Thanks for asking! I promised myself I would make this one shorter than my first sprace prompt, but I have no self control oops. I was also gonna try a modern au but I love my period-typical newsies and no one can stop me from writing historically inaccurate gay shit ((Also their accents are written atrociously I’m so sorry)) Hope you like it :)
97. “You’re so cute when you pout like that.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Guess what?”
An excited voice shouted right into Spot’s ear just as he was about to doze off, his feet propped up on a rotting wooden crate and his back leaning against a slanted metal rod, one of the hundreds upon hundreds providing support to the Brooklyn bridge.
Surrounded by mucky water, abandoned fishing nets, empty cargo bins, and scattered broken bottles, Spot’s throne was far less than impressive. However, it was still his place, his perch, the location where any newsie could most likely find him on a laid-back afternoon. Although, most of the Brooklyn newsies knew better than to interrupt the King when he was relaxing after selling, meaning the abrasive voice that woke Spot out of his peaceful daydream didn’t belong to one of his boys.
Tipping his hat away from his eyes, he glared up at Racetrack Higgins, rolling his eyes as he watched the Manhattan newsie bounce on the balls of his feet, holding his hands behind his back, waiting for Spot to respond to his initial question.
“The hell do you want?” Spot grumbled, settling back against his pole and crossing his arms over his chest, doing his best to appear unalarmed. Truth be told, Race had been the last person he expected to see. While Race had made an annoying habit of visiting Spot whenever he had the chance, it was usually at night after he was done selling for the day, when he knew Spot was alone and could let his guard down. Race would either challenge him to a quick game of cards or he would simply ramble on about the events of the day, seemingly happy about simply being able to talk with the other boy when he wasn’t so worried about his status. However, it was still early in the afternoon, and there was no way Race was done selling his papers; Spot knew he took breaks between to bet on the races constantly occurring at Sheepshead, meaning it took him twice as long to sell his papes on a busy day.
“You have to guess!” Race responded, the same excited shrill still accompanying his voice. Spot scowled.
“What if I don’t care?” He yawned, moving his hand up to tip his hat back over his eyes. “Go away.”
Race, completely used to Spot’s sarcasm and nonchalance, simply reached forward and tipped Spot’s hat back up so he could look at him again. Grinning, he still held one hand behind his back and tried again.
“Spot, c’mon! You’ll never guess what just happened to me!”
“Well, clearly you wasn’t just taught how to leave a guy alone.” Spot growled, sitting up and adjusting his hat on his head once more. “That’d be a damn miracle.” He attempted to crane his neck to see what Race was hiding, but Race turned further away, still maintaining his stupid, cocky grin.
“Christ,” the younger boy mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “How am I supposed to know what happened? Did ya find another dead frog?”
Race giggled as he thought back to the time he had indeed found a dead frog and thought it would be hilarious to put it in Spot’s discarded hat as they played cards one night. When Spot had put his hat back on and felt the frog carcass tumble down the back of his shirt, he had let out the highest pitch scream that Race had ever heard. To this day, he denies that the noise ever happened, but Race still wheezes with laughter every time the event is brought up.
“No, but you’s got a nasty attitude that makes me wish I had a dead frog to fling at ya.” Race said, side stepping Spot again as the other boy tried to peer behind his back another time.
“Damnit, Race. I know you ain’t even finished sellin’ your papes. Either get outta here or tell me what you got.” Spot snapped, losing patience by the second. He tolerated Race and his antics to a point, but now that his nap had been interrupted, he was like a small toddler, ready to break at any second.
Race pursed his lips, bouncing on his feet again, waiting a little longer just to watch Spot suffer before he blurted out “I WON!”
Spot barely had time to raise an eyebrow at the boy in front of him before a small pouch was hitting him in the face. He jumped back slightly before looking down at the bag that had now fallen in his lap. “You… won?” He asked, clearly lost.
“At Sheepshead, you moron!” Race cried, picking up the bag from Spot’s lap and waving it in his face. Spot could hear the money rolling around inside, and the words finally started clicking in his mind. Race, to his knowledge, had never won a single bet he placed at Sheepshead, for he was always the victim of bad tips and, frankly, shitty luck.
“No way.” Spot gasped, his eyes widening. “You’re kiddin’.”
“Look at it, Spot!” Race cried again, opening the bag and digging in to pull out the coins. “I’m rich!” He shoved the money in Spot’s face, near hysterical laughter coming from his mouth. “I’s just over at Sheepshead doin’ my sellin’, right? And the next race is happenin’ real soon and I just hadta go see it, but I got no idea who to bet on. So then,” He paused to take a giant breath before continuing, “So then, these two guys is passin’ me by and they whisperin’ real low about the horse they’s bettin’ on. I followed behind ‘em and they said Ol’ Sweets was the winner. She ain’t ever won before but I bet on her anyway. And she won today and I won! I won! Four whole dollars!”
He was practically dancing in front of Spot, clenching his fist around the money and spinning around like a fool. Spot sat stunned in front of him. For any newsie, four dollars was a lot of money to have sitting in their pockets, and Race was the last person he expected to win something like that. If he was being honest, he felt rather proud, barely able to keep a smile off of his face as Race celebrated in front of him. However, he was slightly confused as to why Race stopped in the middle of his day to tell him of all people.
“Why are you tellin’ me this?” He asked, reaching out to grab Race’s arms to steady him. Race’s smile faltered only slightly as he put the money back in the tiny bag and shrugged.
“Why not? I was excited. You’s my only friend over here.”
Spot tried to ignore the the way his heartbeat picked up at that statement.
“And,” Race continued, his smile returning, “I felt like I owed ya a bit. For, you know, always lettin’ me on your turf.”
Spot perked up at this. “Owed me?” He repeated dumbly, sitting back down on his crate, one knee up with his elbow resting on it. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Race said, digging back into the bag to pull out half of his winnings. “Here.” He held out his hand, the money shining in the sun, and looked at Spot pointedly. “Take it.”
Spot, for once in his life, was completely lost for words, staring at the hand in front of him. He made no move to accept the money. Instead, he looked up at Race and said “You bein’ serious right now?”
Race nodded earnestly, moving his hand closer to Spot. “Yeah. I figured since, you know, I come over here all the time. And you always talk to me… And you’s my friend.”
Spot had to try extremely hard to pretend that Race’s words weren’t making him feel a load of feelings that he had tried to repress a long time ago. Gulping, he took a shaky breath and stood up, reaching forward to close Race’s fingers around the money. “I can’t take this.” He said softly, keeping his hand closed around Race’s fist, just to take advantage of the contact.
Race blinked. “What?”
“I’m not takin’ your money.” Spot repeated, finally pushing Race’s fist away. “You won it.”
“Yeah, so?” Race sounded offended, his smile now gone, replaced with a look of confusion. “I won it, it’s my money, and I wanna give it to you.”
