#tw: storms

[selfshipps]

AAAHHH THUNDER AND LIGHTNING HELP

[leiawritesstories]

I've been playing with a prompt idea in my head, which could have all the fluff you want. Also it's not as much a prompt, as it is one sentence 😅 do as you wish with it, you always create magic with whatever you write ❤

"There's nothing like a natural disaster to bring two people together"

first of all, thank you so much, it made me tear up to know that someone enjoys my little stories this much ❤️❤️❤️

but enough sappiness! here have a lil fic!

word count: 2,324

warnings: language, idiots in love, thunderstorms

enjoy!!

Thanks To The Thunderstorm

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s nothing quite like a natural disaster to bring two people together. 

And gods, Aelin had never thought she’d be thankful that she hated thunderstorms as much as she did. But it was her relationship with storms that had led to her relationship with her now-fiancé, so would she complain? Hell no. 

Rowan and Aelin had been best friends since high school, the two of them near inseparable after they were assigned to be conversation partners in Spanish class and struck up a friendship. They had very different life goals but ended up deciding to go to the same university, the University of Rifthold, and neither of them knew the other had decided to go there until college declaration day at their school, when they both showed up wearing UR gear, Aelin in a t-shirt and Rowan in a sweatshirt. 

A sweatshirt that was now unofficially hers. 

Though they’d met all kinds of people and expanded their friend group greatly during their freshman year, Rowan and Aelin stayed close, remained each other’s 2-am person, the one person that the other trusted to call or text in the middle of the night knowing they’d be there to talk. Perhaps it helped that Rowan was the one with the car, because he offered to drive Aelin home anytime he was headed back to Orynth during a break. 

At the end of freshman year, they decided to carpool home together, after Aelin moved a bunch of her dorm stuff into a storage unit that she shared with three of her friends. The drive was fifteen hours, so they decided to split it over two days and spend a night in a hotel in Perranth, which was just about the halfway point of their trip home. And they’d take turns driving, so neither of them got too tired at the wheel. 

Everything went smoothly, the first nine hours of the drive passing by relatively uneventfully, save for the handful of patches of congested traffic. Rowan grumbled under his breath when they got stuck in traffic, cursing that other drivers couldn’t bother to go the speed limit. 

“Ro, they can’t help being idiots.” 

“Can’t they be idiots going road speed?” 

Aelin snickered. “Obviously not, there’s not enough brainpower for that.” 

He cracked a smile. “Damn, I forgot about that. Guys only being able to think with one of their body parts and all that.” He wiggled his brows wickedly. 

She wheezed. “Shit, Ro! What, you spend a year with a bunch of horny freshmen guys or something?”

“Something like that,” he smirked. “Ae, you’ve met my roommate. Abd probably some of the girls he kept bringing in on the weekends.” 

Not just the weekends,” she reminded him. 

“Ugh,” Rowan groaned. “Thank the fucking gods I’m not rooming with him next year.” 

“Nah, you’re rooming with someone worse,” Aelin snickered. 

He shrugged. “Lorcan’s not a bad person, Ae, he’s just--”

“Grumpy?” 

“Grumpy,” Rowan agreed. 

Out of the last bit of congestion. they had a smooth drive to Perranth, arriving at the hotel around nine o’clock. The sky, gray and cloudy all day, had gone darker, the wind beginning to gust as if in warning, the threat of a downpour hanging heavy in the air. Rowan parked, turned off the car, and released a deep, heartfelt groan of relief. “We’re here.” 

“Oh thank all the gods,” Aelin sighed. “I was about to fall asleep in this seat, and trust me, Ro, your car and my spine would not agree.” 

“C’mon, then,” he laughed. “Let’s get you into a real bed, yeah?” 

She had to take a second to force down the sparks that Rowan’s casual words sent shooting through her nerve endings. Get your shit together, AAG! He’s your best friend, nothing more. “Simmer down,” she shot back, “some of us need to stretch out.” 

Rowan refrained from commenting, just waited until she’d climbed out of his car and then grabbed his backpack and her personal suitcase and headed into the hotel building with her, where he quickly checked in at the front desk, got the room keys, and handed one to her. “Room 411,” he said, leading her over to the elevators. 

“Ro, I’m more than capable of carrying my own suitcase,” she teased, pushing the elevator call button. 

He glanced down at the luggage in his hands. “I don’t mind, Ae.” 

“Such a gentleman.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Indeed, fair lady,” he deadpanned, putting on his fakest British accent. 

Aelin giggled and let him carry her suitcase into the elevator and down the hall when they got to their floor. “Oh, gods,” she groaned as she opened the door to the room. “Sleep!” She plopped her backpack atop one of the beds, waited for Rowan to put down her suitcase before unzipping it and grabbing her pajamas and toiletries, and then headed right into the bathroom, the shower turning on a moment later. 

She emerged about half an hour later toweling her damp hair, comfortable and sleepy in her old Nirvana t-shirt and sleep shorts, and gods fucking dammit, Rowan’s mind went to several truly impossibly places at the sight of her. Get your shit together, Whitethorn! She’s your best friend, and you’ve got no right to be staring at her or thinking those fucking things. “You about done hogging the one bathroom?” he teased, barely managing to mask the way his voice rasped. 

Aelin shot him a rude gesture. “Yes, and you can go primp now,” she returned. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that I know how many products you use.” 

He sighed, grabbing his own pajamas and toothbrush before ducking into the bathroom. Where he took a shower that was significantly colder than he would have preferred, using the bracing temperature to ground himself in reality. By the time he emerged, Aelin was tucked into her bed, her adorably oversized reading glasses propped on her nose, buried in her current novel. She only murmured a good-night, she was so absorbed in her story. Rowan clicked off his bedside lamp and rolled onto his side facing away from her, left he fall asleep to the image of her face, least the sight of the girl who owner his whole heart worm into his dreams. 

Again. 

Aelin clicked off her lamp shortly later, exhaling softly as she settled into the hotel bed’s soft covers. Outside the window, raindrops began splattering against the glass, the first wave of the promised storm. She drifted off to the pattering sound, having always found the rain calming. 

