#oh i do need to clarify that this is not jackcrutchie

[thetomorrowshow]

i will make the sky collapse ch. 3

First - Previous - Read on AO3!

Ok this post is queued bc y’all will not believe how busy I am, so it’ll be on ao3 a little late

CW: referenced violence, food, brief allusion to suicide, spiraling thoughts (from mr. jack kelly himself)

~

Jack had been here all day. When he ran from the rooftop after the disastrous strike, he’d snuck in through the backdoor of the theater and curled up in a corner, shaking and gasping and barely holding back tears. He’d been so close to just throwing himself off the rooftop, close enough that he knew he couldn’t stay there.

Now he hid behind the various set pieces, trying to not disturb anyone who still might be working around here this late. Not that there should be anyone, now. He’d even completely avoided Miss Medda. The woman liked to believe that she knew everything that went on around the theater, and Jack was content enough to let her. He couldn’t be found right now, though. Not when his nose burned and eyes smarted and knees wouldn’t stop shaking.

He would talk to Medda in the morning. It was late now, and all the lights were out, so it wasn’t like he had much of an option otherwise. Talk to her, maybe paint a background or two . . . maybe she would pay him like she offered . . . then he would be out of here, as soon as he could get Crutchie.

Crutchie. His heart practically split in half, and a tear finally slipped down his nose. They got Crutchie. They took him to the one place Jack had tried to save him from his entire life.

He had plans to head there near dawn tomorrow--after he’d spent another day planning things out. It shouldn’t be too hard to get him--or it wouldn’t, had it been anyone other than Crutchie. Any other boy would figure out how to climb down the wall, but it would be impossible without all working limbs. Crutchie’s bad leg wouldn’t be able to support him at all, especially not after the beating he’d taken in the Square (and definitely not after whatever Snyder and his goons had done so far during his stay, but Jack didn’t like to think about that). Jack could go in the front, the only door . . . but there was no way someone wouldn’t see him. There was always a guard or three hanging around, if not the Spider himself. And how would he get Crutchie down the stairs all by his lonesome?

A tiny voice spoke up in the back of his head, one that he’d been pushing down all evening. You coulds just go, it said. Forget about him, forget about all of them. Just go.

I can’t do that, Jack wanted to cry. He’s my brother, I can’ts just abandon him to Snyder!

People don’t stay in our lives forever, Jack, it reminded him. He’d never make it to Santa Fe, anyhow.

Jack couldn’t deny that. Maybe on a better day, in a better month. Maybe when Crutchie was grown, and his leg had calmed down a bit. Not now though, certainly not tomorrow. If Jack was going to leave soon, he was going to do it on his own. He didn’t want none of the others to come with him, anyhow. Only Crutchie.

Jack drew a hand across his tear-stained face, wincing as he brushed one of his bruises. Maybe in the morning he’d have a clearer head, a better understanding of what on earth he was meant to do. It wasn’t like the strike could continue, after all. They’d all end up in the Refuge for sure, or even worse. He’d seen Romeo get socked by that cop, had no idea how he was doing. If they kept on striking, more police would come, better armed and with no qualms about a bunch of stupid street rats.

None of them, save maybe Les, had escaped with zero injuries. Everyone was bleeding and bruised and crying and Crutchie was in the Refuge, and it was all Jack’s fault for getting the riled up about this in the first place. They were just kids! None of them knew what a union was supposed to be, even if Davey knew a bit about them! They were just children playacting at being adults, thinking that the trolley workers were probably having a good old time with no work while they got arrangements for better conditions, not even caring that there were full grown men dying in that strike. People died in strikes, and Jack couldn’t let it happen to any one of his boys, not before they properly got to be a person yet.

So he would leave--no, sleep on it, but he was fairly certain of his choice. Leaving, having to trust that the others would quit the strike and just deal with the raise in prices. That Crutchie would be out in a few months and be good enough to get right back to business, and maybe smiling that face-splitting smile of his eventually. Jack had to believe that he’d--that they’d all--be okay.

He couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in his stomach as he balled his shirt up into a pillow, nor could he stop a few more tears from wetting his cheeks. This was going to be by far the hardest and worst thing he’d ever done. He just had to hold on to Santa Fe. Everything was going to be fine when he got there.

