Strikes and Ladders

Chapter Twenty-Four: Haircut

That weekend is great. Davey goes back to his newsies routine easily and returns to school on Monday with ink staining his fingertips and a sense of pride seated in his chest. It is quickly dashed as he sits down in his first class and the teacher appraises him with a judgemental eye.

"Mr. Jacobs."

"...Mr. Miller. Good morning." He tries to be respectful, polite, and looks up at his teacher. All he received for his troubles was another once over.

"You've started to let yourself look... messy."

Davey tilts his head slightly, a mannerism he knows for a fact that he picked up from Race. "How so, sir?"

"You have ink practically up to your elbows, son. And your hair is touching your collar. I'll let it go for now, but if you come back tomorrow looking so dishevelled, I'll need to reprimand you officially."

"Oh. Well I can only do something about my hair. I'll get it cut tonight, but the ink stays. Trust me, I've tried. All I can do is wait it out."

"Can I ask why you have those... marks?"

"I started working as a newsie on the weekends, sir." Not technically a lie.

"Hm. This doesn't have anything to do with those... urchins that loiter around waiting for you every day, does it?"

"Urchins!" Davey cries, indignant. "He called you urchins." He's sitting on the floor, as instructed by Spot. Race lounges on a ratty couch. They're in the Brooklyn lodging house after a union meeting, in the mostly empty common area.

Spot rolls his eyes and fiddles with something across the room. "Yeah, there ain't no helpin' guys like that, Mouth. They think we's evil cause we's poor, when really he's the asshole. No sense worryin' 'bout things you can't change."

His boyfriend nods sagely, but quickly replaces the look with a mischievous grin. "Yeah. But we do change the things we can. Like your hair, Dave. Get ready for the Brooklyn King's barber shop." Davey goes to stand up, but Spot presses down on his shoulder to keep him sitting.

"You gotta keep still."

Davey glares up at him, but sits up straighter as he takes scissors to his hair. "I'm puttin' a lot of trust in you, Spot."

"I know." And Davey can't see his face, but his voice sounds... off. Almost reverent.

To start, he's stiff. His back straight, his breathing a bit rigid. The most dangerous guy he knows is very close to his face with a very sharp pair of scissors after all, and as much as his brain and heart know that Spot isn't going to hurt him, it is a lot of trust, and his body won't relax. Then, Race moves from laying on the old couch to laying with his head pillowed by Davey's thigh, Davey's hand in his hair.

"You're gonna get hair in your face."

"I'll just take a dunk off the docks. Join me?" He grins, catlike, and Davey rolls his eyes.

"Racer. It's cold out there! I'll bet the water's freezin'!"

"Fine, be a coward." He says this breezily, blowing hair out of his face. His pillow curses, causing him to grin, catlike. Davey's hooked and he knows it. "I'll get Mouse to grab us some blankets so your little toesie woesies aren't cold for long," He coos. All this earns him is a shove so hard he has to roll off of Davey, just lying on the floor now.

"Quit movin' or I'll cut your ear off!" Spot reprimands, opening and closing the scissors for emphasis.

Davey complies easily and leans back into Spot, and for the next few minutes, the only sounds that any of them hear are short snips and the loud rough-housing outside. Eventually, Spot's hands leave his hair and he reluctantly leans forwards and takes off the piece of scrap fabric they'd been using as a cape. Race bounds up and grabs a grubby mirror from a table across the room and gets down on one knee to dramatically present it to Davey.

He laughs and holds up the mirror to his face before his eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widen. The haircut, it's... it's good. He looks nice, almost barbershop quality. "Woah."

Spot, whose smirk he can see in the mirror, leans forward to look at the mirror with him. His face is directly next to Davey's, so close that he could just turn his head and... no. Spot says something that he only catches the end of. "Huh?"

"I said 'I'm good, ain't I?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, you're... you're amazing."

From his perch in front of them, Race smiles. "You look good, Mouth! I liked the long hair, but I think this could grow on me." His own hair is curling at his collar and resting over his eyebrows, but when a haircut was offered, he'd just shrugged it off, stating that he was 'perfect' and cutting his hair would ruin his 'look'. He moves back over to them, sitting cross-legged in front of Davey and putting a hand into his hair. "Still fluffy, but more 'professional.'" His sarcasm is obvious in his air quotes.

"Maybe those ratbags at that school of yours'll finally stop messin' with you,'' Spot mutters.

When Davey shrugs noncommittally, he slips down from his chair to join the other two on the ground and puts an arm around Davey's shoulder. He leans into Spot almost unconsciously, leaning his head on his shoulder. Race assumes his previous position, laying on Davey's thigh. The three of them relax into one another, quiet for a bit until Race inevitably breaks the silence.

"So, what do you even do in that school of yours?"

He rolls his eyes. "You'll think it's boring."

Race moves from laying on his side to laying on his back, looking up at his friend. "Oh come on, sweetheart, what's that word you taught me? Uh. Indulge! Right, Indulge me." He takes a moment to bat his eyelashes, earning him a snort from Spot. "Pretty please?"

Right above him, Davey might be freaking out. Just a little. Pretty boy laying in his lap asking him for something? What else is he supposed to do but give him what he wants? I mean, he called him sweetheart. He's strong, but he isn't made of stone! So, he takes a deep breath. "Well-" He starts talking, and he keeps talking. Why do they let him keep talking? He can't imagine why, but he never gets this chance. Deep down, he loves school and learning, and he's never able to tell anyone about it. Math and Science and Literature knowledge flow out of him, and he just can't stop. He knows he's gesturing with his hands and rambling, but glances at his friends' faces show him that they don't really mind.