Then jerked awake at the first clap of thunder not quite a couple hours later, the storm yanking her out of sleep. She shifted, tucking herself deeper into the covers, forcing herself to take deep, even breaths. “It’s just a storm,” she whispered, “just a storm. It can’t hurt me.” Her mother had taught her to speak those words when she was just a little girl, so terrified of the rumbling thunder and blazing flashes of lightning that she’d burrow into her parents’ bed whenever there was a storm, screwing her eyes shut against the onslaught and taking refuge in her parents’ arms. “Just a storm,” she whispered again, bracing herself against the stormy symphony. 

Lighting blazed across the sky, a streak of white breaking through the curtains for an instant. Aelin whimpered softly, curling tighter under the blankets, and started counting under her breath. One, two, three, fo--Thunder rumbled through the night, the storm a mere three and a half(ish) miles away. She tucked the blankets closer around herself, willing her breath to stop fucking heaving as she tried in vain to calm down her racing pulse. 

Across the room, Rowan’s bed creaked, shifting with him as he rolled over, half-awake, and cracked open his eyes to check on her. “Aelin?” he whispered, his soft voice roughened with sleep. And again, “Aelin?” 

Another blaze of lightning turned her planned response into a whimper. She screwed her eyes shut and started counting. One, two, three, four, five--five seconds before the thunderclap. 

“Aelin?” Rowan’s murmur was closer this time, paired with his padding footsteps as he circled around to face her, concern shining in his green eyes. “Are you okay?” 

She just shook her head, the movement as much as she dared. 

Rowan exhaled slowly, obviously working over his next words. “Can I--I mean, would it help if--” He sighed, mussing up his already-sloppy hair. “Ae, can I hold you? It--fuck, it scares me to see you like this.” 

“Yeah, you--ohh!” Her faint response cut off into a whimper as yet another streak of lightning flicked across the sky. 

“Oh, Ae,” Rowan murmured, swinging himself into her bed, instinctively opening his arms for her as he slid under the covers. She tucked herself into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist, and buried her face into his shoulder, clinging to him like he was her safety raft. Impulsively, he wrapped his arms tighter around her, stroking one hand up and down her back in broad, soft lines, feeling the tension in her limbs slowly ease as he calmed her. “Do you need to count?” he whispered, unconsciously slipping his fingers into her hair. 

“Eight,” Aelin mumbled, tensing briefly as the thunder boomed across the sky, briefly drowning out the beat of the rain against the windows. 

“’S getting farther away, then,” he murmured, his hand resuming its path up and down her spine. 

The next thunderclap came at fourteen seconds, then twenty, then thirty. The farther the storm moved from them, the more Aelin relaxed, though her hold on Rowan never faltered. By the time the thunder had grown faint in the distance, replaced by the tattoo of raindrops on the glass and the façade of the building, her breathing had begun to even out and the crease in her forehead had faded away, her calmness returning as the storm dissipated. 

“Hate thunderstorms,” she breathed. “Always have.” 

“It’s pretty far away now,” Rowan reassured her, quietly reveling in the way she hadn’t tried to send him back to his bed. 

“Yeah,” she whispered, exhaustion making her all but sink into the bed, still curled into his warmth as sleep claimed her once more. As he breathing evened and deepened into sleep’s rhythms, Rowan couldn’t stop himself from brushing a featherlight kiss across her temple, one last little gesture of comfort before he, too, let the darkness of sleep take him. 

Aelin awoke to bright sunlight, the faint scent of clear, clean, post-storm air, and the warmth of someone’s arms around her, of someone’s body cocooned around hers. 

Not just someone’s. 

Rowan’s. 

He’d stayed. After the storm passed, he’d stayed with her, held her as she fell asleep, and unless she’d been dreaming at that point--which she probably had been, to be honest--he’d kissed her forehead. His barely-there kiss soft and warm and oh so longed-for against her skin. 

Rowan was in her bed, holding her in his arms, and damn it all to the hells, she wanted him to stay there for the rest of her life. 

As if her thoughts had awoken him, Rowan stirred, blinking into consciousness and realizing, like she had, that she was cradled in his arms, her limbs tangled with his, her head still lying in the crook of his shoulder and neck, her hair loose and splayed across the pillows. 

“Morning,” he breathed, almost like he, to, wasn’t quite sure if he was still dreaming. 

“Morning, Ro,” she breathed back, staring into his pine-green eyes and finding herself absolutely unable to look anywhere else. 

“I--” 

She cut him off before he could do anything stupid like try to move. “Thank you. For staying with me.” 

Rowan visibly relaxed, his arms subconsciously flexing around her. “I’m always here for you, Ae.” More emotion, more confessions packed into those few words than he’d intended. 

Her breath caught, but for an entirely different reason than it had mere hours ago. “Always?” 

“Always.” 

The corners of her mouth quirked. “Then...” She huffed out a short breath. “Rowan, then why haven’t you ever done anything about it?” 

“I thought you just wanted to be friends,” he mumbled, more than aware of the flush spreading across his cheeks. “You...you never made any indication otherwise, Aelin.” 

“You men and your denseness,” she sighed. “Let me make myself perfectly clear, Rowan Whitethorn. I am completely head over heels for you, even though I may have been trying to deny it to myself, and I literally cannot keep it hidden anymore. Thanks to the bloody thunderstorm.” 

Rowan blinked, momentarily lost for words. And then a grin brighter than the morning sun bloomed across his face. “Aelin Galathynius, I am completely and totally yours. If you’ll let me be.” 

Her smile matched his. “Are you asking me out, Whitethorn?” 

“Be my girlfriend, Galathynius.” Definitely not a question. 

“I thought you usually waited until after at least a few dates before you asked that,” she teased. 

“Not when I’ve been this dumb for this long,” Rowan grinned. “Yes or no, Ae?” 

“Yes,” she beamed, twining her arms around his neck. “Took you long enough to ask, Ro.” 

His thumb caressed her jaw. “Our parents are going to have the time of their lives when we get home, aren’t they?” 

