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After the strike, Jack starts to touch Davey more and more.
Not that Davey has a problem with that. It’s all safe, friendly touches anyway: a clap on the shoulder, or an arm slung around his waist. They’ll sit next to each other at the borough meetings every month, so close that their legs touch. And Jack loves stealing Davey’s hat, holding it high in the air, and refusing to give it back until Davey has practically climbed up his back to grab at it.
But something has changed in Davey’s mind. Something is different from the first day he saw Jack, all angry, defiant, and aglow with the light of someone about to fight an injustice. Now he’s still a stubborn bastard, but he’s also something comfortable, and friendly. They understand each other without speaking. Jack is the closest thing, besides Les and his folks, that Davey has to home.
But there’s another problem.
It’s the fall after the strike, and Davey is in love with Jack Kelly.
So yes, the touching is a problem. It’s especially a problem right now, because it’s unusually hot for an October day and Jack is sprawled across his lower half on one of the sofas in the lodging house, and it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to hide his semi hard-on. He feels disgusted with himself—boys aren’t supposed to feel this way about other boys, as he’s been told all his life—but it’s so humid and sticky and Jack’s hand is resting so high up on his thigh that he has to be torturing him on purpose.
“Whaddaya think about it, Davey?”
He starts. Jack had been going on and on about some proposal for ten minutes, and excuse him if he’s getting a little distracted by his tightening pants.
“Uh, what were you saying?”
“Connected selling. The whole idea of ‘turf’ is dumb as rocks, in my opinion. Certain boroughs are busier than others on certain days, so it makes sense to have more newsies than usual selling there, right? It would work if only Spot Conlon would listen to me for once.” Jack sighs heavily. Usually Davey likes listening to his passionate rants, but it’s just too damn hot to focus on anything today.
“Well, doesn’t Spot already let Race sell at Sheepshead all the time?” Davey asks absentmindedly. “Even though it’s ‘his turf.’”
Jack snorts. “Yeah, well if you ask me, Spot has his own personal reasons for letting Race sell in Brooklyn, you get me?”
David freezes up slightly. He can only pray Jack didn’t feel the tension in his legs. “What do you mean?”
Jack turns to look him in the eyes. They’re so dark and intense that it makes him shiver. “Come on, Mouth, you’re smart. I know you see the way they look at each other. The way Race is the only one allowed to tease Spot.”
Davey had definitely seen it, but it felt like an invasion of privacy to mention anything about it. “Uh, do you have…a problem with that kind of thing? Two guys?”
The hand on his thigh inches higher up. “Course not. Race is my friend. Whoever he loves is fine with me, as long as Spot treats him right. Do you got a problem with it?”
Davey has to swallow around the dryness in his throat. “No.” Another inch. “I just worry about how the other boys would react, you know?”
“The boys love Race. He can do no wrong in their eyes,” Jack scoffs. “But they would treat any one of us the same way. No judgement here. We’s a family.”
He says all this in a very pointed manner, while giving him a meaningful stare. Davey’s not sure if they’re still talking about Race and Spot. A couple more minutes and his dick will be aching with anticipation.
But just before he can screw up the courage to say anything, Jack abruptly moves on to another topic in that brash, unexpected manner of his. He feels relieved and disappointed at the same time.
As the weather gets colder, Davey spends more and more nights at the lodging house. He’ll usually ‘accidentally’ stay too late, when the streets get dark and filled with snow, and have to bunk with Jack overnight. He’ll tell stories to the little kids until Jack pulls him away to talk about his grand plans for inter-borough peaceful relations for hours, and they fall asleep under Jack’s scraggly blanket in the dark stillness of the room.
One day Jack comes home surprisingly late with a limp and a bloody, bruised face.
He waves off the crowd of concerned boys that practically jump on him the second he gets through the door, reassuring them “I’m fine, just a little beat up, but fine,” before pulling Davey away into a bathroom.
“Delancey brothers got me cornered in an alley,” he confides after Davey’s initial panic and broken bones check is over.
He sighs frustratedly and brushes a thumb lightly over the cut on Jack’s cheek. Jack doesn’t flinch, just stares at him. “Any idea why?” he asks.
Jack shakes his head. “They don’t need a reason. I’m a pain in their asses is all.”
God, he hates the Delancey brothers. He hates anyone that wants to mark up Jack’s pretty face.
“Why can’t they just leave us alone?” he asks angrily, standing up abruptly to search the cabinets for bandages and rags. “We won. They need to accept it and stop beating up on kids half their age.”
Jack looks up at him smugly. “Oh, come on, Davey. I can handle myself alright. They went home with a few new bruises apiece, alright? You don’t gotta worry about me.”