“No.” Spot said again, firmer this time. “You don’t need’ta give me anything. Lettin’ you in here is just good for business between me n’ Manhattan. You don’t— You don’t owe me.”
Admittedly, the amount Race was attempting to give him wasn’t huge, and Spot would likely blow through it in a heartbeat buying candy for some of his younger boys that could use something to cheer them up. However, it was the gesture that meant the most. Race spent half of his time over at Sheepshead trying to win and when he finally did, he brought it over to Spot. His friend.
Spot scoffed in his head. Race’s friend. Maybe he didn’t want to be Race’s friend. Maybe he wanted something he couldn’t have.
Race seemed lost for words as he looked down at the money in his hands. He snorted and shook his head, eventually dropping the coins back into the pouch and pocketing it. “Well, this was a big ol’ waste of time.” He mumbled, his crestfallen face making Spot’s heart wrench. An awkward silence passed between the two boys, and Spot was seriously considering taking the money that Race had worked so hard for, just to see him smile, but his pride overpowered his common sense.
“Um,” Race finally broke the silence with his disappointed tone, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking pointedly away from Spot. “I’ll uh, I guess I’ll see ya around.”
He paused for a moment, glancing back at Spot, evidently waiting for him to say something profound and amazing, preferably along the lines of “Don’t go, Race!” or “I’d love to take the money and buy you dinner, Race!” but he knew that would never come. When Spot said nothing and instead turned his eyes down in embarrassment, Race turned on his heel and trudged off, his bag of unsold papes swinging pathetically behind him.
…
The next day, Race seriously considered avoiding Brooklyn all together, his mind unable to focus on anything but the rejection he faced the day before. Frustration built up inside of him as he got ready to start the day. It’s not like he asked Spot to marry him or anything, so why did it feel like Spot had taken his feelings like, stuffed them in a tiny box, and crushed the box?
After successfully avoiding any questioning from Davey, who had become this annoying older brother-weird uncle-figure to most of the Manhattan newsies, Race decided he didn’t want to be stared at suspiciously for his fowl mood all day and began the trek across the bridge. If he ran into Spot, he would just ignore him. He could do that. He had SOME self control after all.
‘If Spot talks to me, just ignore him. If Spot talks to me, just ignore him’ Race repeated over and over again in his head as he got closer and closer to the end of the bridge, his mood mirroring the dark clouds already beginning to cover the clouds.
‘If Spot talks to me, just ignore him.’
‘If Spot talks to me, just ignore him.
‘If Spot talks to me, just ignore him.
‘If Spot talks to me, just—‘
“Race!”
“Huh? Oh, hi, Spot.”
Shit.
Race bit his lip and scolded himself for breaking the only rule he had come up with on the way over just because he was distracted. Spot was standing right in front of him, slightly off balance, chest heaving, and hat missing, clearly having run over to Race as soon as he had seen him on the bridge. Race felt a pang of satisfaction as he noticed Spot flushed and struggling to catch his breath. It was very unlike him to run after anyone, meaning Race, if anything, was at least slightly important to the younger boy.
“Race, I” Spot panted, straightening up and running a hand through his hair, “I didn’t think you were, uh, gonna come… here… um, today.” He stuttered like a nervous child, suddenly remembering that he had made no plan of what he was going to say to Race once he saw him.
Race raised an eyebrow at him, deciding it was probably best to break his ‘don’t speak to Spot’ rule. “And?” He asked, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.
Spot opened his mouth, but no words came out. Race rolled his eyes and pushed past him, planning to lose him in the crowd of people going about their days and get to his selling point as soon as possible.
“Race, wait!” Spot called after him, jogging slightly to keep the other boy in his sight.
“No.” Race called back. “I’m gonna go win more money and NOT give it to you.”
He knew the response was childish at best, but his feelings were hurt and he knew Spot probably didn’t care, but he was still going to make it known.
Spot finally caught up to Race after spitting a few vulgar words at a man who simply wouldn’t move, and caught him by the wrist. Race huffed and turned around, wrenching it out of the other boy’s grip.
“Leave me alone.”
“No,” Spot said, looking around at the people surrounding them on the streets in frustration. He definitely didn’t want an audience for this. Glancing around quickly, he spotted a store with no customers milling around the front, meaning the back would be even more desolate. Picking up Race’s wrist again, he yanked him over to behind the weathered brick building and pushed him up against the wall.
Race fought against him, albeit half-heartedly, letting himself be pressed against the wall, but refusing to wipe the scowl from his face. “Go away, Spot.” He spat, knowing he was taking a great risk denying Spot what he wanted, especially as Spot could have him beat to the ground in a matter of seconds.
“Just hold still for a second!” Spot snapped, pinning Race’s shoulders in place. “I’m tryin’ to apologize!”
“Oh, wow!” Race cried, sarcasm evident in his tone. “Spot Conlon wants to apologize to me? How lucky am I?”
Spot glared at him. “I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt your feelings.”
The statement was surprisingly honest and was enough to have Race’s mouth snap shut. He stared at Spot with a blank expression on his face, allowing the other to continue hesitantly.
“You just… offered me the money that you worked for and I ain’t no bum who needs your charity.” Spot continued, making sure to still maintain an ounce of his dignity within the apology. “Plus, you earned it. It’s yours. I wasn’t tryin’ to make you feel… I dunno, bad, or whatever.”
Race chewed on his tongue for a moment, taking in the very Spot-like apology. The younger boy’s hands were still gripping his shoulders, and he was much closer than Race was used to, but he was not going to let himself be distracted.
“You was a jerk.” He declared, his hands gripping the strap of his bag full of papes. “I wasn’t tryin’ to give you charity. I was tryin’…” He paused. What had he been trying to do? Win Spot’s affection? He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and thought for a second before finishing with “I was tryin’ to make us even. You let me sell in Brooklyn at no price.”
“The reward is that I gets Manhattan on my side if we’s ever got a problem. It’s a business negotiation.” Spot responded coolly, still not moving any farther from Race. “You’s gettin’ all soft on me.”
“I ain’t gettin’ soft!” Race argued, frowning deeply. Spot only laughed. Race continued frowning as the other boy threw his head back. “It ain’t that funny.
“You IS gettin’ soft, Higgins, don’t deny it. Comin’ over here to give ol’ Spotty a gift yesterday and all.” Spot teased, finally dropping his hands from Race’s shoulders. His apology was turning into the perfect opportunity to poke fun at the other boy.
“Shut up!” Race whined. “I was tryin’ to be a good person, somethin’ you wouldn’t understand.”
Spot only laughed more, finally stopping to look at Race in a way that made his cheeks flush. The affection in Spot’s face was unmissable, and Race wasn’t prepared for the way his heartbeat seemed to amplify in his ears and his hands began to sweat. In order to save himself some embarrassment, he huffed and turned his head to the side, staring pointedly down toward the other end of the street. He expected the altercation to be done at that, but then Spot spoke again.
“You’re so cute when you pout like that.”