Aelin’s laughter filled the hotel room with music. “They really are.” 

Five years, one overly enthusiastic dog, and a shared apartment later, Aelin and Rowan were--finally--making their forever official. They hadn’t had a picture-perfect relationship, mostly because those didn’t exist, but they had learned better than to go to bed angry, had learned to talk through their hopes and dreams and tears and fears rather than curl up alone and try to make it through the raging thunderstorm alone. 

No, Aelin reflected, there really was nothing like a natural disaster to bring two people together. 

Especially if those two people had been quietly, madly in love with each other for years. 

[clw98]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Happy Shadamy Week! It’s a few days early but oh well. Enoy!

Day One: Future or Past/Fankids - Future

@shadowxamyweek

Summary: Shadow’s dreams are plagued with a beautiful pink hedgehog. As much as he likes his friend, there’s a problem. Shadow doesn’t have normal dreams; they’re prophetic every time. Most of the time, his dreams are simple, everyday things she tells him about during the day. However, one night he has a terrifying nightmare, and after waking in a cold sweat, he wastes no time going to Amy’s home to keep her safe.

[playersluv]

through the storm

characters. koutarou bokuto + f!reader

warning/tw. storms + puppy nickname

you've never discussed it with your boyfriend, never feeling the need to. it as summer when you had started your relationship, not many clouds in the sky, not many worries plaguing your mind.

but now it was november, the clouds blocking out most of the sunlight.

bokuto was staying at your house for the weekend, per his request. you hadn't been in each other's presence for a hot minute, his practicing and games taking up most of his times. so why not have the weekend to yourselves, indulging in numerous cuddle sessions?

the rain started light, as it usually did, the pitter-patters lulling bokuto to a comfortable sleep. you snuggled into his broad shoulder, holding his arm close to you. you weren't all that tired.

over time, the rain came down harder and louder, making you tense up.

then, a strike of lightning, followed up by a thundering rumble in the skies.

you yelped loudly, burying your head into bokuto's open arms. your latched yourself onto him, holding him tightly as your heart raced.

bokuto felt your grip and stirred awake, tired golden eyes halfway open as he groaned, "what is it baby?"

thunder struck again making you whimper and clutch him wordlessly. bokuto's eyes widened at your reaction to the loud sound, wrapping his arms around you protectively.

"hey hey hey puppy, i'm right here. it's okay," he whispered into your ear, moving one hand into your hair, playing with it, and one around your waist, holding you flush against his body.

he guided your head into the crook of his neck, cooing sweet nothings into your ear.

"wanna watch a movie, princess? take your mind off it?"

you shook your head, sniffling, "nuh uh. just want you with me, right now."

he kissed your forehead, whispering, "okay, that's fine. i'm right here." his hand rubbed soothing circles into your skin, humming to you softly. anytime that lightning struck and your grip tightened, bokuto would kiss you gently, momentarily taking your mind off the ruckus going on outside.

that's all you wanted, for him to hold you close, to listen to his breathing, for him to just be there.

Ⓒ all work posted belongs to /playersluv/. do not repost or modify.

[cy-fi-theansweris42]

Hhhhhhh I’VE NEVER WRITTEN THE 87 TURTLES BEFORE SO I HOPE THIS IS GOOD! Trigger warnings for storms, fear of storms (astraphobia), and panic attacks (to play it on the safe side)

He hated thunderstorms.

It wasn’t the increased water levels that made certain parts of the sewers more dangerous, or the lightning, since they were all underground that part didn’t even matter.

It was the thunder that set Raphael on edge.

Booming thunder that echoed through the sewers, sometimes shaking dust off the pipes, or made it float down from the ceiling, and as each clap shook his home, Raphael couldn’t help but imagine the worst, couldn’t help the spike of fear that shot through him. It made him want to curl up, to hide from the sounds that sent his heart racing, to stop being afraid that the roof would come crashing down and just feel safe.

He hated that it made him feel that way too, so on edge and jittery, instead of the snarky and sarcastic guy he usually was. It was so far from his usual self and it just felt wrong. He was supposed to be unshakable, and yet some loud noises had him hiding away.

How sad was that?

So here he was, curled up in a corner of his room, covering his ears as he flinched at every crash of thunder that shook the Lair because he just wanted the sounds to stop, please stop, please stop. Raphael tried focusing on the sound of his breathing, tried keeping it even and steady even though it hitched and shook because of that damned noise.

“Raphael?” 

The sound, though muffled, caused Raphael’s head to shoot up from where it had been resting against his knees. Leonardo stood in the doorway, concern plain as day on his face as he looked towards him. 

“H-hey, Leonardo.” Raphael responded, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice. “How’s it going?”

“I’d say it was going well, if you weren’t looking terrified right now.” Leonardo answered as he walked towards him, kneeling next to his brother. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, why would you think somethi-” Raphael cut off with a yelp as a loud bang shot through the lair, dust raining down on them, the walls shaking with the resulting echo. Raphael buried his face back against his knees, tried to slow the panicked gasps as his heart raced, slammed his hands back over his ears, just tried to stay calm.

“Raphael? Hey, Raphael, it’s alright, you’re safe.” Raphael felt hands cover his own as his head was tilted upwards, and made eye contact with Leonardo. “Look at me, it’ll be alright, let’s focus on slowing down your breathing, alright? In for 4, hold for 2, out for 4, repeat.”

Raphael nodded, kept his eyes on Leo, and followed as his brother counted breaths.

“In, two, three, four. Hold, two. Out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four. Hold, two. Out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four…”

They sat there, counting breaths, Raphael flinching at each new peal of thunder and Leonardo squeezing his hands in reassurance, for an immeasurable amount of time, the thunder slowly growing quieter and quieter, until is was barely a rumble, and then gone entirely.

After a cautious minute of listening for more thunder, Leonardo removed his hands, lowered them to his brother’s shoulders instead, and gave another reassuring squeeze.

“Alright Raphael, I think it’s alright now.”

