A one shot as alluded to in Question Time Again. Thanks to paperstars24601 for the prompt. In an early draft of the movie script it's mentioned that Jack has a brother named Michael. Combined with a line from the beginning of the musical, I came up with this.
"Jack?"
"Whaddyawant?"
"Dad's gone."
"No, he ain't. Go back to sleep."
"I'se serious, Jack!"
"You musta been dreamin'. Shut up and go to sleep."
"Ja-ack-ack-ack—"
"Will you quit with the coughing? It's been a week. I'm sick of doing all your chores."
"I t-told you, I'm really sick. If we could just afford medicine—"
"I still think you're fakin' it, so you can get out of work."
"I'm—not—faking—anything!" The cot shook with his deep racking coughs.
Jack was silent for a moment. "Well…it's just a cold, then. Still, it sounds like you're making yourself cough…"
"I'm not. And Dad's really gone, I heard them take him away!"
"Heard who?"
"I dunno. I just heard the front door open and deep voices in Dad's room and then a scuffle and then the door closed and he's gone, Jack, I swear he's gone!"
"I didn't hear anything…"
"You sleep better than me."
"You sure you weren't dreamin'?"
"Go check, Jack, please? I'm scared."
Jack sighed and crawled out from under the blanket. "Fine. But I'm pretty sure you'se just dreamin'…"
"Hurry, Jack!"
"I'm goin', keep your pants on…"
His eight-year-old brother's coughs grew fainter as Jack crept down the short hallway to his father's room. The door was ajar. Jack's heart started pounding. His dad never slept with the door open. Maybe the kid really had heard something. Jack peered inside.
His dad was gone.
Jack stared at the empty bed for a moment, then something clicked in his mind and he flew back to the room he shared with his brother. "Come on, kid, get up, get up, he's gone, we gotta get outta here!"
"I—"
"Don't say I told you so!" Jack whispered furiously, gathering up all the blankets he could find—two.
"No! I was gonna say that I can't get up! I just…I feel so sick…"
"Stop pretending!"
"I ain't pretending!" Jack's brother was almost in tears. "This ain't a cold, Jack, I feel just awful…it ain't getting better, it's getting worse…"
"Then I'll carry you!" Jack spat angrily, crouching so his brother could climb onto his back. He was frightened by what he felt—his brother's hands lacked their usual energy as they grasped Jack's shoulders. Jack stood up as quickly as he dared, but his brother didn't fall. Jack raced outside and down the street as fast as he could.
Their dad had warned them that the cops might be showing up. He hadn't paid the rent; that was all. Well, that's what he told them, anyway. Jack suspected he might have stolen some food, too. But Jack didn't bring up his suspicions to his dad. It was food. They needed it.
They scuttled down the dusty street into an alley. It was morning, but it was still dark outside. There weren't too many people out, but all the same, Jack kept to the shadows.
Finally he collapsed, deep in the alley, against a pile of broken bricks. His brother rolled off his back with a groan. "Come on," said Jack, "Let's sleep until morning. Then we can find some food."
"It already is morning."
"It ain't really morning until the sun comes up. Just go to sleep."
"Jack?"
"Hmm?"
"What are we gonna do?"
Jack sighed. "I dunno, Michael. But it's gonna be all right."
Jack was awoken some hours later by another round of Michael's coughing. He shoved his worries to the back of his mind and set his jaw. "I'm gonna go find something to eat," he said, noticing as he got to his feet that his stomach was rumbling. "You stay here."
"You gonna steal it?"
Jack shuddered at the thought. "Maybe."
"You shouldn't steal."
"You want to eat or not?"
"Yeah, but…Jack, look what happened to Dad! And he stole! He didn't say it but I know he did!"
"Stop thinking about Dad! He can't do anything for us anymore." Jack gulped, trying not to let his voice break. "He was sick, Michael. He'd been giving us all his food. When you got sick last week, he stopped getting out of bed."
"So maybe the cops will give him food, at least?" Michael asked hopefully.
"I don't think so. He's in trouble, isn't he?" Jack closed his eyes. "We gotta fend for ourselves now, Michael. Dad did his best for us, but now we gotta take care of ourselves." He saw a tear drip down Michael's cheek and for some reason it angered him. "That's just the way it is!" Jack yelled. Then he spun on his heel and ran out of the alley.
