Prayers and Promises
By: Courtney aka the Jack Loving Misfit
Disclaimer: I don't anything, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. Nothing's mine, no profits, blah.
Warnings: Slash. But if you know me then you probably knew that already.
A/N: This is the sequel to my other slash story "Leaving You Behind" so to understand this story you should read that one first.
Dedications: To everyone who read LYB and reviewed, because you all rock!!!
* * *
Chapter One: New York's Not My Home (1908)
A man of about twenty-five jumped off the noisy train with ease. His very presence demanded attention and some strange sort of respect, and he had enough charm in his smile to make the few fluttery young women around him blush and whisper to one another. He was dressed in dark slacks and a white button down shirt with a loose collar. A gangster-like hat on top of his brown haired head completed the ensemble. Beside him on the ground was a black suitcase.
From the way he was searching the place with his dark eyes you wouldn't have believed that he had lived in New York until the age of seventeen. But this young man had indeed done just that. And after being gone for a long, drawn out eight years he was finally home.
Back to New York.
Taking his suitcase he walked down to the street and hailed a coach to take him into the heart of Manhattan. He had people he needed to talk too, people to see, people to - well, that'll come later.
"Just drop me off right here thanks," He said to the coach master although keeping his eyes directed in front of the building he had lived in for the better part of his childhood. His accent had faded into nothing other the years as he had learned people out west weren't too fond of the Easterners. Just one of the many surprises he encountered when he left.
"Ya sure sir? Dis is jist a newsies home?" He snickered as if the thought of newsies made him disgusted. The man frowned at his coach master and paid him without tip.
"I was a newsie here once," He said to the man, his eyes darkening slightly in contempt for the lack of tolerance some people had. Immediately the driver stopped his snickering and looked him up and down before coloring in embarrassment and nodding, graciously taking the money given to him without complaint.
Satisfied, the man walked up and into the lodging house almost colliding with two young fighting newsies. He grinned at the sight relishing how much he missed his own old friends and the playful and sometimes not so playful fights they indulged in.
"Hey break it up kids," He said pulling the taller boy off of the much younger looking one. Both boys looked up at him with confusion and mistrust.
"Who da 'ell are youse?" The bigger one asked, ripping himself from his hands and going to stand next to the other boy defiantly. He looked down at the kids with a raised eyebrow and his patented smirk.
"A friend. You guy's have an idea were I could talk to Racetrack Higgins?" He asked bending at the waist to speak with them at eye level. Both looked at him a bit strangely and were about to answer when a voice above them spoke.
"I'se Higgins. But ain't nobody called me Racetrack in a while. Dare somethin I'se can do fer ya mistah?" The deep and accented voice asked. The man raised his eyes to the man standing just behind the boys and he stood back to his original 6'2 height. (Tall in them days)
"Race, youse 'aven't changed a bit," He said taking in the sight of his old friend before him. He hadn't grown a whole lot, (he might be 5'8 on a good day) and he still looked younger than he was, with the exception of his eyes which have seemed to have aged a hundred years since he'd last seen them.
"Dat's nice ta know. Wanna know somethin else dat would be nice? If I'se knew who youse was," Race said in that slightly sarcastic, yet not offense, tone of his. Which just made the man smile wider.
The man took off his hat and dropped it on the counter beside them. His hair was the same length and style as it had been eight years earlier and he figured without the hat he would be easier to recognize.
"Come on Race, think hard. You know me," He said in an amused voice. Race leaned over a little to get a better look at the man in front of him. He did recognize him. Brown hair falling in his eyes slightly, an impish smirk covering his lips, dark brown eyes. . . Race's eyes flew open wide in realization and he dropped open his jaw some as well.
"Jack?" He asked slowly, cautiously. From the smile that spread from his mouth to his eyes Race knew he was right. He barreled over his newsies in the rush to hug his old friend.