Race was pretty sure he was having a heart attack. His head whipped around and he stared at Spot incredulously. “Excuse me?”
Spot didn’t falter. “When you do that pout thing. It’s cute.”
Race thought his knees might give out. “I ain’t cute.”
“You are.” Spot argued. Race felt like his skin was on fire and he fought with all of his might to keep a smile from appearing on his face. He wondered how many times he could get Spot to admit that he thought he was cute before he passed out.
“I ain’t cute and you’s being a jerk.” He retorted, pushing himself off the wall only to be pushed back by Spot, who was now hovering over him.
“Says the one who tried to give me money.”
“I was tryin’ to make us even!” Race cried, attempting to ignore the way Spot’s hands were gripping his hips and his breath was hitting Race’s cheek. “I thought it was a nice thing to do.”
“It was nice, but…” Spot whispered, pressing Race further into the wall, if possible. The other boy raised his eyebrows, his heart beating so loud he thought Spot might just be able to hear it. He almost didn’t want Spot to finish his sentence, for fear that he might vomit and ruin the strange, yet amazing moment the two were sharing. However, Spot finished it anyway by saying “You could’ve paid me in a different way.”
Race felt as if he had been slapped in the face, his whole body heating up at Spot’s words and his heart basically throwing itself out of his ribcage and climbing up into his throat. He wanted to cry and scream at the same time; he was unable to believe that Spot was actually here, pinning him against a wall, suggesting that they do things Race had only ever dreamt about.
“You want me to pay you?” He repeated Spot’s words carefully, a mischievous grin appearing on his face. “But… how?”
He knew exactly how, but he wanted to hear Spot say it. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing that Spot thought about him in the way that Race did. He wanted to know that Spot spent countless hours analyzing their every interaction, that he daydreamed about Race, that he dealt with endless days of inner turmoil over having feelings for someone he thought he could never have.
Spot grinned back at him, his hands squeezing Race’s hips, pressing his own body ever closer so that they were aligned from chest to toe. He waited a painstakingly long time to answer Race, watching how the blush rose on his cheek’s, how his dark eyes sparkled, even when it was cloudy, and how he kept wetting his lips with his tongue and oh god his lips.
“Kiss me.”
Race wasted no time at all. He shot forward and closed the gap between them, melting into Spot’s touch as soon as he felt the warmth of his mouth. Spot responded eagerly, moving a hand from Race’s waist to behind his neck, tilting his head and deepening the kiss. Race’s hands moved from the strap of his bag to the front of Spot’s shirt, grabbing fistfuls of fabric to pull him closer and to steady himself so that he didn’t collapse onto the ground and dissolve into a puddle of emotion. They kissed each other as if they had something to prove, Spot biting at Race’s lower lip before running his tongue along it, making the boy pinned to the wall moan softly. Race’s hands were everywhere from Spot’s shirt, to his hair, to his back, desperate to show the other boy how much he wanted this.
When they finally broke apart, they took each other in, Race laughing at the spit visible on Spot’s chin. “Gross.” He giggled, making Spot roll his eyes and wipe his mouth with his sleeve. A very romantic gesture, in Race’s opinion.
“Shut up.” Spot mumbled, the hand still placed behind Race’s neck running up to card through his hair, knocking his hat off. “You should stay in Brooklyn.”
Race laughed. “Forever?”
“I meant tonight.” Spot answered seriously, pressing another quick kiss to Race’s lips. “Just for the night. Then we’ll be even”
Thank you for the prompt! This one was so much fun. I finally kept my promise to shorten these up a little, but I struggled so hard to keep this one short. It’s just so tempting to write pages upon pages of Sprace. I’m moving into college this week so I’ve had no time to edit or anything so I hope this doesn’t suck too bad!
3. “I’m not jealous.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Spot Conlon grew up with very few material possessions. He never caught a glimpse of the lives of fortunate children who were raised with kind, loving families, the kids who were given Christmas presents and candies when they behaved. He was like the rest of the newsies wandering the streets, many orphaned or estranged from their parents, and certainly none of them receiving gifts or familial love on any given day.
That’s why, when Spot Conlon fought his way to being the “King” of Brooklyn, he held onto every perk that the position brought him. The respect that blossomed out of slight fear, the private room in the lodging house, the ability to order the other newsies around while simultaneously being able to help them. While he didn’t gain many more material possessions, he gained power and, to a kid that grew up with nothing, that was much better.
With Spot’s power also came the ability to control who came in and out of Brooklyn. This was an important job in Spot’s eyes; keeping relations between his birthplace and other boroughs fairly friendly was an important factor to maintaining success. It also helped Brooklyn gain its reputation. Without Brooklyn on your side, you were gonna lose. Spot liked having the upper hand, especially when it came to the recent strike in Manhattan. He was willing to fight— as long as he was on the winning side. There was no shame in that. The surge of pride he had felt when one of his boys had told him that no other borough would join the strike until he did was enough to satisfy him for a whole week.
Spot didn’t consider himself to be an unfair leader. He knew what he could and couldn’t get away with, he would gladly soak anyone who put any of his newsies in harms way, and he managed to keep any violence within his ranks to a minimum. Spot wasn’t an unfair leader, no, but he liked to keep what was his.
And Racetrack Higgins was someone Spot considered to be his.
While the mischievous and charming boy may have technically belonged to Manhattan, he spent way too much time in Brooklyn to, in Spot’s eyes, be considered a “true” Manhattan newsie. While Race would tell Spot time and time again that he “ain’t Brooklyn, for God’s sake”, Spot kept a constant watch over the other boy and treated him as if he were.
Why? Simple.
Race was the best thing that had ever happened to Spot.
Not that he would ever admit that, of course, but Race brought Spot the type of joy that started as a warm feeling in his chest and eventually settled into his stomach, spreading a feeling of calm happiness throughout his entire body. It was exactly the type of therapy he needed when he was on edge all day, maintaining his tough, no-bullshit demeanor. Race was the only person in New York who could bring a smile to Spot’s face, even after Spot scolded him time and time again for being out too late, or getting to comfortable in his territory.
Race was the only person who could make Spot Conlon blush and hide his face. He was the only person who could wrap an arm around the other boy and pull him close without getting a swift punch to the jaw. He was the only one who made Spot have feelings that terrified him to his very core. Spot had never even had time to consider the possibility of a romantic relationship with girl, let alone a boy. So to have Race at his side more often than not was definitely something that took getting used to. And the physical contact, boy, that was a whole different story.
The newsies of Brooklyn were affectionate enough with each other, sure, but it was nothing to how the Manhattan boys acted. Spot had visited Manhattan enough times to know that those boys had long abandoned personal space, and Race was no exception. Spot had long become accustomed to Race’s hands on him in some way, shape, or form, always wishing for something more than Race could give him, but he would settle for the simple touches if he could have nothing more.