David hides his flushing cheeks by leaning over the sink to wet some rags. He sits back down once it feels like he’s cooled off enough and begins to dab at Jack’s cuts.
“I know that. But I still don’t like to see you get hurt.” His touch is feather-light on Jack’s face, one hand carefully ghosting the other side of his jaw.
“Aww, you care about me?” he asks. It’s mocking, but the look in his eyes makes Davey think he’s supposed to agree.
“Only because you bring in enough money to feed me dinner sometimes,” he grumbles.
“How sweet of you, Mouth,” he says. “I’ll make sure not to come home in such a state again.”
Something about that makes him irrationally angry. He tightens his grip on Jack’s face and forces him to face forward.
“Hey. I’m serious,” he says. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. There’s only one of you, and however strong you are you can’t fight off two or three guys alone. I would…I would hate myself if I thought I let something happen to you.”
It’s a long, motherly speech and he feels kind of embarrassed once it leaves his mouth. But Jack looks like he’s been hit over the head.
“I’ll be safe, I promise,” he says earnestly. “I don’t mean to make you worry, Davey.”
He gently bandages up the cut, refusing to meet Jack’s eyes after his outburst. “Well, good,” he says, fighting off a blush. “This is why people call me a mother hen, cause I’m always looking after blockheads like you.”
Before they can leave the safety of the bathroom, Jack grabs his wrist. It feels like his skin is electrocuted where they’re touching.
He stares at Davey with those green eyes, cornering him into the doorframe. “I really am sorry, you know. And thank you. It’s nice to know I have people waiting up for me back here.”
He wants to grab Jack by the front of his vest and shout something melodramatic, like “I’ll wait for you every night if you want me too,” but they’re out the door before anything else can be said.
Instead, he goes home and jerks off to the thought of Jack gripping his wrists, holding them over his head, and doing unspeakable things with that loud, angry mouth of his.
For Christmas, he scrapes together enough money to buy Jack some paint, the fancy kind that Miss Medda will let him use for her backdrops. He decides on blue since he’s always harping about how it’s his favorite color.
That night, they slip away from the party and out to the fire escape for a few minutes. Davey is wrapped up in all the clothes he owns, and Jack is trying to get away with a thin jacket before Davey forces his gloves onto the other boy’s hands.
He pulls the paint out of his pocket and hands it over a little awkwardly. Les helped him tie a little festive bow around it.
“Gotcha something,” he says as Jack takes it from him. Their fingers brush.
Jack’s eyes widen as he looks at the label. “Shit, Davey. This is the expensive stuff. How did you get this?”
He shrugs, feeling a little more pleased with himself. “I saved up.”
Jack scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t get you anything expensive,” he admits.
“I don’t care about money, Jack.”
“Well. If you say so.” He pulls a thin piece of paper from a box next to him.
Davey unfolds it and gasps. It’s a drawing. Of him. And it’s gorgeous. Jack drew him from the side, staring up at something above him with a slight smile on his face. It looks so realistic, like he could reach out and touch the strands of hair.
“Jack. This is, just, wow. It’s beautiful.”
Jack is staring at his feet. “It’s nothing.”
“Come on, don’t get all worked up about it. I love your art. And this,” he says, gesturing at the paper. “Well, my mother is going to make me frame this.”
Jack smiles. “She would do that.”
Davey can’t help but grin. He hugs Jack as tightly as he’ll allow himself to. “Thank you. Merry Christmas.”
Jack makes a small sound, but hugs him back. “Merry Christmas, Davey.”
The hug lasts a long time, long enough for Jack to run his hands up and down David’s back gently before Crutchie leans out the window and yells that they’re missing out on Romeo’s creamy chicken soup.
In January, on a dull, cold, gray day, they have the first borough meeting of the new year. Davey sits close to Jack, closer than necessary, and listens to speeches while pretending not to notice Race whispering things in Spot Conlon’s ear. Then something happens that jolts him out of his daze.
Jack’s hand is on his thigh. At first he thinks it’s a mistake, and waits for Jack to move his hand or at least make eye contact with him. But he stares straight ahead like nothing’s wrong.
Underneath the table, he slides his hand higher and higher. Davey’s cock springs to life and begins growing against his full willpower. Just the thought of Jack’s big hands on him is enough to set him off apparently.
And they are on him. He’ll squeeze his thigh, run his thumb back and forth over it, and move it higher all the time. Davey has broken out in a sweat. He prays that he won’t have to stand until everyone else has left the room.