When the two older men parted, Race felt his jacket being tugged slightly from his side, they looked down to see one of the boys from earlier, nicknamed Scrap, looking at him in confusion and a need to understand.
"Mr. Higgins, who is dat?" He asked softly. But Jack still heard.
Race smiled and crouched down til he was resting on his toes and pointed to Jack before explaining. "Dis jist happens ta be a good friend of mine. Youse probably heard of him befoah, Jack Kelly?"
The young boy's eyes grew wide and looked over at Jack with a gaped openly shocked expression on his face. The older boy beside him looked just as surprised. Since they were young, from the moment they stepped foot into the Manhattan lodging house they had heard of Jack Kelly, the most famous leader in those parts, the one who led the strike of 1899. He was a living legend in their young eyes, much the same way Spot Conlon was to the Brooklyn boys now. Of course, with Jack gone (as they had heard, out west) none of them had ever figured they'd get to meet him. And here he was standing in front of them. Breathing and everything.
"Youse really Jack Kelly?" Scrap asked, the shocked look still adorning his face.
"Last time I checked," Jack laughed at the sight of both boys.
The boys turned to each other then made a mad dash to the bunk house where, no doubt, the rest of the boys were probably residing. Sighing, Race led Jack inside the familiar house and over to a more secluded area so they could talk some before all the boys were down the stairs and looking for their hero.
"When did ya get back Jack?" Race asked in a low voice. That was another thing that had changed about him, his voice had gotten deeper and a little raspier. Probably from yelling at all those young newsies day in and out.
"Just today. This was the first place I came too, heard you were the head now," Jack explained, leaning back into the chair Race had offered him. Race smiled fondly and nodded as if he understood everything without hearing a thing.
"Yeah, four years now. . ." He trailed off and brought his eyes up to Jack's face. Studying it. Jack hadn't changed all that much. He looked older, yes, but if you looked into his eyes you could still see that seventeen year old newsie with the quick tongue and charismatic ways. No matter what, he was still Jack.
"Four years. God, and I've been gone for eight. That's a long time. Longer than I noticed, the time flies down in the south," He shook his head. He had meant to come home earlier, but he had never found a good time, and his job hadn't really allowed any away time. At least not to a place as far away as New York.
"Yeah, it is a long time. What ya been doing wit yerself all dis time anyways?" Race asked, genuinely wanting to now.
"Oh, this and that. I got a job down there, didn't even need the training they told me. I was a natural."
"Job? Doing what?"
"Writing. The Phoenix Press," He grinned as Race laughed out loud. Of course Jack would turn out to be a writer, and for a newspaper now less. He just seemed made for the business. Improving the truth and all.
"I'se see ya lost yer accent," Race commented, raising an eyebrow. Jack's smile faltered, but not by much.
"Yeah, well, the western people didn't like us easterners, so I dropped the accent. Pretended I was from Chicago," He said, twisting his hands uselessly in his lap.
"Youse always was a good actor dere Jack."
"What's THAT suppose to mean?"
"Nuthin, don' take it personal. So, uh, youse 'ere long? Or jist passin through on some mission or somethin?" Race asked, changing the subject. Jack relaxed at the change and a broad smile ripped through his lips once again.
"I'm staying. For good. The Times offered me a better paying job and I jumped at the chance. Though I probably would've taken it for as much money as I was making with the press," Jack mused as he answered. Race's eyes widened slightly upon hearing the news of Jack's moving back permanently.
"Youse serious Jack? Youse ain't playin wit me mind are ya's?" He questioned in shock, narrowing his eyes at the man in front of him.
"Now, Racetrack, would I ever do that?" He replied innocently, looking at him through long eyelashes. The expression was enough to get a grin out of Race's face.
"Yes. But I'se 'ill take yer word fer it. And welcome back," He leaned over and hugged Jack again.
"Glad to be back," He answered letting go of his old best friend.
