i see your “jack talking about davey: he’s so beautiful, he looks like the sunset” and “spot talking about race: he’s a crazy rat looking bitch i love him”
but i raise you (headcanon)
jack isn’t the most well spoken. when he loves someone and wants them to know it, he draws them. he could spend hours capturing every feature and pouring his heart out into portraits of those he loves. but ask bro to describe what he’s drawing…? he can flirt and have clever cheeky wordplay all he wants but when it comes to showing deep love and affection through *words,* he just tends to make a mess of himself. davey (or crutchie or kath or whoever) at first feels a little sad when jack doesnt reciprocate his serenades, but then he notices how each of jack’s drawings capture the sunlight hitting his eyelashes, the curves in his cheeks when he smiles, that small scar he got from getting into a fight of school at age nine. jack notices. and isn’t that the same thing, love and attention? (i know this technically goes against canon, ie what he says in i never planned on you and something to believe in, it’s just a concept)
spot conlon may not express much emotion, renowned as the mighty king of brooklyn, but when it comes to race, he’s soft as a flower petal. sure, they still banter and playfight just like best friends; they won’t hold back on an opportunity to roast, but when a fingertip brushes a cheek or when calloused fingers are tangled in hair, all that toughness spot has up just melts away for race to hold for a little while. spot writes race victorian level love letters about his day and thoughts when he hasn’t seen race in a couple days. nobody would believe that spot wrote them if it wasnt for the handwriting and the fact that he’d save them to deliver personally. race isnt allowed to open them in front of the blushing boy tapping his foot and looking away as he hands race the envelope tied with a bow. spot writes him multiple, one for each day they’re apart. they’re laying in bed as early morning rays begin seeping through the window and spot is gazing at racetrack like he hung the moon. “you looks like the light of a thousand stars,” spot tells the half asleep boy, deep brown eyes locked on a pair of sleepy blue. race responds, rubbing his eyes and sitting up, “whatever happened to the revered king o’ brooklyn?” he says with a sly smile. spot playfully punches him in the arm, ears tinged with pink, but he’s smiling too. he never thought he’d be going soft for not nobody. yet, here he was, tender, gentle, intimate. as he watched the smoke from the freshly lit cigar waft out the window into the dawn air, he let himself be. racetrack higgins was his person, and there would never be enough words to express it, but he was determined to use them all.
idk this came to me because i see sm posts like that, and i’m kind of getting a little tired of the intense memeing of spot and race’s (especially race’s) personalities. just because they’re silly doesn’t mean they’re stupid. i like to think that contrary to their tough/dumb exteriors, they let go with eachother and just let themselves be teenagers in love