The one problem about having Race in Brooklyn all the time was that he was starting to get comfortable with some of Spot’s boys. He had started hanging around with a group around his age, challenging them to games of cards and even bringing some of them down to Sheepshead to bet on races. Spot was fine with it (he wasn’t a child, okay?), but he had to admit that sometimes he missed having Race clinging to only his arm as they strolled around Brooklyn late at night. He missed knowing that Race was nearby and safe. That’s it. He didn’t miss Race giving him attention. He didn’t miss analyzing Race’s actions late at night as he lay in bed to see if there was any possibility Race felt the same way about him. Of course not.
On this particular evening Spot was sitting by himself outside of a closed flower shop, his fingers closed around a cigarette he had bummed off of a passerby earlier that day. He wasn’t much of a smoker, but as he sat basking in the orange hue of the sunset, a million thoughts running through his head, the smoke passing through his lips managed to calm him slightly.
He didn’t know where Race was, only that he was somewhere in Brooklyn. He had seen him cross the bridge this morning, but hadn’t made a move to greet the other boy, assuming he would be back later for his near-daily visit. It had been two days since Spot had last even shared a word with Race, and the last time they spoke, it was a simple “Hello” passed between them as Race rushed over to his selling spot, having overslept and started his day late. Spot hated to admit to any sort of weakness, feeling it would threaten his position in the Brooklyn hierarchy, but the dull ache he felt in his chest when Race didn’t appear in the next hour was hard to ignore.
Spot had a gut feeling that Race was with some other Brooklyn newsies, off doing who knows what, and he told himself it was fine. Race was allowed to be with whomever he wished to be with. It just annoyed Spot that Race wasn’t making the trip over the bridge for just him anymore.
Taking another drag from his cigarette, Spot closed his eyes as he felt the smoke burn in his lungs. He couldn’t let these thoughts get the best of him. Jealousy, in his opinion, was dangerous and ugly. Nothing good could come of it. It was jealousy that had dethroned the last two kings of Brooklyn. Those who were jealous of their power took them down, and the result wasn’t pretty. Spot didn’t plan to let feelings of envy take over his life like it took over theirs, but damnit— it was hard not to feel like Race had been stolen from him.
‘No!’ Spot scolded himself, pinching his cigarette so hard that it crumbled into two pieces in his hands. ‘I’m not jealous.’
He wasn’t. He wasn’t.
About 20 minutes more passed, but Spot didn’t move from the curb in front of the store. He chose instead to sit and enjoy the moments he had away from the typical bustling streets. Though there were still several people out and about on the streets adjacent from him, Spot’s position was nicely isolated, and it gave him plenty of room to stretch out his legs and attempt to distract himself from thinking of Race, like some sort of love-sick little girl.
As soon as he began contemplating returning back to the lodging house and collapsing onto his bed, he heard footsteps approaching behind him. He turned around quickly to see who his visitor was, his eyes widening slightly before he had to force himself to hide a small smile. He wouldn’t admit that he was happy to see Racetrack standing in front of him, his clothes looking slightly rumpled and face slightly dirty from a long day of selling, but nevertheless he stood alert in front of the King of Brooklyn, giving a small nod of his head as a form of greeting.
Spot let a few moments of silence pass so he could get over his initial shock at seeing the boy in front of him again, his stomach doing a few flips and his heartbeat picking up as he thought of the right thing to say. Race seemed to be in a similar position as him, aware that the interaction was most likely going to be awkward.
“You ain’t been around in a while.” Spot finally commented, trying to keep his voice casual and ambiguous. He squinted at Race as the last of the sun’s light disappeared behind a building.
Race looked guilty as he shrugged and kicked his foot awkwardly against the ground. “Yeah I guess I haven’t.”
Silence passed between the two for a long, painful moment. Spot was waiting for some sort of explanation that Race clearly wasn’t about to give him.
“You know it’s a privilege that I let you on my turf, right?” Spot asked seriously. Race looked up at him quickly, more guilt passing onto his face at the other boy’s words.
“Y-yeah. Yes. I know.” He responded quietly, the hands in his pockets fidgeting. “I wasn’t tryna take advantage of you or nothin’.” He added quickly, eyes widening as he considered the possibility of Spot taking away his ability to come to Brooklyn. Spot didn’t answer, only staring at Race with an unreadable expression on his face. The shorter boy winced, racking his brain for the right way to tell Spot that he’d been avoiding him so he didn’t do anything stupid, like get too attached and accidentally let it slip that he wanted Spot’s lips on his and his hands in places that were considered too sinful to mention.
“I’m sorry.” Race mumbled, knowing he sounded pathetic and incompetent, but he was clueless on how else to relate to the other boy in that moment. Half of him was hoping that Spot would drop the whole thing and send him home without another word. The other half was hoping Spot would keep talking to him so they could mend the awkward moment between them and possibly reconnect like they used to.
The universe must have heard Race’s thoughts because Spot spoke up again. “For what?”
Scratch that. All of Race wanted Spot to drop it now. “For… avoidin’ you, n’ stuff.” He muttered, frustrated and embarrassed that he couldn’t tell Spot the real reason he was sorry. He couldn’t just admit that Spot was all he thought about. If he thought he’d get banished from Brooklyn before, it’d be nothing compared to what Spot would do to him if he acted upon his wrong feelings.
Spot seemed to soak in his words for a minute, looking off into the descending sun with a bitter expression on his face. He didn’t want to sound desperate but, damnit, he wanted answers. He just wanted to know why Race was slowly leaving him behind. Spot had fought long and hard for everything he had, and losing Race would feel like losing one of his prized possessions.
“Why’re you gone so often?” He asked, trying to keep his voice steady, not wanting to reveal that he was extremely eager to hear the answer.
A pause. “I have other friends too.”
Race didn’t mean it as an insult in any way, and Spot knew this, but nevertheless, it angered him.
“I don’t let you on my turf to make friends. I let you in here so you’s can sell at Sheepshead. Not hang around with my boys when they’s supposed to be workin’.” Spot snapped, finally looking back at Race with a nasty glare, his arms crossed defensively across his chest.
Race, ever the smart ass in the wrong situations, replied quickly, “How come it’s okay when you and I do it?”
Spot rolled his eyes, groaning in frustration. Race should consider himself lucky that Spot didn’t punch him right there right then. “It’s okay because… because…” He seemed to grow more and more frustrated as the proper words wouldn’t come to him. Race only stared at him. “It’s because I’m in charge. And having you here is good for… business.” Was all Spot could say, grimacing at the weakness of his own statement. His heart was telling him that now was the perfect time to truly claim Race as his own, to drag him back to some secluded corner and show them what they could do while no one was around, but his brain was sending rapid “ABORT MISSION” signals through his whole body, successfully drowning out his taboo thoughts.
Race seemed to deflate a little, a disappointed look passing onto his face. “Oh. Right.” He replied softly, looking down at his shoes. “I can just, uh, I’ll just sell n’ go home from here on out.”