"See! I'se told ya lunkheads 'e was 'ere! It really is Jack Kelly!" Voices from the side break the two grown-up's thoughts and anything else they may have to say to each other died on their tongues, as they turned to look at the squirmy teens looking at them with wide and anxious eyes.
Race smirked and rolled his eyes at their tension filled stances, as if they were trying to pass some sort of inspection. He knew how much they looked up to Jack, even without knowing what he looked like (besides a few descriptions) and knew they were trying to seem more adult in front of him. Of course, since Race knew him so well it was still hard for him to believe or comprehend how you could think of him as some sort of god or something. His boys and Brooklyn's boys often got into fights over who was better, Jack or Spot. Brooklyn always won, simply because they would yell, 'well, where is this Kelly? Or that's right he left didn't he'. The fights would be coming quicker now that Jack was back.
Things could definitely get interesting real fast.
"You boys shouldn't bother Jack tonight. Or maybe 'e won' stay. Dere's always tomorrow ta see 'im," Race said finally, Jack throwing him a grateful and slightly tired look.
"Aw, but Mr. Higgins, we ain't neveah seen nobody like Jack befoah. Jist because youse knows 'im an' all -
"Youse right, I'se do know 'im. An' I'se knows jist how nasty 'e is in da morning if 'e don' get 'is beauty sleep," Race cut the young newsie off. And also gained a mocking glare from Jack for the 'beauty sleep' comment.
"But -
"I'se ain't arguing no more. Now go," He pointed in the direction of the stairs which led to the bunks. The kids grumped and cursed under their breaths but did as they were told with the promise of seeing Jack tomorrow. After the last one had disappeared from view, Jack left out a long breath.
"Thanks Race, I am pretty tired. Boy, were we like that when we were that young?" He asked although he already knew the answer.
"I'se would imagine so. Besides, it ain't every day dat dare hero, Jack Kelly, da strike leadeah 'imself comes ta town," Race said wiggling his eyebrows a little. Inciting a laugh and punch in the arm from the strong man.
"Don't remind me. I didn't think I was that big around here."
"You are. Even more so den dey're lettin on."
"Right."
Race looked down at Jack and bit his lips some as if deciding to ask him something. "'Ay, Jack, youse got any place ta stay?" He asked slowly.
"Nah. . . like I said, I came straight here after leaving the station. Why?"
"Youse wouldn' want ta stay 'ere would ya? Fer old times sake and all dat other BS?" Race said waving a hand in the air as if to pinpoint exactly what he meant with a couple simple gestures.
Jack tilted his head to the side, to consider the proposal then broke out in a smile. "Did ya really have to ask?"
"Knowing you, probably not," Race commented dryly.
Jack picked up his suitcase and followed Race through the building to one of the rooms that was small, but cozy. It had a bed, a dresser and a mirror above that. Race's room was attached to that, separated by a wall and a door. He dropped his case beside the dresser and flopped down on the bed while Race casually sat on the edge looking down at Jack. Another question posed on his lips, and an uncertain look on his face. It made me look younger.
"Something wrong Race?"
"Um, no not really. I'se was jist wonderin. . . youse stayin 'ere fer good an' all, I'se was jist thinkin dat youse couldn' avoid. . . damnit, dis is hard ta say," Race took a breath and shook his head. Jack gave him a worried look and sat up so that he was more eye level with Race.
"What are you talking about?"
" 'E's still in Brooklyn ya know."
Jack stiffened. His whole body freezing to the very place were he was sitting. He felt his muscles get tight and his eyes go cloudy. He knew exactly how Race was talking about. And he was almost wondering how long it would take someone to mention his name or at least his presence, around him. Well, it hadn't taken that long.
"I could've guessed."
"How long you plannin ta avoid 'im?" The question asked with sincerity.
"I don' know Race. I mean, it's been eight years. . . he's probably got a wife, or girlfriend, or kids or something. Right?"