-

Medda had given him one of those disapproving looks of hers, which Jack tried to ignore as his face burned. It had turned to blatant concern when he didn’t refuse her offer of payment. She had let it go, thankfully, and now he was waiting for the base white layer of paint to dry so he could start with the reds and oranges of a sunset. He’d already been waiting for what felt like way too long, so he stuck his thumb to the corner of it. It left a print and came back white, so Jack sighed and wiped it on his shirt--his undershirt, he’d taken his blue button-up off as soon as he’d gotten the paint out.

He couldn’t just not do anything--he could feel his feet itching to go, his head clamoring for his conscious attention. He absently flapped a brush back and forth against his palm, wondering if he could start on another while he waited, get the base coat of that one done and drying while he started on the actual painting of the first one. First he ought to sign this one, though, before he forgot.

Jack always signed his work, usually just on the back of the piece. A quickly scrawled ‘Jack K--’ in black paint, something to set it aside from all the other set pieces. He also knew that the boards would get reused countless times, painted over and cut up and redesigned. It was nice to know that under all that change, his name was there.

He spun it around and cracked open the can of black paint, dipping his brush in lightly and placing it on the blank back of the slab of wood. He could do his name big, more noticeable but with a better chance of getting scraped off. Or tiny, in the corner, somewhere it’d probably stay forever. Then he realized that while he’d been considering, he’d begun painting.

A boy, small, but very clearly a newsie, by his bag. An anguished face. A crutch.

Jack nearly dropped the brush. Was his guilt getting that bad, that he was painting Crutchie out of nowhere? Well, he couldn’t leave him there all alone on the canvas, with such a terrible look on his face. So Jack dipped his brush back in the paint and began another boy, not himself--not now that he was leaving--but Davey, as he liked to think that as Crutchie and Davey would become good friends in time. But Davey needed Les, and Les needed other boys, but of course they couldn’t be painted into this. They were too busy being suffocated by Pulitzer--and with that thought, Jack knew what he was painting.

-

The landscape had started out as any random place, just like all of them did. Mountains, a valley maybe, warm colors and some purple thrown in to capture the magic of a stained-glass sunset, and suddenly it was Santa Fe, exactly as Jack pictured it in his head. This happened with every single backdrop, from meadows to beaches to forests. All of them were Santa Fe, even if they weren’t.

“You ever gonna paint somewhere else, Jack?” a voice asked behind him, as he surveyed his work so far. He chuckled, not turning around, holding his thumb out in front of him the way he’d seen real painters do. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he thought it looked professional-like.

“How could you tell, Miss Medda?”

“Boy, I can tell everything.”

Jack dropped his arm and set his brush down on the floor, wiping his hands on his shirt as he turned around. Medda frowned.

“You are wearing an apron, use it!”

Oh yeah, he was. He moved his hands to it belatedly, smiling a little when Medda laughed at him. She was dressed to leave, not in a costume like Jack had assumed she would be. Were the shows over already?

“I’m heading out for a quick supper,” Medda said, and Jack nodded. One of the shows was over then, the other would be starting soon. He hadn’t lost track of as much time as he thought. “Do you want me to get you somethin’?”

“Aw, don’t worry ya’self over me,” Jack waved off. Sure, he hadn’t had anything to eat all day, but he could grab himself something later. By the look on Medda’s face, she was going to worry herself over him.

“I’ll bring you a sandwich, free of charge,” she said, reaching forward to pat his shoulder. He winced; he hadn’t realized he had a bruise there. Medda gave him another look, then turned to leave. Over her shoulder, she called, “By the way, Jack, there’s someone here to see you. I told him to wait in box five.”

Jack froze. They’d found him. It had to be Davey, didn’t it? The other boys knew that he stopped by the theater every so often, but didn’t know about his paintings. They just thought he knew one of the actors, or was getting food from the back or something. Only Davey and Les knew he worked here on occasion.

Jack put off visiting the box until after Miss Medda returned and told him to get up there before she sent the kid off herself. It was time to confess, he supposed. Let them know he wanted the strike to stop, and was leaving anyhow. At least someone would be able to tell Crutchie where he’d gone. And Katherine, if she cared.

This time he remembered to wipe his hands on his apron, then bundled it up and threw it into a corner. The painting wasn’t done, but he wanted to let it all dry before adding his finishing details. Every time he’d painted before, he hadn’t waited at all and it always came out looking more smudged than he wanted, so he’d decided to experiment a bit. Maybe it would look okay.

He couldn’t put it off any longer, it was time to face the music--or, Davey, rather. Jack knew his way around the theater, so it wasn’t hard to avoid the milling patrons in the lobby completely and skip straight up to box five, ready to talk to--

Specs?

