Random Imagines - Requests open

Jack Kelly ⚠️ GN

Jack Kelly x Gender Neutral Reader

Angst (?)

Inspired by the song '' by Ghost of Paul Revere

It's not that in-character for Jack, but I wanted to do it with the Newsies and he was the only guy I could think of while writing it- this has been in drafts for weeks.

Y'know, at first it took him a while to fully open up to you. It didn't matter how many times you'd find him wandering the Manhattan streets alone during those first 3 months of the relationship, he'd would always brush off any questions, throw an arm around your shoulder and a kiss to your cheek, and continue on with a sly change of subject.

You wanted him to trust you, truly. In fact you remember secretly being glad when he opened up to you for the first time.

But now that he finally did, you realize that perhaps you should've been more specific when you said "you can always come to me- always".

Nearly every night of the week, he'd climb in through the window with a whole speech ready about something he did not agree with that day.

"Conlon keeps selling on the bridge- we agreed against it!"

"These greedy old rich guys can't appreciate talent"

"They should be raising the price for customers- not the kids tryna sell em. Pulitzer must be patting himself on the back now, huh."

On and on all the time about the same things, over and over. You had meant maybe when he was feeling down, needed a cheering up. Not angrily planning entire protests against the rich.

But, he was your partner and you loved him. To you- if you didn't let him rant about these things then what kind of lover where you?

But..though you tried reminding yourself of that everytime he swung one leg over the window sill, angrily glaring, you knew this couldn't keep up much longer.

You were burnt out, all out of encouragement. Compared to Jack, constantly running off adrenaline and that darn "peppy news-boy" front, you were the tired, "try-hard" one.

While he paced around your small room, dirt from his shoes sticking to your carpet, letting out frustrations he couldn't in front of the other newsies, you could do nothing more then sit on your bed and wait for him to finish. Whenever he came in real late at night, which was often, you'd lean against the wall and watch through half lidded eyes- with nothing more to offer than "mhm" and "yeah, I get that sweetheart but..."

Sometimes he'd get sick of it as well- giving an attitude to you about "not listening." Before finally, slipping under the covers and tugging you into his chest.

That was what used to be your favorite part.

Until you realized, that was the only time he seemed to care.

It seemed now that he had someone to vent to, that was your only use. He used to always have you at his side, now he rarely talked to you during the day.

You used to have in-depth conversations about the sunset, comparing the one on the bridge to the one in Santa Fe. Then that evolved into you feeding into his lengthy, midnight paragraphs. Now it was nothing.

You used to go to Medda's shows, getting the best seats in the house and dancing wildly to her songs. Now you barely remembered how to dance at all.

You were a journal, with pages filled up with inky words and nonsense. The leather cover was dented and scratched, pages yellowing in age as you slowly ran out of room to be written in.

And Jack held the pen.

Perhaps if you told him what was wrong. He might stop, or he might continue. Maybe he'd get mad at you. Probably.

He was out at Medda's at the moment, with the other newsies. You didn't mind; you hoped he stayed there a bit longer. Maybe if the show ran real late, you could slip into sleep before he could climb up onto your fire escape again.

'Oh god, I'm horrible...'

You grimace, rolling over in your bed and onto your side. Jack didn't deserve that, he was just trying to get some frustrations out. He worked hard, giving everything he could to those newsies.

.

.

Perhaps you just wanted him to leave something to give for you.

A loud creak comes from your window, and when you looked over through your blurry eyes, you could see Jack stepping into the room, once again. Your hand crawls up to your face, covering your cheeks to block the salty tracks of your tears.

Words shot from his mouth, though you were unsure if they were angry, confused, etc. You blocked him out.

It didn't matter none the less, the words weren't processing in your tired brain.

Though it wasn't hard for you to see, that Jack seemed to not notice he was simply talking to a brick wall, of his own creation.