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crutchie morris and jack kelly's recipe for disaster (gmybw)

here, have thousands of words worth of crutchie watching a disaster unfold at the hands of jack kelly. gay pining and shenanigans ensue.

yes this is the same universe as the gmybw pieces but it is many years later! they're all in high school, and it's a bit of a time jump but i have so much fun writing davey into the group dynamic that i just had to skip around a bit-- so please enjoy.

also, TW FOR UNDERAGE DRINKING. minors who are reading this, do NOT do this. do not break the law, please! this is not to be tried at home.

additional tw for a mention of blood and a bigger mention of vomiting. i said shenanigans and yes i meant it. again PLEASE do not do this at home, i am NOT advertising underaged drinking do NOT DO IT DONT DO IT IM SERIOUS.

.....

In retrospect, Beer Night was born to be a shitshow. Somehow Crutchie had managed to be optimistic about it, but he considered his past self to be an idiot when he looked back at his own foolish hopes.

There were many reasons why he should’ve recognized Beer Night for the disaster that it was. The first reason was simple: it was Jack Kelly’s idea. Now, Jack was one of Crutchie’s two best friends in the whole world, and he loved the boy with his whole heart. However, if someone were to ask Crutchie if he trusted Jack’s judgement, or thought that any of his shenanigans were good ideas? Well, that was another story. He’d seen the disastrous outcomes of many Jack Kelly schemes before (see sneaking out of their group home using sheets tied into rope, or wearing a ‘if found, return to my gorgeous girlfriend’ shirt to meet his girlfriend’s rich father, or constantly unintentionally flirting with his best friend while in a relationship with said girlfriend whilst being totally unaware of it) and at his wise old age of sixteen-going-on-seventeen, Crutchie had learned to shoot down Jack Kelly schemes as quickly as they popped up in his pretty head.

He did not shoot down Beer Night.

Second reason for disaster: Beer Night was born out of spite. Jack Kelly spite, to be more specific, which was not good. Jack had accompanied his girlfriend to a monthly tradition she shared with her best friends, Wine Night. Wine Night was classic rich kid shit– Kath and her two best friends Darcy and Bill plucked bottles from their parents cellars, ordered cute charcuterie boards and dressed in semi-formal clothing. They’d spend the evening tasting wine, pairing it with cheeses and crackers, and gossiping whilst watching high-brow French films and discussing classic literature. Not an activity Crutchie would’ve taken Jack to, but he admired Katherine’s balls.

Jack had shown up in cargo shorts and a henley (he was very handsome, bless him, but the common sense department was lacking at times) and proceeded to wreck the night by subtly teasing Darcy and Bill’s wealth and interjecting little bits of horrific knowledge about his abusive childhood. Because he found Darcy and Bill’s faces funny, and they did not let him joke about his backstory like Race and Crutchie did. Plus, Jack Kelly was well known for his hatred of wine. Why he would even agree to go to wine night was beyond Crutchie’s understanding– but the fact remained that it was a shitty time for him, and Jack left in just as bad of a mood as his girlfriend did. He had a whole ‘eat the rich’ thing going for about a day after that before he remembered that his girlfriend was, in fact, one of the rich– it was a mess.

So, the second reason was spite. Jack created Beer Night as his own joking middle finger to Wine Night. That was never a good reason for an alcohol-fueled hangout to be born.

Third disaster reason? The guest list.