“Specs?”

Specs.

“Specs.”

Specs leaped up from where he’d been perching on the edge of one of the fancy theater chairs, looking guilty as anything. When he saw Jack, though, his face brightened. “You’re all right!”

“Yeah, better than ever,” Jack griped, his eyes caught on the nasty hand-shaped bruise wrapped around Specs’s forearm. “Whaddya need?”

“We’s thought you mighta gotten grabbed by Snyder,” Specs said, looking him up and down, no doubt taking in his relatively few injuries. “The Delanceys been sayin’ you ran. I think some o’ the fellas mighta believed it, but Race thought ya’d be here so I cames by as soon as I could!”

Jack hadn’t counted on telling anyone other than Davey where he was going, but maybe this was for the best. Davey was so new to this, there was no way he could be in charge. Race was the first to come to mind for his replacement, but Race was so stupidly impulsive that Jack wasn’t sure he would be able to keep the boys in line. Specs would do well, though, at least until a better choice came forward. Used to the life, but always a little separate from the others, focusing more on the job than the social aspect. Still, he could have fun, and he was quietly loyal. Yeah, Specs would make a pretty good replacement. Jack opened his mouth to say something along those lines when a dirty scrap of paper was shoved in his face.

“What’s this?” he said instead.

Specs looked nervous and abashed at the same time. “Letter from Crutchie,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I went ta visit last night and he askeds me to give it to ya.”

Jack stared at the paper, taking in none of its details, then shifted his gaze to Specs. His eyes looked honest, if a bit anxious, mouth curved hopefully at the corner. The scrape on his cheek was ugly, but didn’t look infected. Davey must’ve made them all clean up with soap. That was another thing he’d have to tell Specs to remember. If he was going to be in charge, he had to know that Elmer hated the texture of the soap so bad he wouldn’t use it and had to be threatened, that Race sometimes liked to impulsively smear dirt on his wounds to try and get sympathy when it got infected.

Crutchie had written to him.

Jack grabbed the letter so quickly it almost tore, sending Specs stumbling back. Now that he was focused on it, that was definitely Crutchie’s handwriting, starting out relatively neat and just devolving into larger loops and tinier scribbles as it carried on. The paper was dirty, the pencil smudged here and there, and a rusty stain in the middle of the paper that made Jack’s stomach turn as he imagined how it had gotten there.

“I’ll just be headin’ back,” he heard Specs say distantly, but Jack couldn’t look away from the letter. Crutchie had held this, just last night, and he had been alive. Well enough to write a whole letter. Well enough to still have his sense of humor (Jack snorted at his joke about the food, then remembered the sentence preceding it and immediately sobered). Maybe even well enough to escape?

His letter read that he was already coming up with escape plans of his own, which was a good sign for his morale. It also said, though, that he was exhausted and his leg was doing bad.

Well, there was no way Jack couldn’t visit him now. Early in the morning was best--probably when the moon was about halfway done setting--and from there he would see whether or not Crutchie would be coming with him. Then back to the theater to lay low for a bit and finish the backdrop (there was no way Jack would be able to even think about finishing it tonight), then catch a train to Santa Fe and be out of here forever. If Crutchie did come, though, he’d have to do at least two more sets, get enough money for the both of them to make the trip. And of course, he still had to speak to Specs about taking over. Davey would come for him eventually, so he had to come up with something to placate him.

Why did nobody tell him that running away would take so much effort and planning?

The show was starting soon, and that sandwich was still waiting for him in the back room, so Jack ducked out of the box, tucking the letter into his pocket. He had to get ready for a break-in tonight, there was no time to waste.

[ostrich-on-a-rampage-blog]

I just got fired on my first day of my new job in a state I just moved to and was wondering if you could write some super, ricidulous fluffy jackcrutchie? Thanks!

Ah, man. That stinks. So, I don’t know if this will be ridiculous or fluffy enough (we all know my track record for fluff…) but there will be plenty of jackcrutchie.

“I have an idea!” Jack announced, slamming the door of his and Crutchie’s apartment open. The door banged into the wall, deepening the dent that was fast becoming a hole. “Oh, crap,” Jack muttered, checking the damage done to the wall. He shuffled his art supplies, disrupting their perfect balance and paints, brushes, pens clattered to the ground.

Crutchie lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t glance up from the book he was reading. “Careful,” he warned, belatedly.

