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Jack didn’t know the word for it until Davey came along. He just figured it was something everyone went through, this dark, cold feeling. It was cold, papers sold slowly, he didn’t have a proper coat, and even with his extra job as a political cartoonist, he didn’t get much money.
It was obvious that he’d feel like this, then. Like it was harder to get up in the morning (clearly, since his blanket was the one protection he had against the cold) and he didn’t have as much excitement (hard to be excited about things when it’s harder to live meal to meal) and he sometimes felt like just completely giving up (it’s a normal thing for the other newsies when things get tough).
But he was Jack Kelly, leader of the Newsboy Union, artist extraordinaire, he couldn’t afford to be like this.
Everyone knew Jack got like this around wintertime. Romeo thought he was pining after Katherine. Her father had shipped her off to some winter home down south, and although she wrote to him, he couldn’t afford postage. They’d broken off whatever their relationship was over the summer months. Jack felt less sad about that then he probably should have.
Race said it was because it was cold. He’d been the one to find Jack throwing his now frozen paints at the wall in the Bowery Theatre. He’d been holed up in there for the past two hours after dark— that was only at about four o’clock, anyways— and he was getting frustrated. Race had almost gotten hit by one, a dark blue, when he walked in the door. After cussing Jack out for being dumb and reckless, in a totally annoying, hypocritical Racetrack way, he proceeded to give an oddly heartwarming speech about how the cold would pass and how they didn’t care if he didn’t sell as many papes. It didn’t help.
It was Davey who said it.
“Jack, you’ve got seasonal depression.”
That made him scoff. “I ain’t depressed. That’s for people who get chucked in the loony bin ‘cause they tried to off themselves.” It was pretty much true. He knew newsies who had been depressed. Hard to forget someone who jumped off Brooklyn Bridge when you were twelve.
“It’s not like that.” Davey was stretched out on the Bowery floor— he technically didn’t sell with the Newsies anymore, except on weekends. He was currently working on some fancy, smart kid work Jack had no clue about. Probably Latin or something. “I mean, sometimes it is. But a researcher put out a study about it in the paper a while ago. It talks about how some people get depressed during winter, and that it’s a normal thing.” Davey spoke in a way that he was sure of himself. “You get upset more easily, and you feel tired often, and it doesn’t always mean you want to off yourself. It just means your brain doesn’t work quite right.”
“Are you calling me dumb, Dave?” That was supposed to be a joke, but it came out bitter and cynical. Most of his words did now, he couldn’t help it. That’s just another reason to add to the list of ‘Reasons He Kept Crutchie Around.’ He evened out Jack’s reckless optimism and even more reckless cynicism.
“I’m not saying you’re dumb, Jackie. I’m saying you’re sick.” Davey shut his book, shoving it in his bag as he sat up, looking at Jack’s painting. It was more of a mess of paints with a slight shape to them of a meadowed field. “I’m not gonna tell you to go to an institution or anything. I’m just saying it makes sense.”
“I’m not gonna off myself, Dave.” He muttered, angrily swiping the paintbrush across the canvas.
“I didn’t say you were going to.” Davey said gently, stepping closer to him. “Look, Jack, it’s okay to feel like this.”
“It don’t feel okay!” He burst out, his paintbrush jerking off it’s path. Shit, he’d have to cover that up somehow. He wiped his cheek, smearing a green streak across his face. “It feels like shit. I don’t even wanna paint anymore some days. I can’t do anything right, I can’t do anything fun with the fellas without bringin’ them down, I can’t even get up ‘cause I’m so lazy, and on top o’ all that, I feel like dyin’ pretty much all the time.”
There was silence for a little while, until Jack decided to fill it. “It’s like I can’t even work right. Like— like I’m s’posed to be me, but nothing works. I don’ even feel like Jack half the time. I’m supposed to take care of all the guys, I’m supposed to be their leader and I can’t do it, Dave. We almost lost one of the little ones to the cold, and I tried to help, but I just— I couldn’t do it. None of my words came out right. An’ I know I’m bad with words, ‘cause that’s your job, but I can at least keep my kids from cryin’ usually. If I can’t do that right, what can I do right?”