Jack, staying true to Wine Night source material, invited three other people to his Beer Night. Crutchie, Racetrack, and Davey. Now this was a guest list that could make mothers cry. Not because of Crutchie, of course— he considered himself to be incredibly responsible and he had a lot of friends, so he assumed he was fun to be around. People liked he stupid jokes. That was good. Jack and Race alone with alcohol were perfectly fine. Jack and Race together with alcohol were like two toddlers raised from the fiery pits of hell. Crutchie had spent countless evenings looking after their shitfaced asses and countless mornings caring for their ear-splitting hangovers. When they got drunk together, their already reckless brains became even more stupid. The wildest things could happen. If they got too drunk at Beer Night (which wasn’t the original plan, but neither Jack nor Race had stellar self control), iminent horrors had the potential to spawn. Then there was Davey. Sweet, almost perfect Davey. Truly, Davey was too good for their ragtag little gang of idiots. He was loving, understanding, gentle, family-oriented– a genuinely lovely personality with stellar grades and extracurriculars to match. He was the type of boy that parents wanted their children to bring home. Responsible, loyal, uptight. Though Davey could be anxious and shy and sometimes a bit standoffish, all of that was part of his charm. Their friend group adopted him remarkably quickly and soon everyone saw Davey as someone that needed protecting, despite his dry, sarcastic humor and his sufficient ability to stand up for himself. He was the most sheltered person they’d ever met, and he had a serious babe-in-the-woods vibe that wasn’t helped by his wide green eyes. They gave him a deceptively sweet look, but he could be mean if he wanted to. Normally he just didn’t want to.

Of course, you combine an undeniably gorgeous mess of a boy like Jack Kelly with an anxious gay boy like David Jacobs and the only result is disaster. They’re both sort of irresistible in their own way– Jack with his endless charisma and effortless good looks and Davey with his little smiles and comforting presence– so they were naturally drawn to each other. Jack (supposedly straight as a ruler with the girlfriend to prove it) takes the kid under his wing, Davey falls in love hard and fast, and the entire friend group is suddenly subjected to off-the-charts levels of pathetic gay pining.

Everyone loved Davey. Crutchie included. But when someone is well-loved in their friend group and they say ‘what’s a body shot’ during lunch with a wide-eyed, totally innocent expression? Well, they get taken to one of Racetrack’s famous raves the very next Saturday. That is exactly what happened to sweet Davey Jacobs.

In short, he… he did not mix with alcohol well either. That was another story.

Anyways, a guess list with a 75% disaster rate around alcohol was obviously contributing to the Beer Night recipe for disaster. You add drunk Davey into the mix of drunk Race and drunk Jack and Jesus Christ, why hadn’t Crutchie shut this down? Why did he ever agree to Beer Night?

Beer Night started off good, to give Jack some credit. The four of them hung out without alcohol very often, whether they were sprawled out doing homework in Jack’s bedroom or goofing off at the public park. They had a good dynamic. Davey was usually level-headed and he had a remarkable talent for reeling Jack in, so he was really nice to have around. Maybe that’s why Crutchie had been so falsely optimistic. They’d been hanging out for months. He liked hanging out with the guys. Things had the potential to be fun, right?

Just four guys in Race’s ridiculously rich foster parents’ basement with two six packs of beer between them. That was three beers per person– but Davey had vowed not to drink three, and it took Race and Jack more than four beers to get dangerously shitfaced. They had a massive TV to play Mario Kart on and all the extra cash they could dream of thanks to Race’s folks– plush couches, comfy armchairs, fuzzy throw blankets– it was a teenage boy’s dream. Deceptively nice.

To kick off the night, Jack climbed onto one of the armchairs with a beer in hand, smiling that remarkably bright smile of his. Davey was obviously enchanted, staring up at him with stars in those expressive green eyes. “Hello, boys, and thank ya’ very much for bein’ here on this fine evening! I want to take a moment ‘n welcome you all to our inagri– fuck, Davey, what’s the word?”

“Inaugural.” Davey corrected with a smile, fondness lacing his tone.

Race grinned in a ‘oh-my-god-he’s-stupidly-in-love’ manner at Crutchie, who glared at him in a ‘cut-it-the-fuck-out’ sort of manner. Davey was marginally less oblivious than Jack, and if he noticed them grinning about his crush, he’d be hurt. Hurting Davey’s feelings would be like kicking a puppy, and Crutchie Morris was not a puppy kicker.

“Yes! Our inaugural Beer Night!” Jack raised his beer triumphantly and his meager crowd erupted into cheers. Jack was an excellent public speaker. Crutchie could even imagine him rallying hundreds of starving children to do something dangerous like, maybe, strike against a millionaire in another life. “As you all know, Beer Night is my personal response to my girlfriend’s very lame event, Wine Night. We’ll be keeping Kath updated to show her just how much cooler Beer Night is. They eat little cubes of cheese with their wine, so we’re gonna have fuckin’ pizza with our beer! They watch boring movies, so we play video games! They discuss yacht club gossip, we discuss– I dunno, cool shit! This, my friends, is the high life. No caviar, no stupid expenses… just four guys in a basement, chilling the fuck out! Beer Night Supremacy!”