Spot didn’t answer, simply looking at Race with his stereotypical cool expression he used as a mask to hide everything he truly felt. He had to let Race walk away. Though Race was his his first friend, his first crush, his first weakness, he had to let this go. It was never gonna happen, and he wasn’t expecting it to. He was prepared to stuff his feelings back into the back of his mind where they belonged.
So when Race suddenly leaned forward and kissed him square on the mouth, he wasn’t exactly what one would call “ready”. It was a hard, brief kiss. One that left Spot frozen, lips slightly parted and eyes wide. Race pulled back as quickly as he had moved forward and looked as if he had surprised even himself at what he had just done.
Neither boy spoke.
Race seemed to be bracing himself for the worst, grimacing slightly at Spot’s lack of reaction. Spot, on the other hand, was going through an inner war, his body telling him to grab Race and kiss him like there was no tomorrow but his mind telling him to stop and figure out if any of this was even real or some crazy dream he was having in his room. There was no way Racetrack Higgins just kissed him.
“I’m sorry.” Race suddenly blurted out, blush evident on his cheeks and running down his neck. He began backing up, his eyes never leaving Spot’s but his body turning as if he were about to book it out of their secluded corner. “I’m sorry.” He repeated, and with that he made a move to quickly exit the alley, turning and managing to get one step in before Spot was grabbing his wrist and turning him back around.
Race didn’t even have time to ask what Spot was doing before the other boy was asking him “Why did you do that?”
“What?”
“Why did you kiss me?”
Race stared at him, shocked. “Why?” He repeated dumbly, suddenly acutely aware of how hard Spot was gripping his wrist and how close his face was to his own. “I… don’t know.” He said quietly, completely unsure of if Spot was going to kill him or not.
Spot only glared at him, still not releasing his wrist. “You makin’ fun of me?” He demanded, not afraid to twist Race’s arm and break it in one swift motion if he had to. He may think the world of Race, but if the other boy was going to play him like he meant nothing, he was not going to let it slide. No one played Spot Conlon.
“What? No!” Race yelped, sucking in a breath as Spot’s grip on his arm tightened. “Spot I wasn’t… I’m not makin’ fun of you!”
“Then why did you kiss me?!” Spot repeated, the sudden desperation in his voice surprising the shorter boy and causing him to shrink down. His eyes darted around to see if anyone else was around, making sure that this very private conversation was not being heard by any average citizen. Most of them already looked down upon newsies in the first place, so seeing two of them— two boys at that— having an intimate moment would surely mean dire consequences.
“I said I was sorry, okay?” Race hissed, wanting nothing more than to melt down onto the pavement below and sink into a drain, never to be seen again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“You ain’t got no reason?” Spot countered, still maintaining his threatening hold on the other boy’s arm.
“No! Just let me go. I’m goin’ back to Manhattan. I won’t come here no more.” Race mumbled, trying to pull his wrist away, only to be met with firm resistance.
“I’ll let you go soon as you tell me why you kissed me.”
Race stopped resisting Spot’s hold to look up at him, embarrassment rushing through his body. If Spot’s goal was to humiliate him, he was doing a fine job. He took a deep breath before angrily saying, “I wanted to, okay? I’ve wanted to for a while. You happy? Now let me go.”
Spot couldn’t hide the smile that suddenly appeared on his face. He felt as if an enormous weight had just been lifted off of is shoulders and thrown away. His face heated up and his heart rate excelled once again. Racetrack Higgins had just kissed him because he wanted to. He wanted to.
“Spot.” Race pleaded, tugging at his wrist once more. “Please.”
It was then that Spot recognized the frightened quiver in Race’s voice and he immediately snapped back into reality, blinking once or twice before loosening his grip on Race’s wrist, allowing the other boy to pull it away.
“I’m leavin’.” Race whispered, quickly walking towards the opposite end of the street, back toward the bridge. Spot knew that if he crossed it now, he would never come back. He watched Race’s retreating figure for a moment before blurting out,
“Don’t!”
Race stopped in his tracks, turning around to face Spot once more, looking more confused than ever. “What?”
Spot could only shake his head, his lips slightly parted as he walked forward the few steps it took to get back into Race’s face. He grabbed Race’s shirt and and held it tightly. “Don’t leave.”
Race narrowed his eyes at him, though Spot didn’t miss the way his breath caught as soon as Spot was in his personal space once more. “W-Why?”
“What, you’s just gonna leave after plantin’ one on me?” Spot asked, trying to be confident despite the heat rising to his cheeks.
“I ain’t stayin’ here just to get soaked. Forget it ever happened, okay?” Race snapped, though he made no move to escape Spot’s new hold. “Spot.” He repeated, looking up at him when he didn’t release his hands. There was a new look in Spot’s eyes, one full of warmth and adoration instead of his usual suspicious and dark glare. He simply stared at Race, shaking his head once more before closing the distance between them by pulling Race forward by his shirt.
As soon as Race felt Spot’s lips ghost over his once more, he squeezed his eyes shut in order to not pass out in the middle of the street. Spot wanted him to stay. This was happening. He was going to kiss him and-
All of the sudden Spot pulled away, his lips never quite meeting Race’s. Instead he stood up straight and looked around sharply, his head turning side to side. Race’s own eyes snapped open and he simply stood in Spot’s hold with a questioning look in his eyes. He barely managed to get out a “What are you…” before Spot was dragging him back into a more secluded corner, one completely missed by the streets beside them and pulled him close once more.
Race opened his mouth to ask the same question as before, but Spot only shushed him and said “I didn’t want anyone to see.”
And with that, he surged forward, finally kissing Race, their noses bumping and bodies entangling with one another, Race’s hands shooting up to grip Spot’s biceps as Spot’s held the sides of his face.
It felt as if Race’s whole body was on fire as Spot kissed him hard and deep, grabbing some of his hair and tilting his head back slightly. It was anything but an innocent first kiss. It was full of two years of hidden feelings, tension, and secret, dirty thoughts that neither boy would have ever thought were capable of coming true. Spot kissed him as if he was admitting every thought he had ever had, biting at Race’s lips as Race succumbed to his touch.
Race moaned softly into Spot’s mouth as their tongues met, seeming only to drive the other boy into further madness. The hand that was tangled in Race’s hair moved down to his collar, yanking it aside (Race swore he heard some buttons rip off and hit the pavement) and beginning to kiss around Race’s jaw and down his neck. The shorter boy let him, tilting his head back and trying not to squeal with delight. For nights upon nights he had dreamed of Spot’s lips on him and the actual sensation was better than any imaginary scenario he could have ever created.