Slowly Raphael took his hands off his ears, and after hearing no new sounds, relaxed, muscles that had been clenched and trembling for so long now weak. He slumped back against the wall and gave Leonardo what was no doubt a tired smile.

“Ok Leonardo, I’m fine now, you can go off and do some training now or something.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not doing that.” Leonardo scoffed. As he began to stand, he quickly scooped up Raphael and began walking towards the door.

“Hey, Leonardo, what’s the big idea, what are you-” Raphael’s squawking was interrupted as he was unceremoniously dumped on the couch next to Michelangelo who looked on in confusion.

“Michelangelo, don’t let him leave, I’m going to get Donatello and as many blankets as possible and we’re all going to watch some movies together.”

“That sounds A-OK to me.” Michelangelo responded with a smile, draping himself across Raphael’s lap. Leonardo nodded in approval at the youngest’s antics, a slight smile on this face, and then walked off.

“Michelangelo, get off of me, this is completely unnecessary!”

“No can do Raphael, you heard Leonardo, this is where you stay.”

“You know I could just roll you right off the couch, right?”

“Oh yeah, but would you Raphael, would you really do that to your youngest brother?” With that Michelangelo looked up at him with wide eyes, doing his best impersonation of a kicked puppy.

“...No, I wouldn’t.” Raphael sighed, leaning back against the couch and waiting.

Soon after, Leonardo returned with a slightly put-off looking Donatello in tow. Some sign of what had happened must have been displayed on Raphael’s face though, because as Donatello looked at his red-clad brother, still pinned to the couch by Michelangelo, his face softened slightly before he moved towards the couch.

“Alright Michelangelo, job well done, you can get off him now.” Leonardo said.

“Darn it, and I was just getting comfortable.” The moment Michelangelo was gone, a blanket took his place, which was quickly spread across him by Leonardo himself.

“Really Leonardo, wrapping me up in a blanket? What are you going to do next, read me a bedtime story?” Raphael couldn’t help but quip, even though he pulled the blanket tighter and enjoyed the feeling of comfort it brought.

“No, we’re going to watch some movies. Do you have the remote Michelangelo?”

“Of course oh great leader of ours.” Michelangelo responded.

“Great, find a movie we’ll all like. Donatello, take a seat and help me spread out the remaining blankets.” With that Leonardo plopped onto the couch next to Raphael while Donatello took the other side, and Michelangelo took the corner next to Donatello. 

Quickly the blankets were spread across the four of them, and the sounds of a movie began drifting from the TV. Between the exhaustion from his earlier panic, the comfort of the blankets wrapped securely around him, the TV, and the safely that came from having his brothers surrounding him, Raphael quickly felt himself drifting off.

Now, he was safe.

[moon-lit-heroine]

Of Flesh and Unrest

     Thunder rolled and cracked loudly as lightning flashed across the grounds, casting wicked shadows in every direction. Wind howled and whipped the limbs of the trees this way and that, leaves were carelessly tossed about as nature had its way with the Church and all around it. The night had threatened to rain but had only delivered a rapidly darkening overcast until dusk. When night fell, so did the violent rain that whipped through the air and pummeled the earth below. 

     One particular denizen of the church had enjoyed the force that the earth gifted them with, using this opportunity to take a leisurely stroll between the stones of the already deceased. Shadows clung to her skin as if wet cloth hung from her shoulders.  Shadowy hair seemed to not heed the rains’ will as it billowed behind her head almost like a ghostly flame. Fingers caressed the names and dates on the carved stones, her deathly magic poisoning the moss and mildew that clung to the surface and making it wither and flake off in the wind and wash of the raging storm. 

     Each flash of lightning blinded her for a split second, but nothing that would send her into a panicked fear, nothing that couldn’t be dealt with. As in nature, light always wicked away darkness, even if the darkness were to return. Each flicker of lightning showed the pale flesh beneath the inky darkness that clung to her, revealing a muscular yet somehow skeletal and ghostly figure. An ethereal glow seemed to reflect off her flesh when the sky lit up. 

     Something moved in the window of the church, was it one of the Emeritus brothers? The Cardinal? A ghoul? One of the sisters? Who knew? Curiosity got the better of her as she let her eyes pass over it.

[thebeautyofthomas]

Rain

Summary: The rain affects all of the sides a different way. For Virgil, it brings an indescribable feeling. 

Genre: Angst, in a way? Just a rainy day fic.

Pairing: None

Word Count: 632

A/N: I’ve yet to post a fic on here, wow! Anyways, your local fanfic writer gets anxious during storms, and feels much like Virgil in this fic, so I decided to give myself something to do and finally post a Sanders Sides fic! Hope you all enjoy!

Warnings: Mentions of depression, anxiety,  and storms/raining. Please let me know if there’s anything else you would like to be tagged.

They said a rainy day was both depression’s best friend and worst enemy.

As the rain splashed against the pavement of the outside mindspace, Virgil discovered the truth behind the phrase. His chest was an odd mixture of heaviness, anxiety, and relaxation, the type of feeling that made him curl under a pile of blankets and stay in his room because he didn’t know if he could face the others. The type of feeling that had him begin a movie only to pause it halfway through in favor of blankly staring at the frozen pictures on the screen.

Water flowed from the sky little a bittersweet rainfall, pounding against the outer walls of the sides’ shared space. The science behind weather in the mindspace was still a secret to all them, but Virgil had a sneaking suspicion that Roman had something more to do with it than he was letting on. Still, no matter the cause, the rain had a certain affect on each of the sides.

Logan tended to read more when it rained, Virgil noticed. He put down the pen and paper and pushed his laptop to the side, grabbing a book instead. Sometimes, rather than a book, Logan settled for a puzzle or crossword, often with some input from Patton. He still acted like his normal, logical self, but he was much quieter, more focused, and seemed almost… relaxed. Some of the usual tension in his shoulders melted away as the logical side lost himself in the book in his hands, or the puzzle in front of his eyes.

