throat clenched and his heart pounding.
“You’re gonna get caught,” he whispered to them after a few months, fifteen and worried, fifteen and shaking. He hoped they could tell he was just concerned for them, and that his warning wasn’t a threat.
Patch grinned, one arm wrapped around Chip’s waist as they sat next to each other in the booth, invisible to anyone else in the restaurant. “Don’t sweat it, Cowboy. We’s smart. We’s gonna be fine.”
“You ain’t actin’ real smart right now is all I’m sayin’,” Jack grumbled, glaring down into his glass of water. “Someone’s gonna get wise sooner or later. I ain’t the only guy with eyes out there.”
“Listen,” Patch said, suddenly serious, He pulled his arm out from around Chip, leaning forward across the table. “You’re still kinda new to the business, so it’s okay that you ain’t picked up on this yet. The other newsies? They don’t care much about this kinda thing. And if they did, we’d soak ‘em. We ain’t the only ones in this city- hell, we ain’t even the only ones you know.” He paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Just… we’s trying to be happy, Cowboy. You dig? We know it, uh, ain’t the smartest thing to be doin’, but we have fun. Right, Chip?”
“Yeah,” said Chip, who didn’t talk much.
“What I means is,” Patch continued, lowering his voice significantly, “we ain’t being improper or nothin’. We’s just not makin’ ourselves miserable by pretending our feelings ain’t real.” He leaned back again. “‘S nice that you’re worried, kid, but we got this under control. And in a couple months, we’s gonna get out of here, ain’t that right Chip?”
“Yeah,” said Chip. “Go travelin’. Once we got the money.” He gave a tiny smile, obviously nearly beside himself with excitement. Patch was positively beaming. Jack nodded slowly, beginning to understand.
***
Two years after that conversation, walking down the near-empty street with Davey, Patch and Chip long gone, Jack though that he finally got it completely. He made a decision. For probably the first time in his life, he was going to try and be happy.
“Hey,” he said, grabbing Davey’s elbow as they approached the lodging house. “Come up to the fire escape with me later tonight.”
“Why?” asked Davey, and Jack groaned.
“Could ya stop askin’ questions for- for five seconds? C’mon, Davey, geez.” He stuck both hands in his pockets to hide the shaking. “I just wanna talk to you about something.”
Davey hesitated for another moment, then nodded. “Okay. But I promised Race a game of poker first.” Jack paled and Davey laughed. “Regular poker, Jackie, relax.” He patted him on the shoulder twice, quickly, and led the way inside. “Let’s go. It’s cold.”
It was cold, but Jack didn’t move, something warm and happy growing in his chest. After a few seconds, Davey stuck his head back outside.
“What are you doing?”
Jack grinned. “You called me Jackie.” Davey blinked at him, opening and closing his mouth for a couple of seconds before collecting himself.
“I’ve... done that before.”
“Yeah, like once.”
“Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“Okay then,” said Davey, and went back inside. Jack followed him, still smiling to himself. That certainly made him feel a bit more confident. He hesitated on the first step up the stairs, hand on the railing, chewing on his bottom lip. If he was gonna do this, he was gonna do it right. This wasn’t gonna be another conversation filled with dropped cues and missed implications. He was gonna make sure Davey got the message this time. For better or for worse.
The dorm was crowded and warm, just like always. The orangey-yellow lamplight threw strange shadows on the walls, which contributed to the already busy atmosphere of a few dozen newsies moving around the space- chasing each other, changing clothes, playing card games in various corners. Davey was already getting dealt into Racetrack’s game, and Jack waved at them as he made his way over to his bunk. He knelt and slid something out from underneath the bed- a repurposed shoebox. Then he grabbed the thin blanket off his mattress and loosely wrapped it around himself before pushing the window open and climbing outside.
It was dark out there, but the light from inside would suit just fine. He opened the box and pulled out the only things he was actually proud to own- his sketchbook and a couple of charcoal pencils. He flipped through the crowded pages, looking for some free space to warm up in. Most of the book was filled with rough drafts of set pieces for Medda- open fields and sunny forests, a few village scenes. Some of the sketches, however, were of people. The back of Sarah’s head. Spot’s hands clenched around his cane. Racetrack in profile. Specs asleep on a front stoop with his glasses sliding down his nose. Les grinning, a spot of dirt on his cheek.
Then there were the sketches of Davey.
He had an embarrassing number of them. At first, they were sprinkled in with the portraits of the others, an even distribution. Nothing odd there. Then they grew more frequent, until a whole page at a time could be taken up with Davey- laughing, smiling, playing cards, selling papes. Just loose sketches, nothing solid. Nothing that took more that five minutes to do on its own. But all those five-minute sketches really added up. Jack clucked his tongue at himself, flipping impatiently through them, getting closer and closer to the end of the book. He had to have some space left. There was no way he’d filled the damn thing already.