“Beer Night Supremacy!” They all echoed through laughter, as Race popped the caps of beers for everyone else and Davey carefully opened one of the pizza boxes. Jack grinned and hopped onto the couch, walking across the cushions and stepping over Racer’s lap to squeeze in next to Davey. He slung an arm over the back of the couch and Crutchie watched poor Davey take a breath and mentally reboot, nervously biting his slice of cheese pizza as he geared up for the night. That should’ve been the first sign of disaster, but hey– Crutchie was an optimist, and it was hard to be negative with garlic knots and brownies sitting in front of you.

It was actually good fun for at least an hour after that. They ate, played video games, made stupid jokes and shared stupid stories. Crutchie could admit that some levels of drunkenness were really fun.

He liked to have a beer and quiet some of his more anxious thoughts, and he sort of liked the heavy-eyed, lazy feeling that took over him. Being around other tipsy people was especially fun, because no one’s brains were quite working right and everyone knew it. You could have the stupidest conversations and treat them like the most serious thing, and laugh about it in the morning without a hangover. Tipsy Davey was also a treat to be around. His anxiety seemed to drain away, leaving him ten times less rigid than usual, smiley and easy. There were three levels of drunk Davey, and tipsy Davey was a safe and pleasant one that Crutchie thoroughly enjoyed.

Unfortunately, disaster was imminent. It was bound to happen– Beer Night was born to be a complete and utter shitshow. Crutchie was just glad it didn’t happen sooner. First, the pizza disappeared. Then, Race shot into the basement with a bottle of strawberry flavored vodka in his hand. Then, in the fucking middle of a conversation, while Davey was in the fucking middle of a sentence, sloppy-drunk Jack grabbed Davey’s chin and smiled lazily.

“Dave, anyone ever told you how fuckin’ gorgeous your eyes are? I wanna draw ‘em sometime.”

Davey had been doing so well. So very well. But then Crutchie watched the gay panic set in as big green eyes stared at Jack like he’d just recited a particularly beautiful love confession and oh, it was heart wrenching. He didn’t even blame Davey for ripping himself out of Jack’s touch and popping the cap of another beer. If he was eyes-deep in unrequited love, he’d be drinking, too.

Unfortunately Davey Jacobs was a lightweight. Race was going wild on the vodka, too. Soon he’d turn into an impish fairy creature and start asking everybody to play poker or do stupid dares. Jack, strangely enough, had not touched the vodka– but he was still causing problems because he would not stop flirting with poor Davey– Crutchie almost wanted to slap him or separate the two.

When Davey entered the second level of drunkenness, Crutchie knew there was no saving Beer Night. Race had already called two of his exes and Jack had actually run one of his hands through Davey’s hair. Things were falling apart fast.

Angry Drunk Davey was step two, and he was a terrifying sight to behold.

When Davey got really and truly drunk, he got really and truly angry. Whereas Jack and Race were just generally chaotic and random in their drunkenness, Davey had three predictable stages. Stage two was a fair departure from his normal calm and collected self. He was prone to ranting and shouting like some sort of hellfire and brimstone evangelical pastor, and by the time Crutchie struggled down the stairs with bottled waters in his arms, Davey was in the midst of his third passionate sermon of the night. He stood on the coffee table, shirt half unbuttoned, curls beyond rumpled (thanks to Jack) and face flushed, gesticulating wildly.

Race was watching him raptly, obviously drunk off his ass, and Jack was sprawled out on the couch grinning up at Davey like the stupid, oblivious dope he was. Crutchie kind of wanted to murder them all.