Roman was mesmerized by the rain, and would often venture outside of the mindspace when it began pouring. Patton always fretted over him when he came back inside, shivering and dripping, and Logan made sure to tell him the dangers of staying in the rain for too long, but Roman always came back inside with a wide smile and soft expression. Roman was also quieter when it rained, all the sides were, and Virgil thought that the rain calmed the Prince, in a way, and allowed him to baste in his own ideas and thoughts while also enjoying the relaxing sound of the rain.

Patton was the side who acted the most different when it rained. He was also the second most upset side, excluding Virgil, when the water from the sky came in buckets. Rain usually made Thomas feel a sense of nostalgia that only the fatherly side could understand, and it affected Patton greatly. He became quieter, more needy, and tended to bake more, most likely to give himself something to do to fight off the soft sense of sadness. Virgil knew that if he left his room right now, the scent of cookies, cupcakes, brownies, or some other sweet treat would flow up from the kitchen. Patton was different when it rained, but he still managed to be a positive influence on all the sides, even Virgil. He laughed, smiled, and made jokes, still, but everything was softer, more real.

The anxious side pulled his knees closer to his chest, staring at the television screen in his room from where he laid under the blankets. He could hear the faint sound of a movie in the common room when the rain lightened up, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to crawl out of bed to awkwardly sit with the other sides. The rain still poured outside, and Virgil’s anxiety levels rose as the storm grew heavier.

So, there Virgil stayed, feeling his inner turmoil swirl and jump in his stomach as he mindlessly stared at the screen in front of him, feeling his eyelids squint shut as his mind got heavier and heavier.

A fitful slumber found him quickly, the pattering of rain lulling him to sleep.

[gracetrack-higgins]

Secrets

welcome to my super angsty Sprace fic! it’s posted on Ao3 but I figured I’d put it here too! it’s pretty long (5k+ words!) and very angsty. I’ll put any warnings in the tags :)

*

You know Spot Conlon, right? I heard he’ll soak anyone who ain’t Brooklyn.

I heard he killed a gangsta’ who was botherin’ his Newsies.

I heard he got inta a fight wit’ a kid from the Bronx so bad the kid was laid up inna hospital for a month.

I’s heard he ain’t even real. Brooklyn kids made ‘im up so’s they look nice an’ tough.

Nah, he’s real. I saw ‘im on the Bridge one time, yellin’ at a scab or sommit.

Nuh-uh!

Yeah-huh!

I heard’s he’s a better pape’s sella’ than Jack.

Betta’ than anya us.

I heard he jumped inta the river to save a drownin’ kid!

That ain’t true!

I still don’t think he’s real.

Racetrack Higgins smirked to himself a little as he listened to the younger Newsies’ whispered speculations about the leader of the Brooklyn Newsies. At one time, Race probably would’ve believed the tall tales surrounding Spot. If he didn’t know him, that is. Race thought it rather funny how many stories there were about Spot, ones that any kid would believe. Only two of ‘em were true so far.

Race glanced at the little Newsies huddled around an overturned crate that the boys used as a table in the Lodging House. They were playing cards, a watered down version of blackjack that Race had taught all the kids how to play on their days off. How he got stuck babysittin’ he’d never know, but here he was, 17 year old Racetrack, watchin’ a gaggle of little Newsies. The youngest of ‘em wasn’t older than 6.

“Mr. Racer!” the littlest Newsie piped up, his missing front teeth giving his smile a big gap as he grinned, “Do you know ‘bout Spot Conlon?”

Race smirked. “Sure I’s do.”

The little Newsies all gasped, edging closer to where Race sat on the beat up sofa in the common room of the boy’s floor in the lodging house.

“Really?” Another boy asked, “Have ya ever met ‘im?”

Race grinned. “Maybe.”

Gasps.

“An’ ya didn’t get soaked???”

“Nah.” he shrugged. “Me an’ Spot, we’s pals.”

“You’s lyin’,” A rather skeptical eight year old replied simply. “You’s just sayin’.”

Race looked offended. “Lyin’?? Me an’ Spot’s best friends! I sell in Brooklyn twice a week wit’ ‘im.”

Tiny Newsie jaws dropped.

“No way!”

Race took the cigar out of his mouth as he leaned forward and smiled at the boys. “Yes way.”

“You ain’t Brooklyn, though’s! Ya’s from Manhattan. Ain’tcha?”

Race nodded, “Sure am. We’s got a spec’al arrangement, is all.”

“What’s the ‘rangement, Mr. Racer?” the youngest boy asked, eyes wide.

“I ain’t givin’ away all my secrets,” Race smirked, “Just know that as long’s I’m ‘round, you kiddos ain’t gotta be too scared’a ol’ Spot Conlon.”

“You ain’t scared’a ‘im??” another boy asked and Race shook his head.

“Nah.” Race put the cigar back in his mouth.

The little boys minds buzzed with new theories and just a little bit of fear toward Race, who was apparently best pals with the scariest, toughest Newsie in all’a New York.

*

Race tossed a little cloth bag with coins in it at his best friend, silly grin on his face.

“Luck’s changin’, Spotty!” Race said excitedly, “There’s ya cut.”

Spot raised a brow and opened the little bag. “Woah. How many races ya win?”

“FOUR.” Race grinned, “Can ya believe it?? I could feel somethin’ in the air today. Somethin’ lucky.”

Spot snorted, starting up the stairs of the Brooklyn lodging house, Race following. “So how mucha that’s goin’ to settle ya debts from last week, eh?”

“‘Bout half. But that means I’s got plenty for next week’s bettin’!”

“Or ya could, I dunno. Save some? Get a hot meal? Some new clothes ‘o somethin’.” Spot suggested.

Race snorted. “I don’ need that. Just wait Spotty, one’a these days I’ll hit the jackpot an’ you an’ me, we’ll be set for life.”

Spot smirked a little. “You an’ me, eh?”

Race met his eyes. “Yeah.”

Spot nodded proudly. “Yeah.”

Race followed Spot through the familiar Brooklyn lodging house. He nodded in greeting to Hotshot, Bruises and Joey where they sat around a card table, reading headlines and eating something before heading out to sell the evening edition. Race knew the Brooklyn house about as well as he knew Manhattan’s. All the other Newsies knew him by name, he was welcomed in without a second thought, and everyone, everyone, in Brooklyn knew that if you messed with Racetrack Higgins, it meant you were messing directly with Spot Conlon. No one questioned that.