As Spot’s hands began to wander further and further downwards, Race grew hotter and hotter, pushing himself forward so he could be closer to the boy holding him. He could feel Spot marking his skin up with bruises that he surely would have to explain to the boys back home with some excuse, but he didn’t care. Spot’s hands wandered from his back, to his abdomen, to his waist, and finally to—
“Oh my god.” Race whimpered, pulling Spot’s head back up to kiss him harshly as Spot’s hand pressed up against a place that would surely have Race falling to pieces in a few moments. Spot pulled back slightly to smile, his hands suddenly at Race’s waistband, desperately undoing the buttons at the top. Their eyes met and suddenly they were aware of the intimacy of the moment, blush rising on both of their cheeks. Spot’s hands hesitated when he finally got Race’s pants open. He looked at him shyly, a silent question of ‘Is this okay?’
Race could only nod vigorously, bringing Spot back to kiss him once more. He could feel the other boy smiling against his lips, and soon his hand was sliding past Race’s pants and he was breathing two words against the boy’s neck.
Hi lovely anon! Sorry this took me so incredibly long to write. I had to restart so many times. I’m so out of practice and this is probably super bad (grammatically it’s a disaster), but at least it’s DONE! I hope anyone who reads it enjoys it. ALSO IM SORRY IT GOT SO LONG I JUST RAMBLED FOREVER
65. “Look at me— just breathe, okay?”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Get back here, you rat!” A booming voice called out to Race’s retreating figure as he sprinted as fast as he could away from the dimly lit alley way.
What had started out as an innocent game of cards on the streets of Brooklyn had soon led to Racetrack being cornered by the four huge men he had foolishly decided to gamble against. The young newsie had thought he knew their type. Each was slightly overweight and a little drunk, all with dark eyes and intimidating features but with little to no brain cells. They should have been easy targets to steal a few cents from, and Race had not been expecting the backlash he received after winning the fifth consecutive game in a row, shooting the men a grin and collecting his winnings.
“Up for another round, fellas?” He had asked smugly, pocketing the money and shuffling the cards with his practiced hands. When no one responded, he raised his eyebrows. “Givin’ up already? Aw c’mon!”
Another pause.
“Tell ya what,” He pulled some of the money out of his pocket and showed it to the men, immediately recapturing their attention, “If any one of you wins this next game, I’ll return all my winnin’s. Deal?”
The men had all foolishly agreed. Race grinned even wider, clapping his hands together. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
The sixth game had begun smoothly until one of the men noticed Race counting cards, a trick the young boy had mastered years ago. The man quickly communicated it to his fellow players through hushed whispers while Race was busy deciding his next move.
“Hey! This bastard is countin’ cards!” He hissed. The other three men whipped their heads around to stare at him, lowering their voices.
“You sure?”
“ ‘Course I’m sure, you idiot. How else would a kid win five games in a row? That ain’t no dumb luck. I saw him do it just now.”
When Race finally made his play, he looked up at the four figures he was crouched in front of, his cocky smile soon vanishing as he took in their furious facial expressions. He had been caught.
“Got somethin’ to admit?” One of them asked as all four rose to their full height in front of a now cowering Race. The newsie’s eyes widened as he saw them begin to crack their knuckles menacingly.
“I…” Race began, quickly pocketing the cards and the money, standing up and backing agains the alley wall. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” His heart began to pound as the four men advanced on him, his shoulder blades pressing into the brick.
“Don’t play dumb, kid.” Another one of the men growled, reaching out and shoving Race further back so his head smacked against the hard stone. He winced, his hands beginning to shake and his eyes darting around, looking for any possible escape. “We saw you countin’ cards.”
Race cursed himself for not being more careful. He had gotten too cocky after his string of wins and forgotten that the men were simply dumb, not blind. He tried to open his mouth to come up with any sort of excuse, but all that came out was a weak “Oh.”
The largest man laughed humorlessly. “Oh? That’s all ya gotta say? You’re a cheater,” He stepped closer. “You know how we deal with cheaters?”
Race’s breath caught in his throat. He knew exactly how cheaters were dealt with, especially in Brooklyn. He also knew that, since he wasn’t in his own borough, there would be no one around to help him with this fight. In other words: he was screwed. As more panic set in, he squeaked out, “I-I’ll give you the money back! I- I just thought-“
Just then, a fist came flying at his face, but he was quick enough to dodge the blow. The man who threw the punch hollered in pain when he made contact with the brick wall, jumping back to cradle his bruising fist. Race took the opportunity to shove past him and booked it out of the alleyway.
Now, he was sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him, trying to drown out the threats the men were shouting at him as they followed at a surprisingly fast pace. His heart felt like it had jumped into his throat. He could feel his own panicked pulse everywhere, beating in his lungs, stomach, and head. Race knew that, if these men caught him, he might not survive. God, how could he have been so stupid?
“Damnit!” He cried out as he reached a new alleyway that ended in a dead end, his plan to escape through it now foiled. “Damnit!” He whipped around and attempted to run back out of the alleyway, but instead of running forward, he smacked right into the solid figure of one of the men.
Baring his teeth, the man shouted “Gotcha!” And grabbed Race by the collar of his shirt. Race let out an embarrassing squeak as he was lifted off of his feet to face the man. “Over here, boys!” The man called, still smiling a terrifying smile at the boy in front of him. “You’re gonna get what you paid for, kid.” He growled. Race was thrown onto the ground as the other three men ran into the alley, all breathing heavily but obviously pleased to see that their culprit was caught.
Race scrambled backwards as fast as he could, unable to get back on his feet due to the sheer amount of terror paralyzing his body. As the men advanced on him, he made one last attempt to bargain with them.
“Please! I’ll do anything!” He cried out, digging the money out of his pockets and throwing it on the ground. “It’s yours! It’s all yours!”
“Too late for that.” One of the men spat at him and Race felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t die like this. He couldn’t have Jack and Crutchie and the other Manhattan newsies out looking for him tomorrow. He couldn’t be left in an alley to rot.
The first kick to his ribs was enough to knock him completely flat on the ground. Race swore, attempting to sit up fast enough to at least put up some sort of fight, but a fist connected with his jaw, followed by another, and another, until he tasted blood and tears were running down his face.
“Get off a’ me!” He cried, swinging his arms wildly in an attempt to get any sort of punch in. He felt his fist hit something hard, and then he heard a vulgar curse from one of the men. Opening his eyes, Race saw him clutching his eye. He had no time to celebrate his success, however, for he was soon shoved back onto the ground, taking a beating that would soon have him lying helpless on the dark streets of Brooklyn.
He could hear the men laughing over the pounding in his ears, could feel the fists colliding with his body, making him jerk back and curl up, trying to protect himself. He felt so stupid, so useless. Covering his head with his arms, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to be over.
And just like that, it was.
There was a sudden deafening silence within the alleyway. Race, still in the fetal position, opened his eyes, slowly uncovering his head and moving his arms to his sides to attempt to push himself up, only to be met with searing pain throughout his whole body. Swearing, he fell back into his original position, unable to turn his neck to see what caused the men to suddenly stop. Was this some sort of sick game? Were they giving him a break before delivering the final blow? Race let out a sob he didn’t know he was holding in, covering his head again, his chest heaving.
“Jesus Christ,” He heard a voice say. Race only covered his face further, trying to stop the tears coming out of his eyes.