“And that is exactly why heteronormativity is so fucking harmful to American youths!” Davey shouted, raising his hands up as if he was shouting directly to Jewish God. “I mean, why is it just assumed that straight is the default? Why do people ask me if I’m sure when I tell them I’m gay? Why is it that a straight boy that’s never kissed a girl in his life is totally normal, but if I tell someone I’ve never actually dated a guy, they tell me I should still experiment with women? I don’t want to experiment with women!”

“Hell yeah!” Race shouted, lazily pumping his fist as if pushing it through molasses. “Hell yeah, Davey, you shouldn’t have to touch tits if you don’t want to!”

“I don’t wanna touch tits at all!” Davey practically roared in response, holding both hands out like drunk, Jewish Richard Nixon. “And I shouldn’t hafta! I wanna touch men! Goddamnit, niech geje będą gejami!” (Let gays be gay!)

Jack laughed softly and leaned forward, gently tugging on the hem of Davey’s pant leg. “Hey, Dave, maybe you oughta slow down for the night, yeah? I think Crutch has some w–”

“No!” He reared around to face Jack, pointing one accusatory finger at him. “Fuck the straights!”

Race leapt up from his seat on the couch, impassioned and haphazardly swinging his vodka around. “Yeah, fuck ‘em!”

“Gay rights! I have the gay rights to drink as much goddamn beer as I want!” In a show of his gay rights, he plucked a beer from the pack and tried to open it with his bare hands, lips curled in a snarl. Jack, bless his heart, looked positively dumbfounded and concerned by this change in demeanor. “I also have the gay rights to ask you to open this beer for me, Jack Kelly!”

“Nah, man, no can do.” Jack said very carefully, holding his hands up in a form of surrender.

Davey blinked at him, his dark brows twisting in an almost comical display of rage. “Fine! Racetrack, give me vodka!”

“Yes, President Jacobs, vodka for the gay president!” Race crooned, and Crutchie quickly intercepted the bottle just as Jack worked in tandem to crack Davey’s beer open. Christ, this was a mess already. Race shouted his offense and threw himself onto Crutchie, moving like a wet noodle. Crutchie tugged the blonde down onto the couch and shared a terrified look with Jack, who for once in his life, looked concerned about the drunk people. Or maybe he was just concerned about Davey.

Davey took a large gulp of his drink and leapt back onto the coffee table. He brandished his beer, eyes glimmering with drunkenness. “Fuck heteronormativity in America, and fuck the straights! Gay rights will always win!”

“And bisexual rights!” Race crowed, still curled into Crutchie’s side and fighting for his vodka. “I want rights too, big boy.”

“Rights you shall have, bisexual boy.” He pointed his beer towards Race. Then he pointed it towards Crutchie. “And you too, my fellow Jewish brother. I love you… deeply.” Crutchie couldn’t hold back his own giggle and he held up a fist of solidarity, brandishing his Magen David necklace to Davey.

Davey grinned and gave a dramatic bow, tipping forward dangerously. Jack was standing in a matter of seconds, looping his arms around Davey’s waist and tugging him off the table. Davey let out a noise somewhere between a whine and some Polish word. He dug his nails into Jack’s arms and kicked his feet fruitlessly, but Jack had gotten very strong since living with Medda, so Davey (already scrawny when sober and coordinated) stood no chance.

Honestly, Jack really had gotten strong. Fourteen year old Jack would look at seventeen year old Jack with serious surprise and delight. He’d filled out and then started hitting the gym, which led to some very impressive muscles. Crutchie was very proud of him. He was also very proud of Jack for being responsible for once, tugging Davey onto the couch.

“You need to sit, Mr. President.” Jack’s voice was soft and careful, and Crutchie wished he could pay more attention to their exchange but he was currently fighting off an increasingly agitated Racetrack.

“You don’t tell me what’ta’do, Mr…. Mr. Beautiful face.” Davey sassed, wagging a finger in Jack’s face, and taking another swig of beer right after.

Jack laughed, soft and low, and carefully cupped Davey’s cheek in his hand. It was a fleeting touch, but it seemed to murder Angry Davey on the spot. “Davey. Sit.”

Davey blinked. Slow. “Okay.”

Jesus Fucking Christ.