The expression that passed or Race's face was enough to almost break his heart. He just stared down at the mattress below them, then brought his eyes slowly back up to Jack's, meeting them. His own eyes clouding over.
"Yer right Jack, it has been eight years. But, uh, 'e ain't got no wife. 'Er girlfriend fer dat mattah. 'E ain't had nuthin but meaningless flings dat I'se 'ave known about anyways," He explained, then broke his gaze and began twirling his fingers in his own grip. "I'se always kinda figured youse would 'ave kids an such 'dough."
"Single as they come," Jack answered half-heartedly, but not smiling. He let Racetrack's words roll in his mind.
No wife.
No girlfriend.
No kids.
Meaningless flings.
Eight years. . .
"Youse are probably tired, an' I'se shouldn' be bodering youse. So, I'se 'ill go ta bed too," He said finally, but keeping his eyes away from Jack, his face bent downward so Jack could no longer get a good look at it. Not that he needed too, he could only imagine what he looked like.
He caught Race's wrist as he brushed by him to the door that would lead to his own room. He looked up at his friends face and licked his lips nervously.
"What do you think I should do?"
Race sighed, and shook his head, then ran a hand through his inky black hair. "I'se don' know Jack. I'se honestly don' know. But, uh, try not ta avoid 'im fer too long, okay?"
Jack nodded and let go of the wrist and watched as he slipped through the door, shutting it with a quiet click. He fell back onto the bed soundlessly, his head hitting the pillow with gentle ease and making his weary eyes close. But images and emotion and feelings flooded his mind and body then. Speeding up his pulse, and making his heart beat quicker. So quick he thought it might burst from the pressure. Fantasies, and actual events blurring into each other, melting into his brain.
Race was right. He shouldn't avoid him for too long. He was bound to find out he was back in town soon and the prolonged visiting could hurt him, or make no difference to him, who knew how he felt after eight years? Outta sight, outta mind, right?
That may be the case for Spot, but for Jack Kelly the appropriate saying was something more along the lines of 'absence makes the heart grow stronger'.
By: Courtney aka the Jack Loving Misfit
Disclaimer: I don't anything, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. Nothing's mine, no profits, blah.
Warnings: Slash. But if you know me then you probably knew that already.
A/N: This is the sequel to my other slash story "Leaving You Behind" so to understand this story you should read that one first.
Dedications: To everyone who read LYB and reviewed, because you all rock!!!
* * *
Chapter One: New York's Not My Home (1908)
A man of about twenty-five jumped off the noisy train with ease. His very presence demanded attention and some strange sort of respect, and he had enough charm in his smile to make the few fluttery young women around him blush and whisper to one another. He was dressed in dark slacks and a white button down shirt with a loose collar. A gangster-like hat on top of his brown haired head completed the ensemble. Beside him on the ground was a black suitcase.
From the way he was searching the place with his dark eyes you wouldn't have believed that he had lived in New York until the age of seventeen. But this young man had indeed done just that. And after being gone for a long, drawn out eight years he was finally home.
Back to New York.
Taking his suitcase he walked down to the street and hailed a coach to take him into the heart of Manhattan. He had people he needed to talk too, people to see, people to - well, that'll come later.
"Just drop me off right here thanks," He said to the coach master although keeping his eyes directed in front of the building he had lived in for the better part of his childhood. His accent had faded into nothing other the years as he had learned people out west weren't too fond of the Easterners. Just one of the many surprises he encountered when he left.
"Ya sure sir? Dis is jist a newsies home?" He snickered as if the thought of newsies made him disgusted. The man frowned at his coach master and paid him without tip.
"I was a newsie here once," He said to the man, his eyes darkening slightly in contempt for the lack of tolerance some people had. Immediately the driver stopped his snickering and looked him up and down before coloring in embarrassment and nodding, graciously taking the money given to him without complaint.
Satisfied, the man walked up and into the lodging house almost colliding with two young fighting newsies. He grinned at the sight relishing how much he missed his own old friends and the playful and sometimes not so playful fights they indulged in.