Race patiently waited as Spot checked in on the younger kids in his lodge, making sure they didn’t get into any trouble on the streets today, and as he checked on one of his kids who stayed in from selling due to a head-cold. For all the tall tales of how terrifying Spot Conlon was, Race was one of the few people other than the Brooklyn kids who saw Spot’s softer side. He was a protector, through and through. He’d protect those kids with his life, and Race found it incredibly endearing.

“Poor kiddo,” Spot muttered as he climbed the ladder to his room, a small but cozy attic space that he’d claimed when he took charge of the Brooklyn Newsies. Race followed him.

“Twigs is still sick?” Race asked. Poor kid was already tiny, hence his nickname, no wonder a head-cold put him out of commission for the day.

“Yeah.” Spot frowned. “Might have to dip inta’ them winnin’s an’ get that kid some tonic.”

Race shrugged. “Ain’t gotta slush-fund for that? Them’s your winnin’s.”

Spot glanced at the bag of coins in his hand, tossing it onto his bed. “We do, but I don’ mind helpin’ the lil kid out. He ain’t got no one else. None’a them do.”

Race nodded in understanding. “You’s a nice guy, Spotty.” he said with a smile, “I’ll neva’ understand how kids’ is scared ‘a you.”

Spot puffed his chest. “‘Cuz I’m scary.”

“No you ain’t,” Race said, sliding a hand over Spot’s muscled shoulder and resting his chin on top of Spot’s head. “You’s a sweetheart.”

Spot snorted and pushed Race off him, “Shuddap.”

Race smirked, flopping dramatically onto Spot’s bed, reaching out for Spot to join him.

Spot did, sitting down next to Race, letting him play with his hand.

“You oughta get back to Manhattan ‘fore the sun goes down,” Spot mentioned as the sunset shone through his window and gave the attic an orange tint. “‘s Gettin’ late.”

Race nodded. “I’d rather stay here wit’ you.”

“You an’ I both know you ain’t suppos’d ta.”

Race shrugged, resting his head on Spot’s strong shoulder.

“Yeah well,” he gave him a secret grin. “We both knows we do things we ain’t suppos’d ta.”

Spot laughed lightly. “Yeah.” he glanced around his room, the only place in all of Brooklyn where he was allowed to relax. It was an off limits area. None of the other Newsies were allowed anywhere near his room, let alone inside. There were only a handful of people who’d ever seen Spot’s room, and only one who’d ever been allowed repeat visits. Race knew it was a very high honor.

“Only in ‘ere though.”

Race nodded, almost sadly. Spot had a funny way of making him happy no matter what. He loved annoyin’ him, playin’ pranks, makin’ jokes, sharin’ stories, and sellin’ papes with him. But he loved lots of other things about Spot too. Like that he cared so much about his Newsies. That he took such good care of his friends. Little things too, like that he was allergic to pollen in the springtime. That he loved to read. That he loved animals. That he stood up for the little guy time and time again.

Race was really proud to be Spot’s friend.

And sometimes, when they were alone, more than his friend. Race traced one finger across Spot’s bicep, tracing over the faded scar on his shoulder and connecting the dots of his freckles.

“Yeah,” Race agreed, “Only in ‘ere.” He sighed, still lazily tracing Spot’s freckles. “Why do ya think I don’t wanna leave?”

Spot smirked a little, allowing himself a moment of softness to rest his cheek against Race’s head.

“‘Cuz you’s a sap.” Spot teased. “You oughta go back to Manhattan ‘fore I soak ya.”

Race grinned, his nose crinkling. “Then ya’s gonna miss me.”

Spot grinned back. “Only a lil bit.”

“Til I’m back in Brooklyn ta bug ya on Friday.”

“Too long.” Spot said, sliding his hand into Race’s gently.

“Now who’sa sap?” Race snickered, but laces his fingers through Spot’s, squeezing gently.

Spot squeezed back. “Still you.”

“Nahhh.” Race pecked a very careful kiss to Spot’s temple, just barely brushing his lips against his hairline.

Spot turned to face him, their eyes meeting and fighting unspoken feelings and buried fears. Their faces grew closer, Race’s forehead resting against Spot’s. Race smelled like newsprint and tobacco, two scents that Spot now associated with comfort and safety. He closed his eyes, relaxing, only opening them when Race parted their heads.

“You’s prob’ly right though,” he said softly, “I oughta go back ta Manhattan.”

Spot tried not to look disappointed and nodded. “Yeah.”

Race gave him a smile, squeezing his hand. “See you’s Friday?”

“Friday.” Spot gave Race’s hand one more squeeze before letting him go. Race took the cigar from his shirt’s pocket and stuck it in his mouth, giving Spot a smile before he started down the ladder to take him downstairs.

Spot sighed as the door to his attic closed behind Race and he flopped down against the creaky mattress of his bed. He hated this. He hated the way that Race made him feel, so safe and terrified at the same time. Spot Conlon wasn't really afraid of anyone or anything, but getting hurt by Race, or worse, Race getting hurt by him, was at the top of the list of his fears.

Sneaking around wasn't smart, and both of them knew it. Lying wasn't smart either. Especially when they were lying to each other. All the late nights and drunken kisses in the world wouldn't get either boy to admit they had feelings for one another, at least not out loud. Spot hoped that it was clear how he felt, and that their quiet moments and his careful signs of affection were enough for Race to know how much he meant to him.

They couldn't talk about it, not explicitly. They both knew that they couldn't be together, not truly, not anything more than the friends they already were. And if they talked about it, if Spot ever told Race how he felt; how his heart fluttered every time they touched, how his lips burned for hours after every time they’d kissed, how he'd stay up late thinking about him and them and their lives and their futures, Spot knew he'd be done for. If he talked about it, it'd be real. If they discussed it, they'd both realize they had no future, at least not one together.

