That title just fills me with happiness. Because yes, a theatre is one of my favorite places to be.

I just hope I write this chapter right. And guess what? I need to incorporate ANOTHER THING into Jack's backstory that I forgot IN HIS BACKSTORY CHAPTER. *Sigh*

Enjoy! :)

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Jack loves watching Medda perform pretty much more than anything else. The only thing better than watching Medda perform is watching Medda perform with David at his side.

It was maybe last month when they first met mid July when Jack took David to see Medda that he first realized that he liked David. He was so excited to share this part of him with David. And David loved the show. And that was that for Jack and his emotions.

And it was only the first day they knew each other.

Jack is so glad that now he has David by his side, and they're watching Medda perform again.

When she's done, they are the loudest people cheering and clapping.

They greet her with big smiles when she comes backstage.

"So how'd you like that?" she asks them, with a grand smile herself.

"It was great!" Jack hugs her. Almost every time he sees her, there's an embrace somewhere in their meeting.

For as long as Jack has known Medda, she has always made him feel safe.

He wasn't lying to David when he said that she was a friend of his father's. They were in fact friends. And that's how Jack met Medda. Back when he went by his old name. When she found out about when he first wanted to dress like a boy, she supported him whole-heartedly. She was one of the first ones to refer to him as Jack Kelly too. When Jack has had no one, he's had Medda. And he's glad that that won't change any time soon.

In another part of the city, Race and Spot are walking over to Manhattan from the Brooklyn Bridge, holding hands. They just finished gambling at Sheepshead. Spot insisted on walking Race home. Race thought that was very sweet.

They talk about all they can think about. It's going well.

Race is content with how things are.

But for some reason, someone up there in the heavens doesn't want him to be happy.

"You didn't think we'd leave you alone forever, would you?"

Race and Spot stop.

The Delanceys.

No.

Breathe, Race tells himself. No need to panic. Just breathe. Stand your ground. Hold your head high. They won't hurt you. Everything will turn out alright.

He squares his shoulders. "I'm not afraid of you."

"The tremble in your voice says otherwise," Oscar sneers.

Spot holds out his fists. "If you want him, you're going to have to go through me to get him. And we all remember how that went last time."

Race wants to smile. He's so proud of Spot. That's my boyfriend.

Well. Sort of boyfriend. They haven't used terms yet.

But that's not what's important at the moment.

Spot narrows his eyes. He makes himself looking threatening, taking up more space.

This is where Jack's height comes in handy.

That's one of the few things that Race has been jealous of when it coms to Jack: Jack's height. Somehow, that boy got the tall genes and ended up at exactly six feet tall. Neither Race nor Spot got that lucky.

But they don't have Jack here.

I still have Spot.

Oscar raises his eyebrows at Spot's words. "It sounds like you want to fight."

"I'll fight you if I have to," Spot threatens. "You don't give us a reason for a fight, we won't give you a reason to fight us."

Except the Delanceys don't seem to like that offer.

They come closer.

Spot, however, is in no mood for a real fight. 

He punches the first Delancey that comes too close in the face, then the next one in the stomach.

"Run," Spot mutters to Race.

Race doesn't need to be told twice.

Hand in hand, they run as fast as they can.

Somehow, they both have one place in mind that would be a safe space: Medda's theatre.

They don't stop until they get there.

Right after they close the door behind them, making sure that no one is following them. They're panting hard, but now they can finally breathe.

If only that were true.

Both are binding right now, and suffering the consequences of running too long with a chest that was all wrapped up in bandages. Both have to put a hand against a wall, breathing hard.

Race, on the verge of a panic attack, is breathing harder than Spot.

Once Spot has caught his breath, he stands up and stomps his foot.

"It ain't fair!" Spot cries out. "THIS is the one thing I hate!"

Race has never seen Spot worked up like this.

"Spot?" he gasps. "What...?"

"If I was a boy, no one would mess with me," Spot keeps going on; mostly just talking to himself. "If I became the leader of Brooklyn, people would learn not to mess with me. If I was a boy, if I didn't need to bind my chest, I could have stayed, I could have fought properly. I could have made sure that they wouldn't even THINK about coming within a mile of you."

"What...?" Race asks, starting to get his breath under control. Only starting to.

Spot comes to Race, takes one of Race's hands in his, and brings the other hand to Race's cheek. "Look at me. Just breath, okay?" He takes a deep breath for Race to imitate. "I'm just glad that they couldn't touch you. But they left you like this."

"No, Spot." Race inhales deeply once, twice, thrice. "I'm okay. Thank you. I'm so glad I had you with me."

Spot smiles. "I'm glad we're here now. You're safe. Now we can just watch whatever's left of the show and relax, yeah?"

Then they hear cheering.

"Guess the show's ended," Spot comments, a little sheepish.

"It's fine," Race waves his hand in the air. He grabs Spot's hand. "Come on. There's gotta be something we can do-" they turn around to face Jack and David.

Everyone just stops.

"We should just start planning double dates, shouldn't we?" Jack says dryly.

Race chuckles nervously. Spot just rolls his eyes.

"I think it's kind of funny that we keep all meeting up here," David breaks the silence. "It's like this place is a magnet for newsies."

"I mean, it kinda is," Race acknowledges. "Every newsie loves vaudeville."

It's true.

But Race and Spot also know what Jack knows: that Medda welcomes all kids into her open arms, no matter what their background is. How welcoming she is to people like them.

"Can I talk to you, Race?" Jack asks.

Uh oh.

There are a few things this could mean.

Race swallows. "Mhm."

Jack pulls him aside.

While they talk, Medda pulls Spot aside. Jack told Medda that Spot and Race are like him last time they were here, and she assured him that she would look after them the same way she looks after him.

Race wrings his hands nervously as he waits for Jack to say whatever it is.

"I noticed your eyes were wide when we ran into you," Jack comments. "You know; in the way that eyes get when they're scared. Were you and Spot in danger coming here?"

Does Race really want to say it? He bites his lip. He didn't exactly tell Jack about the events leading up to him and Spot getting together.

"We were running from the Delanceys."

There.

He said it.

"What?!" Jack exclaims. 

Race knew he would react like this.

"I ain't hurt," he assures him quickly. "Nothing happened. We saw 'em, and we scrammed."

Is that even a word? That shouldn't be what Race is thinking right now. 

Jack looks him in the eye, trying to detect a lie.

Yes, Race should tell him more, but he really doesn't want to.

Jack doesn't see anything wrong, so he lets him go.

Race inwardly sighs with relief.

When they make it back over to David, Jack gently pecking David lightly, Spot comes back with Medda, eyes wide. Race immediately goes up to him.

"What is it?" Race asks.

"You're not going to believe this," Spot tells him.

"Believe what?"

"You know how earlier you said you wanted to know people like us who understood our story?"

"Yeah?"

Spot shakes his head in wonder. "You are not going to believe this."

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Should I give you more information? Probably.

Am I going to? No.

Was that an inadequate cliffhanger? Probably.

Will it suffice? Yes.

Real newsies did love vaudeville. A lot. Even if Medda wasn't a real person, newsies would still go to vaudeville shows. Even the uptight newspaper people knew that.

Apparently, magnets were invented in 600 BCE in Greece.

Theatre is spelled both theatre and theater, so no, I didn't have a typo. It's hard to tell which one to use when, but theatre is just what I like, and what other thespians like, so.

I have nothing else to say.

Hope you read the next chapter when it comes out! I can't wait! :)

Please, no homophobia or transphobia, profanities, hate etc in the comment section.

Best,

~Your Beloved Author (who wants to keep writing but should also consider getting some sleep since it's 3:00 am)