"Hey break it up kids," He said pulling the taller boy off of the much younger looking one. Both boys looked up at him with confusion and mistrust.
"Who da 'ell are youse?" The bigger one asked, ripping himself from his hands and going to stand next to the other boy defiantly. He looked down at the kids with a raised eyebrow and his patented smirk.
"A friend. You guy's have an idea were I could talk to Racetrack Higgins?" He asked bending at the waist to speak with them at eye level. Both looked at him a bit strangely and were about to answer when a voice above them spoke.
"I'se Higgins. But ain't nobody called me Racetrack in a while. Dare somethin I'se can do fer ya mistah?" The deep and accented voice asked. The man raised his eyes to the man standing just behind the boys and he stood back to his original 6'2 height. (Tall in them days)
"Race, youse 'aven't changed a bit," He said taking in the sight of his old friend before him. He hadn't grown a whole lot, (he might be 5'8 on a good day) and he still looked younger than he was, with the exception of his eyes which have seemed to have aged a hundred years since he'd last seen them.
"Dat's nice ta know. Wanna know somethin else dat would be nice? If I'se knew who youse was," Race said in that slightly sarcastic, yet not offense, tone of his. Which just made the man smile wider.
The man took off his hat and dropped it on the counter beside them. His hair was the same length and style as it had been eight years earlier and he figured without the hat he would be easier to recognize.
"Come on Race, think hard. You know me," He said in an amused voice. Race leaned over a little to get a better look at the man in front of him. He did recognize him. Brown hair falling in his eyes slightly, an impish smirk covering his lips, dark brown eyes. . . Race's eyes flew open wide in realization and he dropped open his jaw some as well.
"Jack?" He asked slowly, cautiously. From the smile that spread from his mouth to his eyes Race knew he was right. He barreled over his newsies in the rush to hug his old friend.
When the two older men parted, Race felt his jacket being tugged slightly from his side, they looked down to see one of the boys from earlier, nicknamed Scrap, looking at him in confusion and a need to understand.
"Mr. Higgins, who is dat?" He asked softly. But Jack still heard.
Race smiled and crouched down til he was resting on his toes and pointed to Jack before explaining. "Dis jist happens ta be a good friend of mine. Youse probably heard of him befoah, Jack Kelly?"
The young boy's eyes grew wide and looked over at Jack with a gaped openly shocked expression on his face. The older boy beside him looked just as surprised. Since they were young, from the moment they stepped foot into the Manhattan lodging house they had heard of Jack Kelly, the most famous leader in those parts, the one who led the strike of 1899. He was a living legend in their young eyes, much the same way Spot Conlon was to the Brooklyn boys now. Of course, with Jack gone (as they had heard, out west) none of them had ever figured they'd get to meet him. And here he was standing in front of them. Breathing and everything.
"Youse really Jack Kelly?" Scrap asked, the shocked look still adorning his face.
"Last time I checked," Jack laughed at the sight of both boys.
The boys turned to each other then made a mad dash to the bunk house where, no doubt, the rest of the boys were probably residing. Sighing, Race led Jack inside the familiar house and over to a more secluded area so they could talk some before all the boys were down the stairs and looking for their hero.
"When did ya get back Jack?" Race asked in a low voice. That was another thing that had changed about him, his voice had gotten deeper and a little raspier. Probably from yelling at all those young newsies day in and out.
"Just today. This was the first place I came too, heard you were the head now," Jack explained, leaning back into the chair Race had offered him. Race smiled fondly and nodded as if he understood everything without hearing a thing.
"Yeah, four years now. . ." He trailed off and brought his eyes up to Jack's face. Studying it. Jack hadn't changed all that much. He looked older, yes, but if you looked into his eyes you could still see that seventeen year old newsie with the quick tongue and charismatic ways. No matter what, he was still Jack.