Spot was afraid that when they faced their fate head on, the secrets in Spot’s bedroom would go away. And then Race would stop sellin’ in Brooklyn. And soon he'd stop going to Sheepshead. And Spot would be alone.

Spot sat up and looked out the window from the top of the Lodging house just in time to see Race waving his goodbyes to the other Brooklyn newsies as he started his trek back over the bridge. Before he left he looked up to Spot’s bedroom window, waving a little goodbye.

Spot didn't think Race could see it, but he waved back.

Race turned and walked back over the bridge all alone.

Spot sat back down on his bed, all alone.

*

Friday was a rainy day in New York City. It was summer, so the rain was expected, but dreaded. Rainy days were always slow sellin’ days. No one wanted to stop too long to buy papes when it’d just get soaked in a few minutes anyways. Newsies typically hid under awnings or building entrances to sell what they could, but usually gave up and went back home before the weather got too nasty. There’d be a new headline and more papes to sell tomorrow, when the sun was (hopefully) shining.

Friday was Race’s day to sell with Spot in Brooklyn. And even though it was already raining when he’d left that morning, he still made the long trek over the bridge and showed up at Brooklyn’s Newsie hub in time. He and Spot sold the few papes they’d bought, they were veterans at selling in bad weather, and then retired to the Brooklyn Lodging house for the rest of the afternoon. They spent the rest of the day playing cards and checkers and taking turns keeping the peace, as there were too many young newsies hanging around in boredom.

It was getting late and the weather was worsening. Race was deeply involved in a game of blackjack between a handful of the older Brooklyn newsies, determined to win for the third game in a row. Spot had been checking on the kids, making sure no one was doing anything stupid, and that the younger ones had all eaten, before he joined in on the card game.

“Ay,” Hotshot asked, “What time is it? Shouldn’t this crook be headin’ back ta Manhattan?” Hotshot elbowed Race, who snorted.

“You’s just bitter cuz I wiped ya pockets for the third time tonight.” Race teased. He looked to Spot, who glanced up from his cards.

“It is pretty late,” he admitted, “But the weather’s awful. You wanna just stay the night, Racer?”

Race raised a brow. “I really oughta go back, Jack’ll be worried sick.”

“Psshh,” Spot waved a hand. “Kelly’ll be fine a single night without ya. You don’t wanna get pneumonia or nothin’, do ya?”

Race shrugged. “I ain’t gonna get sick,” Race said simply, setting down another card. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“You’s gonna get a different kinda soaked if ya try an’ cross the bridge in this storm.” Spot told him. Thunder crashed outside and Spot was the only one who saw Race flinch at the loud sound. He narrowed his eyes a little bit.

“You’s stayin’.” Spot said firmly, making it clear there was no room for argument.

“You want us ta make room for ‘im?” Hotshot asked, “We can kick ol’ Bruises ta the floor for the night.”

“Hey!” Bruises protested, punching Hotshot in the arm.

“Nah,” Spot brushed them off. He didn’t look up from his cards. “He’ll bunk wit’ me.”

Race felt his chest growing warm with pride.

“Whateva’ you says, boss.” Hotshot said, going back to the game. No one said anything else about it.

After their game, which Race won easily, Spot made his final nightly rounds throughout the busy lodging house. He checked on the younger kids, making sure they were going to sleep and weren’t getting into mischief. He made sure that Twigs, the little newsie who was still fighting off a cold, had enough blankets and had eaten something that evening.

Race followed Spot on his rounds, admiring how gentle but firm Spot was with the younger kids. He seemed way older than his 18 years as he cared for the kids, lifting them into their bunks and gently assuring them that they’d be back to selling papes in the morning. Race tried not to smile as he watched Spot checking Twigs’ temperature with the back of his hand, putting another ratty blanket over the little boy’s shivering form. Race also noticed that Spot had bought tonic for him, and it was sitting next to the cot the little kid was curled up on.

“He’ll be okay,” Spot said as he left the younger kids’ room, “He’s a tough little kid.”

Race had a feeling that Spot was saying it for his own benefit than anyone else’s.

Spot sighed as he closed the door to his room as Race climbed up after him, turning on the small gas-lamp in the corner so they could see.

“He’s gonna be fine, Spotty,” Race tried to encourage, “Don’t worry. You got him some tonic an’ everythin’. I’m sure he’ll beat it.”

“Yeah.” Spot said, taking off his newsie cap and tossing it onto an overturned crate. “Yeah. He’ll be fine.”

Race took his cap off too, tossing it next to Spot’s before he sat down on Spot’s bunk.

“You’s sure ‘bout me stayin’ the night?” Race asked, and Spot nodded.

“Yeah. I’d rather know you’s safe an’ dry, here. ‘Stead’a bein’ wet an’ catchin’ cold in Manhattan.” Spot said simply, sitting down next to Race on the bed. “Got it?”

“Got it.” Race nodded. Lightning crackled across the sky and thunder echoed so loud that it made the attic walls quake a little. Race jumped at the sound, groaning a little in embarrassment. Spot looked him over curiously.

“You okay, Race?”

“Mmhm.” Race avoided Spot’s eyes.

“No you ain’t.” he frowned. “You don’t like the storms?”

“Nah.” Race shrugged. “It’s dumb. Don’ worry ‘bout it.” He tugged off his over shirt and pulled off the suspenders he wore so he was in his pants and undershirt. “Can we go to bed now?”

Spot nodded, taking off his suspenders and shirt as well. He turned off the lamp so the room was lit only by the lightning cracks and faded moonlight through the rolling dark clouds. Spot climbed into the bed, which was probably too small for both of them, but they didn’t care, immediately getting comfortable next to one another. There wasn’t any awkwardness. Both boys were used to sharing their bed, and neither of them could think of anyone they’d rather share with than each other. They each respectfully maintained a small amount of distance between them, but Race’s hand reached carefully for Spot’s as another loud crash of thunder made his skin crawl. Spot gently took his hand.

Race gave him a smile in the dark, but Spot’s eyes had already adjusted so he could see the little grin.

“Tell me a secret,” Race whispered.