“Look, I got this great idea,” Jack continued, as he scooped up the fallen brushes and set them on the table cluttered with half-finished paintings, sketches, novels, and small house plants. “You’ll really like this one.”

This time Crutchie looked up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack reassured, collapsing on the couch beside Crutchie. He edged closer to his boyfriend, until he managed to situate his head on Crutchie’s lap. “Yeah, this one’s the best one yet. I was thinking how we could use some extra cash and I was trying to figure out how to go about making that and–”

“Please tell me we’re not trying another bake sale,” Crutchie groaned, turning a page in his book. “Because I’m pretty sure I still have flour stains on my suit.”

“Okay, first off,” Jack began, “flour doesn’t stain. And second, you’re the one who dropped the bowl of flour, even after I told you that I could do it all on my own.”

Crutchie snorted, but didn’t respond, refocusing back on his book.

Jack grinned and reached up to poke Crutchie in the nose. “Don’t you want to hear my great idea?”

Trying to keep a smile off his face, Crutchie shook his head. “Nope, not right now. I’m busy.”

“You’re reading.”

“Busily,” Crutchie clarified.

“Come on, Crutch,” Jack whined.

Crutchie smiled, setting his book down on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Okay, Jack. I’m all ears.”

“Great. So, I was thinking that tomorrow is First Friday, right?” Jack waited for Crutchie to nod, before continuing, “And that’s when all the local artists set up downtown and try to sell their art.”

“Jack, please don’t tell me you’re going to stay up all night painting.”

“I won’t,” Jack promised. “But, I need to do something, right? I don’t have enough art to sell and we know just how well baking went last time. It would seem like we were all out of hope. And that’s where this fabulous idea comes in.”

Crutchie grinned, running his fingers through Jack’s hair. “Okay, you’ve got my curiosity piqued. What’s your fabulous idea?”

“Caricatures.”

“I don’t even know what those are.”

“It’s when you pay an artist to draw you badly.”

Crutchie picked his book back up. “Oh, that’ll sell for sure,” he replied sarcastically.

Jack frowned. “No, they’re not bad. They’re… um, distorted?”

“You sound very Daliesque right now.”

“Okay, Mr. English Major. How would you describe it?”

Crutchie glanced down at Jack, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it before.”

“Fine,” Jack said, sitting up. “I’ll show you.” He pushed himself off of the couch and returned with an easel and a large piece of butcher paper attached to it. Jack set the easel down in front of Crutchie and pulled up a chair. “Black and white, or color, monsieur?” he asked in a terrible French accent.

Crutchie shrugged. “Color?”

“That’ll be extra.”

“I’ll make dinner tonight,” Crutchie offered.

Jack’s grin widened. “Fair enough.”

He set to work, sketching his boyfriend. For a moment, Crutchie amused himself by watching how Jack would stick his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he painted. Then, he turned back to his book, enjoying the scratching sound of Jack’s pencils on the paper.

Much too quickly, it seemed, Jack stopped. “Okay, I finished,” he announced.

“Already? That was fast.”

“They’re supposed to be fast,” Jack countered. “You ready?” He waited for Crutchie to nod, before turning the easel around and displaying the caricature he had made of his boyfriend.

Crutchie smiled as he examined the quick drawing. Jack had drawn his head three times the size of his body, with a minuscule book in his right hand. His smile seemed to leap off the paper, taking up nearly the entire face. His eyes were large and Jack had added laughter lines at their corners. There was only one problem. “You drew a potato for my nose,” Crutchie jokingly complained.

Jack turned the easel around glancing at his art. “No, that’s– That’s not a potato. It’s–”

“Not a nose,” Crutchie teased.

“It’s a perfectly fine nose,” Jack argued.

“For Mr. Potato Head, yes, I agree, but for me–”

“Maybe this is what your nose looks like.”

Crutchie covered his nose with his hand in feigned embarrassment. “In that case, we’ll need to use whatever money you make with these caricatures to pay for my nose job.”

Jack crossed over to the couch, gently removing Crutchie’s hand. “I love your nose. I love you.”

Crutchie smiled. “Good. ‘Cuz I don’t think you’ll make enough with those drawings to pay for my nose to be fixed.”

Jack leaned back, a mischievous look glinting within his eyes. “Oh, is that a challenge, I hear?”

“Take it how you will.”

Jack smiled, leaning back into Crutchie’s side. “You’ll be there to watch me draw everyone?”

“Yes, and I’ll bring hot chocolate, too,” Crutchie promised.

“I really do love you.”

“I love you, too.”