WARNING: Mentions of beer; police brutality/the thing the po po does bc they think they can idk
I took a very long nap and missed half of the day🙃
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Jack lay on his bed in his makeshift room at Medda's theater, where he kept his cans of paint, pencils, and projects. He lay around all of them, but his mind was elsewhere.
He couldn't believe he jumped out of a window—sure he could, he's done worse—because he was mad. He let his feelings get the best of him.
He listened to the chants outside his window, closing his eyes as they started to fade away. His worries and frustration faded with it, being overtaken by the face of his soulmate.
———
Jack woke up at 11:34pm. There was no point in him going back to sleep, so swung his legs over his bed, rubbing his eyes awake. He saw a kicked over can in the corner of the room, exactly how it had been, meaning no one had come in. Crutch must've told the boys not to come over.
Jack walked out of his room, opening the door quietly as to not wake Medda. She'd probably be awake anyway, seeming to run on little sleep, but still look as young as the day he'd met her.
He walked to the small snack room, a room full of food and drinks that Medda stashed away for her actors. Jack opened the refrigerator, grabbing a beer.
"You know you shouldn't be drinkin' that", Medda says, walking into the room. "At least not this late."
Jack chuckled as he sat down at the small table, watching as Medda walked in further, grabbing herself a beer. He always admired that about her, how she always walked around with the confidence of a queen, hair wrap and all.
It definitely helped that she threw some bitchin' parties.
"What's on your mind, kid?" She passed the drink to Jack, silently asking him to open it. "You got that thinkin' look on your face."
Jack smiled, popping off the top with his own drink. "What do you do when you's in love, Miss Larkin?"
Medda chuckled, shrugging her shoulders. There was no real answer to this question, just the simple actions that were part of it. "You fight for it, I'd guess. That's what my daddy told me, and that's what he did. All the way until the end."
Jack smiled, taking a sip. "So you're folks were some pretty good role models, huh?"
"I ain't say all that", Medda replied, staring at the table. "My daddy was a good man, though."
"I bet", Jack muttered, his lips curling into a thin line. The short memories he had of his father began to pop into his head. "Seems like it."
"Why?"
"I's in love, Medda", Jack says seriously, looking at her directly. "Passionate, wonderful, hard love. The one you used to have."
"Oh, ain't no love like the one I used to have, honey", Medda laughed, clinking her beer with Jack's. "But I get it. What's his name?"
"Who said it's a guy?"
"The young man that spent the night up in your room", Medda responded slyly. "And you know Crutchie can't keep a secret."
Jack chuckled, shaking his head. "Damn that kid."
"So?"
"I got into a argument with his sister", Jack sipped, swallowing hard. "Nothin' too bad, just a few choice words on both ends. 'Fraid he hates me."
Medda nodded as Jack continued his story. How it started, how they were starting to like each other, and how that quickly died.
"And so", Jack sighed, lifting his bottle and finding it empty. "I jumped out of the bathroom window."
Medda laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, it ain't a Jack Kelly story without a Jack Kelly decision."
Jack chuckled, wondering if his dad ever made any decisions like that. Jumping out of windows, starting fights, living in the moment; a real beatnik, a hot shot. A cool guy.
Jack laughed quietly. "I guess that was pretty dumb."
"At least you know how to leave a room."
"Of course that's what you's worried about."
"Hey", Medda starts seriously, pointing a finger. "If there's one thing I have ever taught you, it's how to leave a room."
They laughed together, sighing their laughter out of existence. Medda looked at the time on the clock that faced the wall, sighing.
"It's best if I get to bed now", she says, standing up. "I got preparations to do in the morning. It's a Saturday, right?"
"Yes, ma'am", Jack nodded, collecting the beer bottles. "Need me for somethin'?"
"Just some backgrounds, if you don't mind", Medda smiles, ruffling the boys hair. "Maybe I can actually pay you this time."
Jack smiled, placing the bottles in the sink. "I can't take your money, Miss Medda."
"Maybe not", she shrugged, placing a hand on her hip. "Maybe a nice machine will do just fine."
Jack laughed softly. "I don't need a car for paintin' some backdrops."
"No, but you do need one to get somewhere", Medda responded wisely, leaving the room with a, "Goodnight."
Jack stood by the kitchen sink for a while. What does that mean? I walk around New York just fine without some flip top to cruise down the streets in. It would be nice, though.
Jack realized he still had his shoes on. He walked towards the back entrance of the theater, grabbing his leather jacket on the way.
The air was cold, so very cold, his hands were numbing by the second, only his thoughts and his jacket giving him the warmth he needs. He stuffed his hands into the pockets as he walked down the street at 12:14am.
He was still mad—less so after his talk with Medda—but his thoughts were taken over by images of Davey, various images.
Jack smirked, taking a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, removing a lighter from another. He lit up the end, covering the small spark of fire to conserve the heat. A routine.
Walking down through New York City at dawn was interesting, but the same. For one, it was still bright as the day, despite the sky being black from its usual blue. Jack couldn't see the stars. It always bothered him how he couldn't see the stars.
He didn't know how, but sometimes this memory would pop up. This memory of a guitar, a man and a woman, and the stars. A family, Jack called it, coming from the images and movies on TV. There was even a little girl in this story, but Jack knew he didn't have a sister.