Jack knew where the baker's shop was, but he had never approached it without a coin in his pocket. He had nothing. Jack had known the moment they'd entered the alley that he was going to have to steal. An honest life was hopeless for kids on the street, he knew that. They had always been teetering on the brink of street life, but this last blow—losing Dad—was enough to push them over the edge. "Maybe he's not dead," Jack muttered to himself. "Maybe he just has to sit in jail a couple days, and then he can come back to us."
But a tiny voice inside his head told Jack these were empty words.
He didn't really think about the fact that he was stealing until he got caught.
It was easy. The old bread was sitting behind the bakery to be thrown away. Adrenaline pumping, Jack glanced at the open window, then at the bread. He paused for only a second before scurrying over and loading as much as he could into his shirt, which he lifted up from the bottom into a make-shift pouch.
He took another glance at the window as he was leaving, and there was a face staring angrily back at him. "You! Dirty street rat!" shouted the fat angry baker, scrambling outside.
Jack's first instinct was to run, but he seemed to be frozen in place. The red-faced baker reached him before he could take a step. The bread fell to the ground. Jack stood pitifully, his arms dangling loosely at his sides. He had been caught. Now Michael would be left alone in the alley until he starved—
No! He couldn't let that happen! Jack's eyes darted around wildly. Then he was off like a shot.
"Wait."
It was a softer voice than that of the baker's, who was shouting after him, though he'd only run a few feet. The second voice came from a boy Jack hadn't noticed before. The boy had sandy hair and piercing eyes. It took Jack a moment to notice that he walked with a crutch—in fact, one of his legs was dragging uselessly behind him. Jack glared at him, but the boy simply smiled. "You need food bad enough to steal it, you just gotta ask. Right, Mister Baker, sir?" The fat man stood gaping, but he seemed to recognize the boy with the crutch.
"Sure-a-thing, kid," he said in surprise. "This thief is a friend o' yours?"
Jack started to shake his head, but the younger boy said firmly, "Yes."
"Well, tell 'im to steer clear o' my ole bread…unless he needs it."
"Yes, mister. He'll ask next time."
"Tough life fo' little kids like you, I won't deny it. But there ain't nothing worse'n a thief, that's wha' I always say!"
"Yes, mister."
"Well, take it then, and get outta here!" The baker regained some of his anger. Jack scrambled to pick the bread up off the ground and loaded it back into his shirt. The boy with the crutch limped easily along beside him as he hurried away.
"Say," Jack said, after they'd walked a few seconds in silence, "Thanks for helpin' me out back there."
"No problem." He hesitated. "You…you been on the streets long?"
"Since this morning. I need the bread for my brother. And me," Jack added, as his stomach gave another rumble.
"I can help you out, if you want."
Jack glanced sideways at him. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Ten. You?"
"Eleven."
"What's your name?"
"Jack Kel—" Jack swallowed. "Jack."
"I'm Crutchie."
"That's your real name?"
"Nah." He didn't elaborate.
They went on a few more minutes in silence.
"We don't need any help," Jack said carefully. "But thanks."
Crutchie didn't reply.
When they reached the alley, Jack stopped. He didn't really want Crutchie to see Michael, especially when he kept doing the stupid coughing. "Well," he said awkwardly, "See you."
Crutchie didn't ask questions. He gave a cheerful wave and continued on his way without a backwards glance.
Michael and Jack gulped down the bread, the best meal they'd had for days. Michael didn't seem to care that Jack had taken it without paying. They didn't try to ration it, but ate as much as they could. Jack knew he could go back to the bakery now that the baker knew him, even though he would hate asking.
After a while, Michael started coughing. Thinking he had gotten some bread lodged in his throat, Jack pounded his little brother on the back, but Michael weakly pushed him away. "Stop it, Jack! It hurts!" Jack stopped. Michael continued to cough, bending over so his head was bouncing against his knees as he hacked. Jack took another bite of bread and pretended he couldn't hear his brother's desperate coughs.
When it had quieted down, Jack took a stern approach. "You better quit that coughing soon, because tomorrow we'se going somewhere else."
"What?!"
"We can't stay here forever."
"But I can't walk! If I try to stand up, I start coughing!" Michael was on the verge of tears.
Jack steeled himself against all emotion. "Not my fault, is it? We can't stay here, the cops might come looking for us."
"Well, let's not go too far. You'll have to carry me again—"
"No," said Jack calmly. "You'll walk."