He let out a sigh of relief when he saw the sketches stopped about five pages from the back. He could work with this. He grabbed the sharpest of his pencils and started with some vague drawings. Something that could, abstractly, be called a tree. A crumpled newspaper lying on the ground. The fire escape he was sitting on. No people- not yet. Jack liked to draw from life. He always found that portraits he made from memory were flatter, duller, less alive than the ones where he used a reference. And you could be damn sure that for this, he was gonna use a fucking reference.
It took a while for Davey to join him (but not long enough for a full poker game, strangely). Jack looked up as Davey settled in next to him, peering curiously at the sketchbook. Jack was very glad the page only contained objects.
“Is that what you’re always scribbling in?” Davey asked curiously, and Jack nodded. His throat felt dry, but he’d already committed to this; Let nobody say Jack Kelly ever backed down from something.
“It’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “I, uh… well, see, I was wonderin’...” He trailed off, absently doodling spirals in the corner of the page.
“What? You were wondering what?”
Nothing for it now. “If I could draw you.” The spirals became dark and angular shapes, zig-zagging around the margins. “Wouldn’t take too long or nothin’, and… I dunno, I could use the practice with people.” A lie. A bald-faced lie. “If you don’t want me to, it’s-”
“No!” Davey exclaimed, then lowered his voice again. “I mean, yes.” He winced. “I mean, yes to wanting you to, and no to...not wanting you to.”
Jack looked at him. “Yeah? For real?”
“Yeah,” said Davey, nudging him a little. “For real.” He shifted slightly, uncertain. “Uh. What should I do?”
“Oh, uh, just- you can keep sitting there and maybe… move your head a little bit to the- yes, like that, perfect.” Jack paused, looking at the stiff way Davey was holding himself. “And relax a bit, Blue, this ain’t a stickup. I just like that angle. Breathe a little.”
Davey let out a breath. “I’m gonna be honest, Jack.”
“Oh yeah?” replied Jack distractedly, already sketching out a basic figure. “‘Bout what?”
“I really don’t believe you got that nickname from my shirt.”
Jack stopped drawing for a second, not looking up from the page. Then he shook his head slightly and began again, long and short lines and smudges slowly forming to create Davey’s hair.
“Are you ignoring me now or something?” Davey pressed, but he sounded amused rather than annoyed, so Jack just kept drawing.
They passed the minutes in comfortable silence. After a while, Davey started humming something familiar, something that could probably have played at Medda’s theatre or some other vaudeville stage. Jack let it fade into white noise as he drew. The portrait passed beyond a sketch, slowly making its way to greater detail, greater depth of feeling. With Davey sitting still like this, Jack was able to capture the parts of his face that he hadn’t before. The faint acne scars on his chin, the faded traces of freckles on his nose, the way the curves and angles of his face were accentuated in the lighting.
It was nearly finished. One piece left to do. He’d left Davey’s eyes unfinished, in a sharply contrasting lack of detail with the rest of the drawing. They were the hardest part, after all. He stopped for a second, looking hard at Davey, trying to figure out how to get it right. Davey, who’d been looking off into the distance, glanced back and locked eyes with him. It felt like getting hit by a trolley.
“Something wrong?”
“Huh?”
Davey gestured to the sketchbook. “You stopped. Is it finished?” He didn’t break eye contact. Jack’s face felt warmer than a desert in New Mexico.
“Uh. No,” he said, finally looking back down at the drawing. “Just, you know, studyin’ the subject.” He glanced up and then down again, tentatively starting in on the eyes. Davey turned back to the original angle, lips pressed together a little tighter than they had been before. They went back to the silence, and Davey didn’t start humming again.
The eyes took as long as all the other parts of the drawings combined. Jack found himself frowning as he worked, trying to find the exact details that gave Davey’s eyes so much depth, and so much feeling. It didn’t seem to be any one thing, but a combination of tiny bits and pieces. Even copying them exactly from a real-life reference, Jack couldn’t get them to a point where he was happy with them. They stared out from the page, smudgy gray in the iris from the charcoal pencil. They were nearly perfect, but something was missing.
He nearly smacked himself in the forehead once he realized what it was.
Davey raised an eyebrow as Jack nearly dove for his shoebox. “Looking for something?”
“Hang on a sec, would ya?” Jack replied, digging through the scraps of paper, pencil stubs, and other bits of garbage in the box until he found a rectangular package wrapped neatly with old newspapers and tied with string. His last birthday gift from Medda. Real, authentic colored pencils. He’d told her he almost never used color in his sketches. She insisted. He’d had no reason before now to even unwrap them, but color was exactly what this piece needed.
The blue pencil in the package wasn’t the exact shade of Davey’s eyes, but it wasn’t very far off. He went in light on the irises, giving them a pop of color and a new dimension. As the only thing on the page not in black and white, they became the focal point. The viewer was immediately drawn to them. They had life. He snuck in some blue accents in the shadows of the drawing to give it more cohesiveness, blew the extra charcoal dust off of it, and looked up at Davey.