"Four years. God, and I've been gone for eight. That's a long time. Longer than I noticed, the time flies down in the south," He shook his head. He had meant to come home earlier, but he had never found a good time, and his job hadn't really allowed any away time. At least not to a place as far away as New York.
"Yeah, it is a long time. What ya been doing wit yerself all dis time anyways?" Race asked, genuinely wanting to now.
"Oh, this and that. I got a job down there, didn't even need the training they told me. I was a natural."
"Job? Doing what?"
"Writing. The Phoenix Press," He grinned as Race laughed out loud. Of course Jack would turn out to be a writer, and for a newspaper now less. He just seemed made for the business. Improving the truth and all.
"I'se see ya lost yer accent," Race commented, raising an eyebrow. Jack's smile faltered, but not by much.
"Yeah, well, the western people didn't like us easterners, so I dropped the accent. Pretended I was from Chicago," He said, twisting his hands uselessly in his lap.
"Youse always was a good actor dere Jack."
"What's THAT suppose to mean?"
"Nuthin, don' take it personal. So, uh, youse 'ere long? Or jist passin through on some mission or somethin?" Race asked, changing the subject. Jack relaxed at the change and a broad smile ripped through his lips once again.
"I'm staying. For good. The Times offered me a better paying job and I jumped at the chance. Though I probably would've taken it for as much money as I was making with the press," Jack mused as he answered. Race's eyes widened slightly upon hearing the news of Jack's moving back permanently.
"Youse serious Jack? Youse ain't playin wit me mind are ya's?" He questioned in shock, narrowing his eyes at the man in front of him.
"Now, Racetrack, would I ever do that?" He replied innocently, looking at him through long eyelashes. The expression was enough to get a grin out of Race's face.
"Yes. But I'se 'ill take yer word fer it. And welcome back," He leaned over and hugged Jack again.
"Glad to be back," He answered letting go of his old best friend.
"See! I'se told ya lunkheads 'e was 'ere! It really is Jack Kelly!" Voices from the side break the two grown-up's thoughts and anything else they may have to say to each other died on their tongues, as they turned to look at the squirmy teens looking at them with wide and anxious eyes.
Race smirked and rolled his eyes at their tension filled stances, as if they were trying to pass some sort of inspection. He knew how much they looked up to Jack, even without knowing what he looked like (besides a few descriptions) and knew they were trying to seem more adult in front of him. Of course, since Race knew him so well it was still hard for him to believe or comprehend how you could think of him as some sort of god or something. His boys and Brooklyn's boys often got into fights over who was better, Jack or Spot. Brooklyn always won, simply because they would yell, 'well, where is this Kelly? Or that's right he left didn't he'. The fights would be coming quicker now that Jack was back.
Things could definitely get interesting real fast.
"You boys shouldn't bother Jack tonight. Or maybe 'e won' stay. Dere's always tomorrow ta see 'im," Race said finally, Jack throwing him a grateful and slightly tired look.
"Aw, but Mr. Higgins, we ain't neveah seen nobody like Jack befoah. Jist because youse knows 'im an' all -
"Youse right, I'se do know 'im. An' I'se knows jist how nasty 'e is in da morning if 'e don' get 'is beauty sleep," Race cut the young newsie off. And also gained a mocking glare from Jack for the 'beauty sleep' comment.
"But -
"I'se ain't arguing no more. Now go," He pointed in the direction of the stairs which led to the bunks. The kids grumped and cursed under their breaths but did as they were told with the promise of seeing Jack tomorrow. After the last one had disappeared from view, Jack left out a long breath.
"Thanks Race, I am pretty tired. Boy, were we like that when we were that young?" He asked although he already knew the answer.
"I'se would imagine so. Besides, it ain't every day dat dare hero, Jack Kelly, da strike leadeah 'imself comes ta town," Race said wiggling his eyebrows a little. Inciting a laugh and punch in the arm from the strong man.
"Don't remind me. I didn't think I was that big around here."