"I can't—"
"And we're going…we're going to the train station! We're getting as far away from here as we can! We're going to...to...to Santa Fe!" Jack snarled. It was the furthest place he could think of. He was suddenly feeling very wicked. It was all Michael's fault anyway! All logic escaped Jack as his brother burst into tears. "Shut up, stupid! If you hadn't gotten sick, neither would've Dad, and we'd still be at home!"
"It's not my—"
"Maybe you'll stop pretending to feel sick tomorrow, then. Stop pretending, so people feel sorry for you! So you can get out of working!"
"Jack, I never…" Michael couldn't finish speaking due to another round of terrible coughs.
Jack turned away.
They spent the day in the alley. Jack was bored and still cross with his little brother. By the time the sun had started to set, Michael's coughs were getting worse. Jack didn't acknowledge this. Finally, he couldn't take it any more. "I'll be back," he snapped, jumping to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Michael asked weakly.
"Food," Jack said carelessly. It was the first thing that popped into his mind, and the best excuse he had to leave his brother for a while.
On a whim, Jack decided to go out of his way to walk past the jail where they had surely taken his father. It wasn't too far. He kept his eyes on the prison, his mind occupied with thoughts of his dad, his heart racing.
Suddenly his foot caught on something in the street, resting against the curb. Jack regained his balance quickly, and looked back to see what had tripped him.
It was a man. Jack's foot had been caught in the ragged clothing on the man's back. And then he raised his eyes to meet Jack's.
"Jack?"
"Dad!"
It was his dad. His face was scratched and dirty, and his hands were tied with rope. He was shaking badly.
"Jack, what are you doing here?"
"Dad! Dad, we got out, we're in an alley, we can get bread and everything, you gotta come get us, you..."
"Jack..." His dad raised a shaking hand, but then it fell limply to the ground. Jack dropped to his knees and grasped at his father's clothes.
"You gotta come back, Dad, you gotta! We can go out west, as far as we can, to Santa Fe! That's as far west as you can go, and no one will find us there!"
"Jack, you need to get outta here." His voice was low and weak, and his breathing was ragged. "The cops will be back soon, to toss me in the...in the..."
"Do they think you're dead?" Jack whispered.
"They hope I am, so they don't have to deal with me."
"Why are you here?"
"They tossed me out here since I'm so...so..."
"Dad, you can't die. You can't. That can't be why they tossed you out here."
"It's too late, Jack. They broke me. This whole damn city broke me."
"Dad..."
"Jack..." His breathing was becoming slower. "Just...promise me..."
"What?"
"Don't let them break you too."
"I won't, Dad. I'll take care of Michael, we'll be okay...we can...Dad?"
His father's eyes had become unfocused, glossy.
"Dad!"
His head rolled to the side; his body went limp.
"Dad!"
"Hey! You kid!"
A cop was coming out of the prison. The shout shook Jack, and he took one last glance at his dad before running as fast as he could back to the alley.
Jack couldn't think, he couldn't get the image of his father's hopeless face out of his mind. Michael didn't know, he had no idea, all he cared about was why Jack didn't have food...
"I thought you said you were getting bread!"
"I...I saw Dad..."
"What? Is he coming? Can we go home now?"
"I saw Dad die..."
Michael stared at him. Tears filled his eyes, but he didn't question his older brother any more. They didn't speak the rest of the night, instead simply sitting in the silence and slowly coming to terms with the fact that they were alone, all alone, but for each other.
The next morning, Jack felt as though he hadn't slept all night. The sun hadn't risen when he woke Michael.
"Come on. We'se going to the train now."
"Jack, I can't..."
"You can if I says you can! Come on, kid!"
It took ten minutes for Michael to stumble out of the alley and down just one block. He frequently fell to his knees, his little body racked with coughs. Somehow, seeing his dad die right in front of him had made Jack even more apathetic. "Why are you so slow? You can stop pretending now!"
Michael was too weak to answer him anymore. Somewhere deep inside Jack, he knew there was really something wrong with his brother, but he didn't care, he told himself, he was past caring. It was a tough world, and anyone who couldn't fight weakness and do what needed to be done, deserved what he got.
"You can do it! The train's leaving soon!" Jack told Michael, walking slowly beside him. He had no idea if it was true, but he would say anything to get his brother to hurry. Michael nodded, but then bent over again with coughs.