“Please stop!” He cried out wildly.
“Race? Jesus, Race, look at me.”
It was the same voice as before, now louder, the speaker clearly closer. The voice was laced with a thick accent and filled with concern. It wasn’t one of the voices of the men. This one was different, and Race would know that voice anywhere.
The Manhattan newsie managed to lift his arms high enough to look Spot Conlon in the eyes. Once he had made eye contact, Spot rushed forward to crouch beside him, worry etched over his normally calm and collected face.
“Race…” He said again, placing a hand on Race’s heaving shoulder, only to have the other boy jerk away, choking out a “No! Don’t touch me!”
“Fuck.” Spot mumbled, unbuttoning his own shirt and shrugging it off of his shoulders, leaving him in a thin, ripped undershirt. “Race, look at me. It’s me. It’s Spot. Those guys… they’s gone, Race. Let me help you.”
Race, still shaking uncontrollably, brought his hands away from his face, his eyes still squeezed shut. He nodded quickly, signifying that it was okay for Spot to approach him. Spot crawled over to the bleeding boy and cradled his head in one hand while the other used his shirt to wipe the blood off of his forehead and away from his nose.
“W-what happened?” Race croaked, his eyes still squeezed shut. He balled his hands into fists at his sides as Spot accidentally swiped over the sensitive parts of his face, gasping. “Why are you helpin’ me?”
It’s not like him and Spot were friends. Sure, Spot let Race wander through Brooklyn to get to Sheepshead and sure, Race had the uncanny ability to make Spot blush, and sure, the two spent a lot more time together alone than may be considered normal for two newsies of different boroughs, but they weren’t friends.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.” Spot muttered, cradling Race’s face with his hands and slowly turning it from side to side, inspecting the damage that had been done. Race kept his eyes squeezed shut, feeling his cheeks burn under the younger boy’s touch. “What the hell did you get into?”
Race figured there was no use in lying. “Gamblin’. Got caught cheatin’. ” He finally allowed his eyes to flutter open to meet Spot’s. Spot quickly averted his own gaze, clearing his throat slightly and focusing his attention on Race’s other wounds.
“You’s an idiot.” He sighed “Bleedin’ everywhere too. Can you get up?”
“I dunno.” Race said truthfully, his voice still thick with tears. He extended his legs, attempting to conceal the gasps leaving his lips, not wanting to embarrass himself anymore in front of Spot, but failing to hide his obvious pain.
Spot instead of grinning at him and joking about how Race couldn’t take a soaking, stood up and held both hands out to the boy on the ground. Race looked at the hand for a moment before sighing and reaching up to take them. Spot gently pulled Race up. The obvious discomfort on the other boy’s face made his chest hurt. It seemed as soon as Race was standing at his full height, his knees gave out and he crumpled down again. Luckily, Spot was quick enough to catch him under the arms and stop his fall, muttering a strand of curses under his breath as he readjusted to support Race’s weight, winding one of the other boy’s arms around his shoulder and wrapping his own arm around Race’s waist.
“God damnit…” Race muttered, his voice tight with pain. “Those bastards probably broke my ribs.” He paused for a moment, looking down to where Spot’s hand was wrapped firmly around his thin waist, supporting him. “How did you…” He sniffed, wiping his nose on his own sleeve. “How did you get them away? Those guys, I mean.”
Spot took a tentative step forward, squeezing Race’s hip to get him to move forward as well. “Well, I saw ‘em chase you in here and… I was just gonna try to fight ‘em,” he let out a humorless laugh, “but they was big and I was outnumbered. So I told ‘em the police were comin’ and it sent ‘em runnin’ the other way.”
Race, who had previously been focused on walking without collapsing again, turned his head sharply to stare at the side of Spot’s face as the pair made their way out of the alley onto the darkened streets. “You saw ‘em chase me in here? What, you still keepin’ tabs on me?” He attempted to make his tone sound teasing and cocky, but due to his his scratchy throat and shaky voice, he just sounded pathetic and hopeful.
Spot didn’t answer him for a moment, his dark eyes staring straight ahead as he trudged toward the lodging house. “I like to keep track of what’s mine.” He finally responded, making Race’s eyes widen before he sputtered out a different response, “I mean no! I just- damnit- I just need to know what’s goin’ on in my borough, alright?”
“It was past your curfew.” Race commented through clenched teeth as a particularly sharp stab of pain made its way through his ribs. Spot shot him a glare.
“Do you want my help or not?” He spat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “I didn’t have’ta keep an eye on you. You’s lucky I decided to.”
Race fell silent after this, focusing more on the pain blossoming all over his body. ‘Jack’s gonna kill me’ he thought, his eyes shooting over to the outline of the bridge illuminated by the moon. ‘He’s gonna kill me and then Davey is gonna kill me again’ He shut his eyes, frustration building up within him. ‘Why did I have to stay out late tonight? Why did I have to be so stupid?’
He soon became so involved in his own worries that he didn’t notice Spot stop him in front of the Brooklyn lodging house. The King of Brooklyn, still holding onto him tightly, looked up at the large door, calculating the best way to get inside without causing a disturbance. Truthfully, he had been planning to sneak in that night, since Race had stayed out so late, and he couldn’t sleep until he knew Race was safely across the bridge and back in Manhattan. However, with Race in his current state, Spot didn’t know if he could make it through the window.
A few more moments of silenced passed between the pair; Spot was thinking of how to get in to the house and Race was cursing himself out, filled with shame and embarrassment that he was even in this situation.
Finally, Spot heaved a sigh and took Race’s arm off of his shoulders, removing his hand from Race’s waist. There was simply no other way to get in. “Can you stand on your own?” He asked, earning a slight nod from Race. “Good. Because we gotta climb through the window.”
Race sputtered out a “W-what? You- we- what? Why can’t you just knock?”
“I’m in charge of the newsies in Brooklyn. I ain’t in charge of the the house.” Spot mumbled. “There’s no way we can just waltz in the front door while it’s locked.”
Race blushed slightly at the obvious annoyance in Spot’s voice. He should be thankful the other boy was helping him at all. He nodded again and soon found himself being led around to the side of the building, his eyes constantly darting around for any sign of the men from before. Spot eventually found the window he was looking for, the one with boxes and miscellaneous items already stacked against the wall leading up to it, and grinned.
“This is the one. You’s gonna go in first and I’m gonna follow t’ make sure you don’t slip and kill yourself.”
Race wanted to protest and complain about his injuries, but knew he was in no position to to do so. Plus, he’d already made a big enough fool of himself already. So, clenching his jaw, he slowly made his way up the stacked boxes and spare parts until he could push the window open. Spot soon followed suit, ready to catch Race at any point, should he fall.
Race hissed as he lifted his right leg up to the final wooden box, his body screaming at him to stop the physical activity, but his brain forcing himself to drown out its prayers. Clenching his fingertips over the windowsill, Race pulled the rest of his body onto the final box.