They were all a veritable mess. Race and Davey got into a very deep conversation about capitalism while Jack repeatedly begged Crutchie to let him try doing tricks with one of his crutches, his drunkenness showing now that Davey was safely seated on the couch, getting drunker by the second.

Crutchie sort of wanted to die. He was fine with looking after two drunk idiots– but two drunk idiots and a distressed drunk gay boy? Not okay. He was feeling out of his depth.

Thankfully Jack and Race started up a round of Lego Star Wars and Race sobered up, devouring an entire bowl of liberally buttered popcorn. That left Davey as the only disaster, and he was only getting worse as Jack continued to mindlessly flirt. He kept sending Davey these private smiles and showering him with compliments, and he even kept his left hand firmly planted on Davey’s lower thigh throughout the entire Lego Star Wars game. Jack was so fucking oblivious sometimes, it literally baffled Crutchie.

How he managed to ignore the fact that he was sending Davey into a drunken stupor was beyond Crutchie’s mortal comprehension, but eventually Davey was finishing his fourth beer and stumbling into the feared third and final stage– Flirty Drunk Davey.

At Race’s rave, this had been a serious problem and Kath had called in Crutchie for help. Flirty Drunk Davey was such a far departure from rational, anxious Davey that it was almost funny. It would’ve been funny if he wasn’t flirting with every single dark-skinned boy he came across, twirling his curls through his fingers if they had a pretty smile or cornrows braided like Jack’s. During that rave, Crutchie really wished that Davey was ugly, because he was far too successful when it came to flirting.

He kept slipping off with random strangers and sending Kath into panic mode, and they kept finding him making out with these random ass boys in secluded corners, clinging with his eyes dilated and his face red as a rose. One of the bastards had even tried to take Davey home, and the little minx was actually down to go with him. Crutchie eventually managed to wrangle Davey into a bathroom and force him to drink water, but the chaos of Flirty Davey had left Crutchie scarred for life.

Thankfully he was more subdued when there was only one option, and it was the real thing. All of his inhibitions seemed to fall away as he let himself cling to Jack specifically, and Drunk Jack was a slut for physical affection (or maybe just a slut for Davey) so he dared not push a clinging Davey off his lap.

Jack was not helping to discourage him and Racetrack thought it was the funniest thing in the world, so Crutchie was forced to watch in abject horror as Jack ran his hands through Davey’s hair and Davey melted into him.

Beer Night was a disaster. Just when Crutchie thought things were fine, Flirty Davey unmoving and blissed out in Jack’s lap, Race caused yet another disaster. He let out a furious string of curses and practically leapt onto Crutchie’s bad leg when he stepped on a beer bottle, shattering the thing beneath his sock foot. Crutchie watched with distant horror as crimson stains began to leak onto Race’s Phantom Of The Opera socks.

“Oh, fuck.” Race groaned, tilting his head back. “I liked these socks!”

“Hey– Jackie look Jackie–” Davey supplied unhelpfully, nuzzling his nose against Jack’s neck. “‘S a piece’a glass in Tracerack’s foot.”

“God, he’s wasted. Why did we let him get wasted?” Racetrack whined, hopping around. Jack was already close to laughter because of Davey but he totally lost it at the sight of his friend hobbling, and soon Race and Crutchie were laughing too, because why did they ever think they could produce anything that would rival a Katherine Plumber Pulitzer event?

That woman was far too brilliant.

She was probably laughing at their failure somewhere far across the city, sequestered in her mansion and wrapped in furs and silks. That mental image made Crutchie laugh even harder (sue him, he was still a bit tipsy), and he actually had trouble getting to his feet and stumbling into the basement bathroom to fetch a first aid kit. They’d used it before. Jack and Race were always idiots, and they were always doing idiotic things to get themselves hurt.

He giggled his way through wrapping Race’s foot and they all giggled their way through multiple shitty rounds of various video games, slowly crawling back to sobriety. Well– it was a crawl for Jack, Race, and Crutchie. Unfortunately their friend group seemed to have a penchant for putting Davey in bad situations with alcohol.

