Chalk it up to gender, sure, and masucline roles. Chalk it up to two guys never meant to be anything but friends who got each other off, to boys who were killing time until a woman came along and let them in her bed. And then, when those excuses don't hold up, chalk it up to rivalries. Chalk it up to Manhattan and Brooklyn, the two boroughs utterly incompatible, the distance immense when all you can afford to do is walk. Or maybe it's just maturity, growing up, hitting seventeen and knowing that you had to grow up. Knowing that Santa Fe was waiting and he couldn't waste time on anything else, even Conlon.
Maybe it's just that it's too hard to keep going without bringing emotions into it.
So they're not a thing, not at all. And yet tonight (nearly midnight, he thinks, and his body protests, knowing they have to wake in less than six hours, but there's nothing for it), it's towards the Brooklyn docks Jack stumbles. Not home. Not where Race and the others are waiting. They're good guys, great guys, but a leader can't afford to be weak. He can't afford to limp in, all bloody and soaked, his ribs cracked and his face all beaten.
So he goes to Brooklyn. It's a long story as to why he's so fucked up and how he managed to walk all this way, but the point is: he sticks to the alleys and the side streets, and sooner or later he reaches where Spot's boys linger. Even then, he doesn't show himself: just whistles, three rising notes that sound more like a bird's chirp than a signal. They'd invented it years ago.
The others look around, but that's fine. Just so long as it's Spot who recognizes it, and Spot and Spot alone who comes to see what Jacky boy wants at this late hour.]
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finally!!
Date: 2020-05-01 04:40 am (UTC)Chalk it up to gender, sure, and masucline roles. Chalk it up to two guys never meant to be anything but friends who got each other off, to boys who were killing time until a woman came along and let them in her bed. And then, when those excuses don't hold up, chalk it up to rivalries. Chalk it up to Manhattan and Brooklyn, the two boroughs utterly incompatible, the distance immense when all you can afford to do is walk. Or maybe it's just maturity, growing up, hitting seventeen and knowing that you had to grow up. Knowing that Santa Fe was waiting and he couldn't waste time on anything else, even Conlon.
Maybe it's just that it's too hard to keep going without bringing emotions into it.
So they're not a thing, not at all. And yet tonight (nearly midnight, he thinks, and his body protests, knowing they have to wake in less than six hours, but there's nothing for it), it's towards the Brooklyn docks Jack stumbles. Not home. Not where Race and the others are waiting. They're good guys, great guys, but a leader can't afford to be weak. He can't afford to limp in, all bloody and soaked, his ribs cracked and his face all beaten.
So he goes to Brooklyn. It's a long story as to why he's so fucked up and how he managed to walk all this way, but the point is: he sticks to the alleys and the side streets, and sooner or later he reaches where Spot's boys linger. Even then, he doesn't show himself: just whistles, three rising notes that sound more like a bird's chirp than a signal. They'd invented it years ago.
The others look around, but that's fine. Just so long as it's Spot who recognizes it, and Spot and Spot alone who comes to see what Jacky boy wants at this late hour.]