He suddenly began walking without looking, staring at the ground beneath his feet. Every now and then, he'd look up, catching the father's walking home and the mother's burrowing into their children. All of this to let go of some smoke.
"Hey!" He looked up again, seeing a man in a blue uniform. "Did you just assault an officer, boy?"
Damn it, Jack thought, throwing the cigarette out his mouth. "Uh, mornin' officer."
"Answer the question, kid." He leaned real close to Jack's face, and the younger could tell what he'd had for dinner that night. "Or I might as well just take you in."
Jack swallowed, somehow unafraid. "No, sir. I didn't assault you."
That seemed to make him more angry, and Jack blamed it on the way he said it. "You're going down to the station."
"What?!" Jack thrashed as he was almost put in cuffs, resisting. "You can't do this! I ain't even do nothin'!"
"Assaulting an officer and resisting arrest", the cop grunted, trying to stop Jack from moving around. "You've done enough."
Jack was used to people telling him one wrong move could ruin it all, but he's starting to believe it. You kind of have to after you gut punch an officer in the stomach.
Next thing he knew, he was staring at the sky through squinted eyes, trying to remember the last time there were stars.
——————
On Monday, Davey closed his locker sullenly, still thinking about last Friday. That's not how he wanted it to go down, but since when has the universe ever been in his favor.
He walked out of the school as soon as the bell rang, leaving Sarah and Katherine with each other. They haven't spoken since they studied together, which is easier than he thought while living with one of them.
"Davey!" He turned around to see Race running up to him, some other guy not too far behind. "You know where Jack is?"
Davey's eyes widened at the question, shaking his head. "No. I was on my way to the theater."
"Fuck!" Race placed his hands in his hair, combing through the blonde locks. He was muttering to himself in a language Davey didn't know as he paced back in forth. "Fuck!"
"Race, you gotta calm down", says the other guy, planting his hands on the blondes shoulders. "You goin' crazy ain't gonna help nobody, especially not Jack."
Race nodded and took a few deep breaths. "Right. Okay. Yeah, yeah."
"Where is he?" Davey stepped back at the intense glares he got at the stupid question, clearing his throat. "I mean, where would he go?"
"I don't know!" Race was beginning to panic again. "Manhattan's leaderless!"
Davey raised a confused brow. We have a mayor, and last I heard he's fine.
"You's his second, idiot", the other guy grunted, slapping Race on the head. "Go!"
Race nodded and held up his tough exterior again. He looked back at Davey. "You go with Spot and find Jack. I's gonna keep an eye on the boys. Don't tell anyone!"
Race was beginning to run off before he stopped again. "Especially not Crutchie."
Spot and Davey watched as Race ran off, leaving them alone. Davey looked at Spot—a shorter, tougher, more intimidating person—in question. "Where should we go first?"
"Didn't expect you to be all business", Spot chuckled, starting to walk. "Racer told me you was more on the shyer side."
Davey shrugged, following. "That's a pretty in tune accusation."
"Well, most shy people I met ain't so shy", Spot smirked, placing his hands in his jeans. "They's also pretty good at conversation."
What does that mean? Most people that are shy are great conversationalists, but he said that after, so- "That's disgusting."
Spot laughed as he shrugged, focusing on the cement in front of him. "Live old, die young."
Davey understood that right away. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Little Richard", Spot smiled, chuckling when Davey rolled his eyes. "They call me the King of Brooklyn."
That name sounded familiar. He remembered when Jack explained very important Newsies in New York, and that included—his eyes widened. "So you're Spot Conlon?"
"Only one that I know of."
"What are you doing over here?"
"Jacky Boy and I go way back", Spot answers, looking around street corners. "And Race is my boy."
Davey smiled in knowledge, knowing exactly how he meant it. He decided not to say anything, knowing it would be hypocritical to do so.
They walked mostly in silence, kicking rocks around. Davey noticed how the cities streets became more disgusting as time went on. How the air went from fresh to mucky, how the people went from kind to cruel. It's the way of the world, I guess.
"You see him anywhere?" Davey looked at Spot, who was looking in alleyways and stores. "Damn it, if he ran off..."
"He'd run away?"
Spot turned to Davey in slight surprise, almost like he forgot he was there. He never met this kid until today, and he didn't plan on babysitting him long, but he sounded genuinely concerned. "Maybe. Maybe not. I can't tell for sure."
That sent Davey into a small panic. Surely, Jack wouldn't leave without telling him, right? Certainly not without him. Maybe the argument at Katherine's house was worse than he thought.
"Woah, woah, woah, hey", Spot says, walking up to him carefully. He didn't know how to handle a crying guy, or person, for that matter. "Uh, it's okay! You know, we's gonna find him, and you two will be reunited, and we'll all be happy, yeah?"
That seemed to calm Davey down a little, but not enough for the tears to stop racing down his cheeks. Spot looked ahead of him, seeing the people of New York City staring at them. "Come on, we really need to go."
Davey understood what he meant, to an extent. He doesn't go outside a lot—I don't really do much—but he held back his tears and his worries, and faced the streets of Manhattan.
Missing his thing.