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Jack’s absence had more of an effect than anyone could have possibly anticipated.
Without the youth’s borderline obnoxious behaviour and almost blatant disregard for doing things when and where appropriate, everything became quiet, bland, and somewhat monotonous.
No one occupant blamed Pitch for doing what he had to do without informing them. They understood that Jack didn’t really want to draw attention to himself. Some may have even been jealous that Jack inevitably chose Pitch to confide in, to ask for help from. The green-eyed monster was short lived, snuffed out by guilt for not noticing sooner, and by concern for their young friend.
They tried; honestly they did, to get back in the swing of things, falling back into once comfortable routines.
These were short lived.
Movie nights weren’t the same without the over-the-top commentary, or having to keep a watchful eye out to make sure that Sharktopus hadn’t miraculously found its way into the chosen film’s case.
The stairs that had always quickly evolved back into being a health hazard shortly after being repaired, had remained even and safe.
None of Aster’s stuff had gone missing, only to reappear in some obscure place later.
The wait for the showers was so much shorter.
Drink nights were lacking without some of the most notorious game masters contributing. Sandy and Pitch didn’t feel it was right to collaborate without their third musketeer.
Out of the five of them, it was no surprise that Pitch took it the hardest.
He had thrown himself into his work with a renewed vigour, more for distraction rather than from inspiration. He had more or less isolated himself from the rest of them.
It was then, and only then, that the others came to realise just how much Jack had really done for them.
Life now was almost like it had been before the boy came knocking on the door, inquiring about the spare room for rent he’d seen advertised.
Jack had brought with him colour, noise, energy, and most importantly, fun.
He’d shaken their old, dull, solitary routines in such a way that they interwove with each other’s. He’d help shape traditions, games, and jokes that only those who lived under the roof would ever really understand.
He took the time to properly decipher what Sandy was trying to get across, and always made sure to hear, in a manner of speaking, whatever input the short artist had to offer.
Jack would help Tooth grade papers and come up with new, exciting ideas for her to implement in her lesson plans.
The boy was always willing to help Aster out, either in the garden, the kitchen; hell, he’d even taken shifts at the Australian’s store when the man was short on staff.
He’d even listen with bated breath when North would regal him with tales from the old country and his youth, even when the others had long since gotten tired of the repetitive stories.
It was only now that they realised how little they even knew about Pitch before Jack had dragged the man, kicking and screaming, out of his shell.
Before, Pitch was the intimidating, reclusive author that lived in the basement room. He paid his rent, always cleaned up after himself, but was soon to leave the room when his business was done.
Now, Pitch was the guy who had a dark, if not dry, sense of humour. Who always had his heart in the right place. He was a father, an ex-soldier, had a soft spot for rom-coms. You couldn’t find someone more capable of keeping up toe-to-toe with when it came to banter.
It was now, and only now, that they realised that before Jack they were merely people living in the same space.
With him though, they had become something like a family.
Jack had been the glue that had held them all together.
They all just hoped that he’d fly back home and take his place, feet up on the table, soon.