“ ‘Atta boy!” He heard Spot whisper behind him, causing his already red cheeks to turn even redder.
“Shut up.” He muttered, calculating his final steps to get into the window. He reached one arm over the windowsill, furrowed his brow, and decided to do it all in one go, lifting his weight off the box and trying to pull himself through the gap. However, the intensity of the pain in his arm caught him off guard and he slipped backwards with a poorly hidden squeak of surprise. He felt his stomach jolt as his balance left him and for a moment was prepared to crash to the ground, but then Spot’s hands were reaching out and preventing his fall, unfortunately, both hands having to support Race right on his backside.
“Easy there, hotshot.” He hissed. “You wanna wake the whole damn neighborhood up?”
“No! Get your hands off my ass.” Race snapped back, secretly thankful for Spot’s assistance but now even more embarrassed than before. Spot rolled his eyes behind him and, instead of taking his hands off of Race, he pushed him up the rest of the way through the window before clambering up himself.
When he finally settled both feet on the floor, he noticed Race gripping his left arm and wincing as he looked around the room. To his right, there was a single, small bed with an even smaller dresser at the foot of it, and across the room was a desk, a chair, and near the door was a sink. “This all yours?” He asked, clearly impressed.
Spot took a few steps forward, taking Race’s arm in his hands. “Being the king has its perks” He answered, not looking Race in the eye, running his hand up and down the arm, checking for any obvious breaks. “Your arm ain’t broken but it’s swelled up somethin’ fierce. I can wrap it.”
Race pulled the limb away. “You don’t need to. I just need somewhere to sleep before I go home and get killed by Jack.”
“Yeah and he’s gonna kill me too if you go home lookin’ like you do.” Spot retorted, striding over to the dresser and yanking open the drawers, rummaging through until he eventually found a long, thick piece of fabric. “This’ll do,” He muttered, walking back over to Race and gesturing at him.
Race cocked his head to the side, still holding his arm, unsure of what Spot wanted him to do. The younger boy rolled his eyes again. “Off with the shirt.”
Race felt his face heat up, but knew he had to do as he was told, or Spot would probably send him right back out that window. He brought his still shaking hands up to his shirt and undid the buttons, sliding his suspenders off of his shoulders and eventually shrugging the shirt off as well.
Spot was suddenly more tense than before, his words coming out short and strained. “Arm out.” Race held his arm out and let out an “Oh, lord” at the sight of the swollen, bruised wrist and the bruised forearm and bicep. Spot, now refusing to even look at him, reached out and attempted to begin wrapping it, but Race immediately jumped back at the contact, cursing loudly and biting his lip.
Spot jerked his head up to look at Race’s face, poorly hiding his worry behind a half-scowl. “Don’t do that!” He ordered. “The more you move the more it’ll hurt. C’mere.”
Race hated the way his chest tightened when Spot said “C’mere”. He hated the way it sounded so affectionate and concerned. He hated that he was in this situation: a shirtless, blushing, pained mess in the middle of Spot’s bedroom. He hated that he wanted Spot to make him feel better and hold him close until the sunrise.
“I…” He began, slowly holding his arm back out. “It hurts” He finally said honestly, looking down at the ground in shame. “I’m sorry.”
Spot paused for a moment, gnawing on his bottom lip as he carefully took Race’s arm back in his hands. Ignoring the fluttering in his stomach, he took a deep breath and reached forward to tilt Race’s chin up in a way that wasn’t romantic at all, no sir. Their eyes met.
“Look at me— just breathe, okay?”
Race’s wide eyes blinked at him once before he let out a tiny, breathless “Okay,” finding it harder and harder to ignore their close proximity and how Spot was looking so deeply into his eyes. If he just moved a little closer he could-
Spot suddenly cleared his throat and looked back down at Race’s arm. His expression had turned hard as he realized the intensity of the moment. This was wrong. Helping Race— a newsie who didn’t even belong to him— and thinking of Race in… that way. It was wrong.
He began wrapping Race’s arm with fixed concentration, acutely aware of how Race had listened to his advice and was taking deep, slow breaths to help distract him from the pain. Once the job was finished and the fabric was tied at the end, Spot squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, dreading the next moments that would, without a doubt, be incredibly awkward.
He eventually took a step back from Race, still not meeting his eyes and brushed his hands off on his pants, taking his shirt from over his shoulder and tossing it on top of the dresser. “Uh… There ya go.” He said, the normal smooth charm completely missing from his voice.
Race inspected the bandage on his arm, noticing how Spot wrapped it so he could still bend it. Suddenly overcome with a strange, warm feeling in his chest, he looked up at the other boy, who was suddenly much too far away. “Spot,” Race said, causing Spot to freeze in his steps. He finally looked at Race with a questioning expression on his face, waiting for Race to finish his thought.
“Thank you.”
Spot’s cheeks burned. “It’s nothin’,” He attempted to turn back to his dresser and end the conversation. He couldn’t look at Race standing there, shirtless, in the middle of the room, looking beautiful and vulnerable, without losing control. “Don’t worry abou-“
“No— I mean… I mean thank you for everything.” Race interrupted, limping forward to turn Spot around by his shoulder. “Thanks for, uh, for watchin’ over me.” He finished, now shuffling awkwardly back and forth on his feet, suddenly very aware that he was half naked and that Spot was staring at him.
The silence that fell after he was done speaking was haunting. Race tensed, not knowing if Spot was going to turn around and ignore his statement or possibly punch him in the face for being too close and too honest. Spot Conlon wasn’t really known for doing “emotions”.
Race was considering walking away and leaving the conversation at that, but Spot spoke just as he was about to turn away.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
The injured boy couldn’t help the smile that slid onto his face at Spot’s honesty. The younger of the two was staring at him intently, his eyes flicking down to Race lips before he forced them back up. Race’s smile faltered slightly, his expression turning serious as he saw Spot looking at his lips. Instead of fear filling his brain, desire clouded over his mind and he swallowed hard, looking Spot in the eyes, silently daring him to do something. When he didn’t move, Race took the initiative.
“Yeah, well,” He breathed out, taking another step closer so that their noses were almost brushing, taking Spot not punching the daylights out of him as a good sign. “I’m glad you saved me.”
It was a cheesy line, he knew it. But it was definitely the right thing to say because the next thing Race knew’ Spot’s hands were on the side of his face and his lips were smashed against his.
Race stumbled backwards, but one of Spot’s hands snuck it’s way around to the small of his back, supporting him and bringing him back so that their chests were pressed together. Race brought his hands to Spot’s neck and kissed him back eagerly, several different elated, anxious, and confused thoughts filling his head. He pushed them aside as Spot retreated for a moment, breathing heavily.
Neither boy said anything for a minute, but slowly two smiles made their way onto their faces, acting as a silent communication that this was okay. Nothing else needed to be said at that moment, and Spot leaned back in to recapture Race’s mouth with his own.