"You are. Even more so den dey're lettin on."
"Right."
Race looked down at Jack and bit his lips some as if deciding to ask him something. "'Ay, Jack, youse got any place ta stay?" He asked slowly.
"Nah. . . like I said, I came straight here after leaving the station. Why?"
"Youse wouldn' want ta stay 'ere would ya? Fer old times sake and all dat other BS?" Race said waving a hand in the air as if to pinpoint exactly what he meant with a couple simple gestures.
Jack tilted his head to the side, to consider the proposal then broke out in a smile. "Did ya really have to ask?"
"Knowing you, probably not," Race commented dryly.
Jack picked up his suitcase and followed Race through the building to one of the rooms that was small, but cozy. It had a bed, a dresser and a mirror above that. Race's room was attached to that, separated by a wall and a door. He dropped his case beside the dresser and flopped down on the bed while Race casually sat on the edge looking down at Jack. Another question posed on his lips, and an uncertain look on his face. It made me look younger.
"Something wrong Race?"
"Um, no not really. I'se was jist wonderin. . . youse stayin 'ere fer good an' all, I'se was jist thinkin dat youse couldn' avoid. . . damnit, dis is hard ta say," Race took a breath and shook his head. Jack gave him a worried look and sat up so that he was more eye level with Race.
"What are you talking about?"
" 'E's still in Brooklyn ya know."
Jack stiffened. His whole body freezing to the very place were he was sitting. He felt his muscles get tight and his eyes go cloudy. He knew exactly how Race was talking about. And he was almost wondering how long it would take someone to mention his name or at least his presence, around him. Well, it hadn't taken that long.
"I could've guessed."
"How long you plannin ta avoid 'im?" The question asked with sincerity.
"I don' know Race. I mean, it's been eight years. . . he's probably got a wife, or girlfriend, or kids or something. Right?"
The expression that passed or Race's face was enough to almost break his heart. He just stared down at the mattress below them, then brought his eyes slowly back up to Jack's, meeting them. His own eyes clouding over.
"Yer right Jack, it has been eight years. But, uh, 'e ain't got no wife. 'Er girlfriend fer dat mattah. 'E ain't had nuthin but meaningless flings dat I'se 'ave known about anyways," He explained, then broke his gaze and began twirling his fingers in his own grip. "I'se always kinda figured youse would 'ave kids an such 'dough."
"Single as they come," Jack answered half-heartedly, but not smiling. He let Racetrack's words roll in his mind.
No wife.
No girlfriend.
No kids.
Meaningless flings.
Eight years. . .
"Youse are probably tired, an' I'se shouldn' be bodering youse. So, I'se 'ill go ta bed too," He said finally, but keeping his eyes away from Jack, his face bent downward so Jack could no longer get a good look at it. Not that he needed too, he could only imagine what he looked like.
He caught Race's wrist as he brushed by him to the door that would lead to his own room. He looked up at his friends face and licked his lips nervously.
"What do you think I should do?"
Race sighed, and shook his head, then ran a hand through his inky black hair. "I'se don' know Jack. I'se honestly don' know. But, uh, try not ta avoid 'im fer too long, okay?"
Jack nodded and let go of the wrist and watched as he slipped through the door, shutting it with a quiet click. He fell back onto the bed soundlessly, his head hitting the pillow with gentle ease and making his weary eyes close. But images and emotion and feelings flooded his mind and body then. Speeding up his pulse, and making his heart beat quicker. So quick he thought it might burst from the pressure. Fantasies, and actual events blurring into each other, melting into his brain.
Race was right. He shouldn't avoid him for too long. He was bound to find out he was back in town soon and the prolonged visiting could hurt him, or make no difference to him, who knew how he felt after eight years? Outta sight, outta mind, right?
That may be the case for Spot, but for Jack Kelly the appropriate saying was something more along the lines of 'absence makes the heart grow stronger'.