He was on a tangent now, turning his green streak into another hill in the background as he talked. He seemed to have forgotten Davey there, his mouth shut for once. “My brain’s all messed up. I’ll do somethin’ wrong, and it’ll tell me that everything I ever do is wrong, an’ all the guys hate me, and— and that if I ran off to Santa Fe or just disappeared or—“ He wouldn’t say died. He wasn’t suicidal. He couldn’t be. “If I just ran off somewhere, no one would care. Kath didn’t wanna stick around more than a month, my mom skipped out on me when I was a little kid, and Dad only gave me enough smarts to realize he was a good-for-nothing drunk.” His brush strokes were more and more erratic now. “It fuckin’ hurts, Dave. I just want it all to stop, but I can’t let it stop me, ‘cause I gotta be the strong one. I always gotta be the strong one, but I just want a goddamn break!”
He stopped talking, breath heaving. He didn’t know when he’d started crying, and he brushed his tears away angrily, shoving his paintbrush in the can and dropping to the floor, leaning against the bottom of his canvas, which was, thankfully, paint-free. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Davey said, sitting next to him. He’d stopped caring about the neatness of his clothes as much, since the strike. “Did it help, talking about it?” He asked gently.
Jack was quiet for a moment. It did feel kind of nice, knowing that someone had actually listened. And David listening was even better. Davey had some magical quality about him that made it so easy to talk to him. He knew exactly what to say to make Jack feel a little less stupid. “A little bit.” He muttered, before shifting closer. He leaned his head on Davey’s shoulder, before he really thought about it. “Thanks, Dave.”
Jack closed his eyes, not even opening them when he felt Davey’s hand running through his hair. Some part of his brain mumbled something about this being a bad idea, but he’d already decided to fuck societal norms with the strike. He could afford a little warm feeling in his heart when Davey stroked his hair.
“I ain’t leaving my best friend alone, got that? And if it ever gets worse, just come find me. You know where my house is, and I’ll always come to the balcony for you.” Davey said, and Jack could hear the smile in his voice. It was enough to make him feel just that little bit better.
Jack nodded. “So… I don’t gotta go to the nuthouse?”
“No, don’t think so.” Davey said with a soft laugh. “You’re not totally insane.”
“You’re talkin’ to the guy who went against Joseph Pulitzer and won.” Jack seemed to slip into his comfortable joking around, although it was a little jilted. It didn’t quite work, but something about sitting on the Bowery floor with David Jacobs and the smell of wet paint made it seem a little more real.
“I said totally, Jacky. Everyone’s a little bit crazy.” Davey was quiet for a moment. “Y’know, you don’t have to do everything alone. I’m here to help, and I’m sure the others will help you out, even if they don’t know about this.” His hand stilled for a moment. “You don’t have to be the only one taking care of everybody. I’m sure that the other guys would chip in if you asked them to, they’re always ready to help out. And Miss Medda won’t be upset if you can’t paint as much.”
There was a slight pressure on Jack’s forehead, soft and warm, and he went pink. Had Davey just... “And I’ll help out when I can. I know I ain’t a full time newsie anymore, but I can help you with anything you need. I lo—“ The words stopped, and Davey cleared his throat. “I really care about you, and if there’s anything I can do…” He trailed off, and Jack took the leap of faith, taking Davey’s hand, opening his eyes just enough to see.
“Thanks, Davey.” He said again, more sincerely.
A lot of things went unspoken in the moments they spent there, curled on the backstage floor of the Bowery Theater. If Miss Medda found them there in the morning, hands barely an inch from each other, fast asleep, she didn’t say anything when she woke them up and sent them on their way with a warm cup of coffee, and if Jack was a little better than he was the day before, then so be it.
It wasn’t going to be an easy winter, Jack knew. But with a word to describe it, and just a little bit of help from the other newsies, he hoped it wouldn’t be that bad this year.