“Now it’s done.”
“...Can I see it?” Davey asked. Jack hesitated; He could still say no. It’d be weird, and Davey’s feelings would be hurt, but he could still do it. He took a deep breath and handed the sketchbook over. He watched Davey’s face carefully, more carefully than he had even when he’d been drawing it. Jack watched his eyes widen slightly, his mouth fall open a little, the way his fingertips hovered over the paper, like he wanted to touch it but knew he wasn’t allowed.
“Jack,” he said hoarsely after nearly a minute, “This is beautiful.”
There it was; A golden opportunity. “Yeah, well, you know. I stay true to the model,” Jack replied quietly, aiming for his usual confident flirtiness and falling ridiculously short. Davey’s eyes got even rounder. Jack hadn’t thought that was possible.
“This is why,” he nearly whispered, fingers ghosting over the drawing’s blue eyes. “This is why.”
Jack nodded. “I’m, uh… I’m not so good with words.” He moved slightly closer to Davey so that their legs were pressed together from knee to hip, legs dangling out into the open air. “Hopefully I got the message across, though.”
Davey glanced from Jack to the drawing and back again, his smile growing by the second. Their faces were inches apart; Jack could feel warm breath on his cheek, could probably count Davey’s eyelashes if he wanted to. He reached down, taking the sketchbook out of Davey’s hands and placing it safely behind him on the fire escape platform. He didn’t like it hanging out into open air like that.
“You know that old Latin saying?” asked Davey, still in that quiet voice. “Carpe diem?” His eyes were crinkling up at the corners and Jack was so busy thinking about drawing that tiny detail that he almost didn’t notice when one of his hands found Davey’s, their fingers lacing together by mutual decision.
“I don’t speak Latin,” he replied. “What’s that mean?” He leaned in, and Davey mirrored him.
“It means,” said Davey, a centimeter from Jack’s cheek, “Seize the day. Take risks. Be brave.” He turned his head, closed the gap, and kissed him. His lips were dry and slightly chapped, but soft. It wasn't anything more that a press of lips on lips, but Jack still let out a tiny, happy sound. Davey pulled back almost immediately when he heard it. His face was red. “There. That was my risk.” He looked at Jack, anxiety written plain across his face. “Was that okay?”
Jack smiled, then grinned, then threw back his head and laughed. Davey’s expression morphed from nervousness to confusion.
“What’s the big joke?” he demanded, extricating his hand from Jack’s.
Jack could barely breathe, he was laughing so hard, but he managed to calm himself down enough to choke out, “You’re- you’re tellin’ me, after six weeks of tryin’ to tell you about how I feel, sweatin’ and stressin’ and trying to figure out if you was really that oblivious or if you just hated me- you’re tellin’ me that all I needed to do was draw you?” He wiped actual tears from his eyes, clutching his stomach.
“You’re hysterical,” Davey said, a hint of concern in his voice.
“Maybe,” Jack agreed breathlessly. “But in all fairness, the guy I’m sweet on just kissed me on the fire escape.”
“Oh, worse than hysterical. You’re sappy.”
Jack opened his mouth to say something else just as Racetrack opened the window behind them.
“Hey Jack, did you see where Davey- Oh. Oh my. Dear me. Whoops,” he stuttered, taking in the scene. Jack and Davey, faces flushed, pressed up against each other on the edge of the fire escape. “Sorry, boys! Have fun.” He ducked back inside with a vague wave and a muttered “Jesus H. Christ.”
Davey gaped after him, then turned to Jack. “He didn’t freak out. How- I don’t-”
Jack thought back on that conversation he’d had with Patch and Chip years ago, and carefully took Davey’s hand again. “Newsies got a lot of other shit to worry about than who’s kissin’ who, Dave. And Racetrack’s not in the best position to judge, either, if you catch my drift.” He leaned in and gave Davey a quick peck on the cheek. “So long as we’re careful, we’ll be fine.” His free hand gripped Davey’s knee, a solid and reassuring presence.
“Yeah?”
Jack nodded decisively. “Yeah. On my life.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Davey seriously, and pulled him back in with a hand on the back of his neck for a proper kiss.
***
“So what do you think of Blue?”
“I think it’s better than the Walking Mouth, that’s for sure.”
“...But you don’t think it’s good enough.”
“It’s sweet. But it’s very…”
“Personal?”
“Yeah.”
“You can just be Davey, you know. The kids mostly call you that already anyways. Walking Mouth is a bit of a, well, a bit of a mouthful, ain’t it?”
“You’ve been waiting to use that one.”
“So what if I have?”
“You’re such a clown, Jack Kelly.”
“Maybe. But you love me.”
“Unfortunately, yeah. I do.”
“Night, Davey.”
“Night, Jackie.”