After an hour, they didn't seem to be getting any closer to their destination, to Jack's immense frustration. Michael had collapsed on the street and wasn't getting up. "Lemme look at your throat," Jack said reluctantly.
Michael obliged, turning his face towards Jack and opening his mouth.
"Stick out your tongue." Jack peered in Michael's mouth. "It's not even red back there!" Michael looked miserable and struggled to his feet again. Jack didn't add what he had seen: a dark coating in the back of Michael's throat.
"My head hurts," Michael whispered. "And I'm so hot."
"You'll get even hotter once the sun comes up. So hurry up."
"Jack..."
"Now!"
Jack felt out of control. He knew well now that Michael was extremely ill. He wasn't doing well. But Jack didn't know what to do. So he did the only thing he felt he could do-keep forcing his brother forward, step by step. Somehow, when they reached the train, when they were on their way to Santa Fe, things would be all right. They kept on. The sky grew gray, then the sun began to rise.
"Jack!"
"What?"
Michael had fallen behind. He was on his knees, hacking.
"I can't breathe!"
Jack didn't answer. A strange feeling was rising up in him, a feeling of cold hopelessness. He did care about his brother. Why had he kept pushing him? Why had he been so cruel to the only person he had left in the world?
"Hey!"
A figure was approaching them. Jack recognized Crutchie, the boy he'd met the day before. Jack closed his eyes; he didn't need this right now! Crutchie looked down at Michael, his eyes wide. "Is this your brother? Is he okay?"
Jack was shaking. "No," he said.
"Where are you going?"
Jack felt so small. "Train station."
"Why?"
"I dunno."
Crutchie knelt down beside Michael, still hanging on his crutch. "He doesn't look good."
"I know. Come on, we gotta keep going."
There was silence but for Michael's labored breathing. Crutchie glanced back and forth between the brothers.
"Well...okay..." Crutchie said doubtfully. He and Jack helped Michael to his feet.
The three slowly continued down the street, Michael sagging in the middle. Crutchie, even with his limp, was helpful, though most of Michael's weight fell on Jack. Michael was putting all his efforts into breathing. Jack listened as his brother's breaths became more and more ragged, and couldn't think, couldn't think at all...
Jack didn't know how long they walked. He didn't know how close they were...or even really where they were...when Michael went limp.
Jack fell to the ground with him, to catch his brother before he hit the ground. Crutchie helped him lower Michael gently onto the street. Jack's heart was pounding, but Michael was still breathing.
"Jack?"
"No, Michael, you can't die, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I was so mean, you can't die, not when Dad just did, not now, you can't leave me alone, Michael! I'm sorry! I love you, kid! You can't die!"
"Where do you go when you die?"
Jack shook his head. "You can't, you can't..."
Crutchie interrupted him softly. "It's real pretty. It's always bright and happy there. I promise."
Jack gaped at him.
Michael was hanging on every word. "Like...like some place out west? Where did you say we were going, Jack?"
"Santa Fe," Jack whispered. His worst nightmare was coming true.
"Does it hurt, to die?"
This time Jack was the one to reassure his brother. "No. It doesn't. All the pain, all your coughing, it goes away. But Michael...please...don't..."
"Jack..."
Michael took another ragged breath. Jack had a horrible sense he knew what was coming...it was too familiar...the glossy eyes, the limp body...no more breath...Michael was gone...
And it was all his fault.
Jack collapsed onto his brother's body, sobbing. He felt Crutchie's hand on his shoulder but pushed it away...he didn't want to feel, he didn't want to think...he was all alone, now...Michael was gone.
He didn't know how long he lay there, sobbing. Finally, he wiped his eyes. To his surprise, Crutchie was still there. He didn't care. They stared at each other for a while, with Michael's body between them.
"I'm sorry," Crutchie said.
"Me too. It was all my fault." Jack felt tears spring to his eyes again.
"No."
"Yes! You don't understand! I was so horrible..."
"It wasn't your fault."
"It's my fault...now I'm all alone..."
"No," Crutchie said again. "You're not alone."
"What?"
"We need family to survive. We can be brothers."
"What?"
"I'll be your little brother now. I know no one will ever replace your real brother," Crutchie said, closing his eyes for a moment, "but we can take care of each other. O-okay?"
Jack looked down at Michael's empty face. It was too late. And he needed someone now, someone to count on.
"Yeah. We'll be brothers now."
"Great." Crutchie gave him a small smile.
Jack slowly returned it, through fresh tears.