The meeting is nearly over when Jack’s hand brushes across his crotch, and he makes a little squeaking sound that he has to cover up with a spontaneous coughing fit. Everyone in the room turns to stare at him. He gives an awkward little wave, and grits out an “I’m fine.” He knows his face is flaming red.
Once they’ve gone back to closing up the meeting, Jack’s cursed hand starts moving again. He’s stroking his cock through the fabric of his pants, feeling Davey grow and harden every second as he tries not to make any more noise.
The meeting ends, and everyone else filters out through the doors as Jack stands up and begins to pick up discarded papers around the room.
Davey is sitting there, practically in shock.
He stands, slowly. His legs feel like jelly.
“Jack.” Green eyes, pinning him down. “What the fuck was that?”
Jack doesn’t respond.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he blurts out. “The touching. Grabbing me. Saying these emotionally charged things to me. You know I’m an overthinker, and you know I worry, and you know I care about you. So if you’re serious about me, say something. And if you’re somehow not, after everything, then stop playing games with me.”
Still nothing.
“I hope you know I’m serious about you. I—I love you, okay? As more than a friend. The way Spot and Race feel about each other. When you touch me, it’s like I can’t think about anything else but the way you feel. Actually, whenever I’m with you I can’t think about anything else. You’re stuck in my head. All the time. Your smile, your eyes. Your stupid speeches. When I fall asleep, I think about you. When I’m selling papes, I think about you. When I’m getting off, I—“
That’s where his voice gives out, because he knows he’s gone too far and the look on Jack’s face is like he got trampled by a horse. The stack of papers drops to the ground.
Davey is about to let out a string of apologies and see himself out of the room, but in a flash Jack has him pressed up against the wall.
“You think I don’t think about you every damn second?” he asks. His voice is low and gravelly. “You think I don’t have to contain myself every time you walk into a room? Every time you touch me? I can’t get enough of you, and your brain, and the way you care about everyone, and your eyes. God, your eyes.”
He feels like the world is spinning beneath him. “My eyes?” he asks stupidly.
Jack’s eyes are on fire. “Why do you think my favorite color is blue?”
Davey pulls him in for a kiss. It’s rushed and sloppy, but good lord he needs Jack’s tongue to be in his mouth now. The past few months of sexual frustration are coming out in a few seconds of ecstasy, and he’s getting his money’s worth.
They make out for a couple heart-stopping minutes, alone in a warehouse with the sound of slick spit echoing across the walls, and then Jack slides his thigh between Davey’s legs and rubs up against the hardness that’s been forming there. Davey moans, against his will.
“Fuck,” Jack whispers, pulling back to watch as Davey desperately tries to get some friction on his thigh. “I saw you walk in today and I just couldn’t help myself with the way you were lookin’ at me. I had to touch you.”
The way Jack is whispering in his ear makes him impossibly turned on. He grabs him around the shoulders and pulls him in tightly again so they’re rutting against each other.
“Davey,” he moans softly. The sound begins repeating on a loop in his head. Jack’s hand trails from his waist down his stomach and past the waistband of his pants.
“Jack,” he gasps. “Anyone could walk in on us.”
“I know.”
It makes Davey feel dirty, but excited at the thought that someone could come in and see Jack’s hand around his cock.
Jack pulls him out of his underwear and gathers all the precome into his hand, then begins stroking him. He feels exposed, turned on, and impossibly wet. Jack seems to know the perfect way to do everything because every little swipe of his thumb or twist of his wrist sends sparks down Davey’s cock. Or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s Jack.
He keeps making embarrassing little noises, arching his back so he can practically fuck into Jack’s grip.
His hands scrabble at Jack’s belt.
“I wanna make you feel good,” he gasps as Jack squeezes him extra tightly.
“Go ahead, baby,” Jack whispers in his ear, slowing down a bit so Davey can fumble with his fly and eventually take his cock out. It’s so strange, having someone else’s dick hot and solid in his hand, but he eventually gets the right angle and Jack lets his head fall forward as he gasps brokenly. Something about knowing he’s pleasuring Jack makes him feel more turned on.
They both pick up speed, until eventually Jack’s hand is flying over his cock and he can’t control himself anymore. He comes with such a loud, needy sound, that it sends Jack right over the edge too and they paint each other’s stomach white.
After a few heaving breaths, Jack wipes his hand off and holds Davey’s head up by his chin.
“You doin alright there?” he asks.
Davey chuckles. “I feel wrecked.”
Jack smiles at that. “That was…intense. Like, real intense. I never felt this way about nobody before. And it’s not just the sex, you know.”
He feels his face flush. “I know. I feel it too.”
Jack grins and pulls him in for a real hug. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too,” Davey whispers back.