Close Your Eyes, Come With Me

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(( Continued internalized homophobia and usage of the word queer for pretty much the rest of the story. This chapter will also have violence.))

If one more person asked him what was wrong, Jack was going to sock them in the nose right then and there. Anyone who knew him could tell something wasn't right. He wouldn't look anyone in the eye. The loud, confident tone was missing from his voice. In fact, he barely spoke at all. Everyone was concerned, but he didn't care. Let them worry. If they knew, they'd all hate him. No boy in his right mind would ever speak to or be seen with him again. So he avoided speaking to them all together, in case somehow they heard it in his voice or saw it in his eyes.

Many a time he had drawn a pretty girl he saw in the street and tracked her down to show her. For some reason girls seemed to love it. He would use it to flirt, telling them he only drew the most beautiful things he saw or go with a play on words and say he was "drawn" to them. Almost every time they ate it right up. But, ever since Medda asked him... That question, he'd been having trouble sleeping. He stayed up and thought about all those girls, trying to convince himself of something. On one evening, after he was through selling, he went up to his penthouse to go through his drawings, laying out the ones he'd not given away. Girls he saw each day, girls he didn't really remember, girls who had called him a creep and shoved the drawing back at him. Then, for comparison, he brought out the sketches he'd done of the others.

"There's way more of boys...." Jack whispered to himself, disgusted.

But to be fair, he never gave a drawing to a girl he passed every day in case she thought him strange for it. It was the same with these. Surely the drawings had just accumulated over time, and the number of them which were of people he saw every day were equal in terms of gender. He just... saw more boys was all.

Jack nodded silently to himself, satisfied enough with that rationalization. He began shuffling through the drawings of his friends and peers. Some of them were from a good while ago. He paused on one, one of Race. He remembered drawing this, back when the two had first met. It had taken him ages. Every time he saw Race he went back to fix or complete a detail. For some reason, Jack felt compelled to get it just right. He laughed quietly to himself as the memories came back to him. He'd practically stalked the kid when he first started coming around, trying to memorize him for that drawing. Race had realized someone was following him, though he didn't appear to know who.

"Ey, why don'tcha take a picture? It lasts longer!" He'd called in the general direction of Jack's hiding place. "I can hear ya!"

Jack laughed again, remembering how he'd panicked a bit and run off. He was so sure Race knew it was him that he avoided him altogether for a while. To this day he wasn't completely sure whether or not he did, but he'd never said anything about it to Jack.

Suddenly, Jack ripped the picture right down the middle and shoved it over the side of the penthouse. He'd been staring at it fondly for too long. Was he sweet on Race, too? What was happening? He began to tear up all the drawings of the boys, trying and failing to keep quiet. His heavy breathing and rapid movements drew some attention.

Jack whipped his head around when he heard someone coming up the ladder. Frantically, he shoved all of the torn drawings into a big pile of scraps and tried to hide them before whoever it was made it up.

"Jack, is that you up there? What are ya doin'? It's cold. Come inside," Crutchie called from halfway down the ladder.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jack made his way over to the ladder and reached down, gesturing for the crutch. Crutchie paused his climbing and handed it to him gratefully. As soon as he was within arms reach, Jack hauled him up perhaps a bit too roughly and clung to him like a child.

"Oof! Woah, what'sa matter?" Crutchie said.

Jack let him go and apologized, but before he could finish, Crutchie held up the torn in half drawing of Race.

"Are you up here shreddin' up your pictures?" Crutchie asked, sounding sad. "Why?"

Jack opened his mouth, trying to find an explanation. There was none that didn't sound odd. He closed it again and hung his head, hoping that Crutchie would some how understand.

After a moment of Jack's silence, Crutchie spoke softly. "Come on, Jack. Let's go inside. It's cold."

--

It hadn't even been a month since Jack's head had gotten better, and here he was getting himself crushed again.

There was no defense this time. He had thrown the first punch. But when he'd done it, Morris was alone. Jack figured he could handle just one guy, even if he was a bit bigger. He certainly had had the element of surprise on his side. Hell, he might have even won altogether had the kid's brother not come out of that shop.

Crutchie had stayed down today, leg too stiff to stay out all day due to the cold. Jack had just finished selling and was excitedly on his way back to see him. But Morris-God-Damed-Delancey just had to be out and about on Jack's path home. He just had to call after Jack. He just had to say that word that Jack had been obsessing over for days. If he had said anything else, really, Jack might have ignored him. But no.

"Where are you runnin' to so fast, Kelly?" He'd called. Jack had almost kept going past him, but Morris had continued. "Running to your little crip? Didn't see him out and about today. Ya know, you two really look like a pair of queers."

Jack didn't even remember consciously deciding to hit him. But he'd truly surprised himself with how quickly he had him on the pavement. That was until he got peeled off of him, and well, the rest was history.

The air left him as he hit the ground. He spit out his mouth full of blood. The brothers jeered at him as they walked away. Once their footsteps faded, he pushed himself up. This was pretty tame in terms of beatings he'd received in his life, so he figured he'd be alright. Resigned and embarrassed, he trudged back to lodge at a slower pace. What was he even so mad about? It wasn't like they were wrong. Even Medda thought so. She knew him more than anyone.

Most of the others weren't back yet, so he didn't get stopped on his way to Crutchie. When he came into line of sight of his partner, Crutchie gasped.

"What'd you do now?!" Crutchie groaned.

"Eh, I'm sure it looks worse than it is," Jack sighed and shrugged out of his bag. He tried changing the subject. "Think it'll snow?"

Crutchie snorted. "I hope not. Who did it?"

Jack gave a half hearted smile. "Ain't gonna let me drop it, huh?" Crutchie shook his head. "Delanceys."

"Ya weren't stealin' nothin' where ya? Ya can't go back ta jail," Crutchie scolded.

"Uh, no," Jack tried to keep his tone casual as he hung his bag and began to take off the outer layers of his clothes. "I... Punched Morris."

"You what?!" Crutchie hollered. "Why?! If ya tryin' ta die hurlin' yourself off the buildin' would be faster!"

"Well, first of all I almost had 'im. I thought he was alone. Second of all, he... Was sayin' some not so nice things was all."

There was a tangible pause.

"About me," Crutchie said. It wasn't a question.

Jack stood there for a moment, fiddling with his coins. He wanted to tell Crutchie, but he was weighing the potential reactions. He figured the worst would be laughter, in which case Jack could laugh along and this would all be easier.

"He said we-- you an' me dat is-- look like a pair a queers," Jack said, looking up.

Crutchie looked entirely caught off guard, but not offended or disgusted. Jack's vital functions did that thing again. He opened his mouth to reply, but the door to lodge slammed open, and Ablert rushing inside laughing loudly. Race hollered obscenities as he chased him down. Jack could have set that drawing on fire and watched it burn right then.