He hadn’t spoken a word in at least thirty minutes, curled up in Jack’s lap and seemingly content, when he suddenly lurched to his feet. Crutchie knew instantly, just by how pale he was and the sweat beading on his brow, that he’d had one too many and things were about to get bad.

Jack, as if drawn by a magnet, leaned forward in his seat as his eyes followed his friend. “Dee, man, you good?”

He received no response as Davey tumbled into the bathroom. All three of them were on their feet within moments, their giggles dead and buried, only to be replaced by the sounds of Davey retching. Jack ran to his aid but Crutchie and Race both had to limp over to the door, each of them hobbling with an injured leg. Once they leaned against the doorframe and stopped laughing at themselves, they were greeted with an almost confounding sight.

Davey was retching into the toilet, gripping the seat so hard that his already pale knuckles turned white. What was shocking was Jack's demeanor. One of his dark hands was threaded through Davey’s hair, holding his fluffy curls away from his face. Jack rubbed rhythmic circles onto the other boy’s back, and he spoke in a soft and low voice that Race and Crutchie seldom heard from him. He whispered little affirmations, some in English, some in Spanish, and the two boys shared a bewildered look.

“Christ.” Race muttered, dragging a hand through his own blonde hair. “Who killed Jack and replaced him with this guy?”

“No idea.”

He wrinkled his nose and scoffed. “Last time I threw up, Jack pushed me into a bush and filmed the whole fucking thing. Dave’s getting the royal treatment, I guess.”

Crutchie was just as confused as Race was. Sure, Jack had comforted kids at the group home through a stomach bug or two, but that was years ago. This was incredibly different. Jack was looking at Davey– an honest to God, downright mess of a boy– like he was in love with him, even as he was spilling his guts into the toilet. Jack’s eyes were the real giveaway. He just looked infatuated. Crutchie had only ever seen him look quite so enamored with Katherine. It felt almost like they were intruding on something private, considering the fact that Jack literally had a girlfriend.

“Could someone get Davey some water?”

When Race hobbled back into the bathroom and dropped the water into Jack’s lap, Jack was preoccupied with gently passing a wad of toilet paper over Davey’s mouth and nose. Davey’s cheek was pressed against the toilet seat and he was staring at Jack like Jack was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Maybe, to Davey, he was.

Shithead that he was, Race grinned impishly as he hoisted himself up onto the bathroom counter to sit. “God, Jack, you are such a good boyfriend.”

“I know.” Jack replied easily, grinning like an idiot.

Crutchie watched Davey’s awed expression crumble. Within moments he was even paler than before and throwing up even harder than the first time around. Crutchie couldn’t hold back a wince at the sound of it– it was one of those vomits where you felt like you were choking on the stuff, unable to get a breath in, and Davey was actually sobbing with it. Race at least had the decency to look halfway guilty but Jack had only turned up his stupid flirting.

“Davey, baby, it’s gonna be okay. Just get it all out.” He murmured, gently scratching his fingers against Davey’s scalp. Davey made a particularly unbecoming noise and Crutchie knew his hangover was going to be positively murderous. “There you go. You got it.”

“I c– I can’t breathe–” He sobbed and gagged at the same time (impressive).

“Naw, cielito, you’re okay.” Jack brushed his thumb over Davey’s cheekbone and Crutchie really, really felt like he was intruding at the sound of Davey crying. “It’s okay. I’ve gotcha. I’m right here, ‘m gonna make sure you’re okay.”

Race seemed to have the exact same idea– this had turned into something very personal very quickly– and the two of them quietly, carefully exited the bathroom to the sound of Davey throwing his guts up and Jack shushing him like he was the most precious thing on earth. Both Race and Crutchie flopped onto the couch, feeling far too sober for boys who had been drinking less than an hour prior. After a very prolonged silence, in which the sound of vomiting devolved into the sound of quiet sobbing, Race carefully picked up a water bottle and raised it reverently.

“Beer Night.”

Crutchie rolled his eyes and lifted his own water in response. “Fucking Beer Night.”

#gmybw #jack kelly #david jacobs #davey jacobs #crutchie morris #racetrack higgins #they're just a bunch of idiots #pining #davey is pining hard #bless it