Spot smirked. He’d joked once that Race was the only one who knew his secrets, and now Race held that title very proudly, but privately.

“Like what?” Spot asked flatly. He noticed in the back of his head that his hand was still holding Race’s, and Race squeezed tight when another crash of thunder echoed outside.

“Anythin’. Tell me why ya didn’t let me go back to Manhattan tonight.” Race’s voice was tight, and Spot could tell he was trying to distract himself. He opted for honesty to answer Race’s question.

“You’d get sick.”

“You don’ know that. I’s got great health.”

“People what get soakin’ wet an’ don’t own enough clothes ta get dry is only gonna get sick. I...I’s seen it lotsa times.”

“You’s gotten sick from a rainstorm?” Race asked, and Spot shook his head a little.

“Nah.” his voice was quiet. “A kid in the house did, few years back.” Spot hesitated, deciding whether or not he wanted to finish. “He was little, like Twigs is. He got pneumonia real bad, an’ by the time I got ‘im to a nurse, it was too late for ‘im.”

“Oh.” Race said softly, feeling his chest ache with sorrow. “I...I’m sorry, Spotty. I didn’t realize. I wasn’t meanin’ ta joke ‘bout it.”

Spot shook his head. “It’s fine. I just know I ain’t gonna let no more kids get sick if I can help it.” he said simply. “Ain’t worth it.”

“You’s right. It ain’t.”

They were quiet again, another crash of thunder making the walls shake. Race jumped again, letting out a shaky sigh.

“That an’ I’d miss ya.” Spot said lightly, and Race gave him a little smile. He was grateful to Spot for trying to distract him.

“You’d miss me?” Race teased, and Spot snorted.

“‘Course, dumbass.”

“Why’s that?” Race asked, his tone light but intent serious.

“Tuesday’s a long way from now. ‘Sides, we’s pals.”

“Pals.” Race said softly, nodding. He subconsciously let go of Spot’s hand, but Spot grabbed it back.

“Yeah.” he held Race’s hand tight in his.

Spot wanted to elaborate. He really did. But he wasn’t even sure what this was. What they were. They were pape-sellin’-partners, and best friends, but past that? Spot had no idea. He didn’t think boyfriends was the right word for it. He didn’t think there was a right word for it. Especially when nothing about it was right.

“Your turn,” Spot said, changing the subject. “Tell me a secret.”

“I ain’t got any secrets,” Race said lightly.

“Sure ya do.”

“You know pretty much all’a ‘em.” Race admitted. He was a pretty open book when he found people he trusted, and he trusted Spot more than anyone else he’d ever met. He loved times like this, when it was just them, and nothin’ else. He loved learning new things about his best friend. He loved knowing things about him that no one else did.

“So why’s you scared’a thunder?” Spot asked, catching Race a little off guard.

“I don’t like storms.” Race said quickly. He sighed a little. “I hate ‘em,” Race said softly, “They’s so loud. I just wanna sleep but they’s loud, so’s I can’t.”

“Guess they is pretty loud,” Spot admitted. “I didn’t realize it bothered ya.”

Race shrugged a little. “Neva’ liked ‘em.” he admitted. “Bad mem’ries.”

“Yeah?” Spot wanted to know what sort of memories could be attached to rain, but he didn’t want to make Race uncomfortable so he didn’t push it.

“Yeah.”

The room lit up around them with a lightning strike that was too close for Race to be comfortable and when the crack exploded into the loudest thunder crash yet, Race practically lept from the bed. He cursed under his breath, angry at himself for being upset, and even angrier at the memories of lightning, smoke and flames that filled his head and refused to leave. The same memories that woke him up when fire sirens blared all night long in the city. The same memories that plagued him every single thunderstorm filled summer since he was a kid.

“Hey, it’s okay Racer, it’ll pass.” Spot offered, but Race paced back and forth across the room, trying to calm down.

“‘S so dumb.” he muttered under his breath.

Spot stood and took Race by the hands, leading him back to the bed. They sat next to each other, Race’s shaking hands still in Spot’s strong ones.

“Whadda ya do in Manhattan when it’s stormin’?” Spot asked.

“Dunno. Try ta sleep, walk ‘round an’ try not to wake up the boys, hide ‘til it’s done. I can’t smoke inside, so I don’t get ta calm down as much as I wanna.” he frowned, leaning his face into Spot’s shoulder. “‘m sorry. ‘S stupid.”

“No it ain’t.” Spot assured him. He put one hand gently on Race’s back. “Whadda ya want me to do? How can I’s help?”

Race leaned into Spot closer as another flash of lightning lit up the room. Spot’s strong arm held Race tight.

“I’s fine,” Race told him after a moment. “Being with you’s already helpin’.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. I know you’s got my back. I’m safe.”

Spot smiled a little, leaning into Race comfortably.

“I don’t think no one feels too safe ‘round me.” Spot admitted quietly. “I’s got a reputat’on, ya know.”

Race smiled, feeling his fears slowly fading the longer Spot held onto him.

“Well, I know I’m safe.” Race told him, “Ain’t a doubt in my mind you’s lookin’ out for me.”

Spot wasn’t thinking as he pressed a very small kiss to Race’s forehead.

“You know I is.”

*

Race left the Brooklyn lodging house early that morning, before the sun was even up. The storm was long gone, only puddles remained as a memory of the pounding rain and cracking lightning from the night before. Race wished his heart didn’t ache every time he made the walk over the bridge to go back into Lower Manhattan. He wished he didn’t feel the way he did. He also didn’t regret it. He held the secrets and reassurances from that night with him, hiding them in his heart for later as he started to walk back.

When Spot woke up just as the sun began to rise, he instantly noticed that Race was gone. For a second he wondered if he’d dreamt the whole thing, but he quickly noticed that where their hats had been sitting last night on the overturned crate next to his bed, a cigar remained instead. Spot picked it up, letting himself smile a little before he pulled on his shirt and suspenders and got ready to start the day.

*

Race reached the Manhattan Lodging house just as the sun was coming up. He opened the door and started up the stairs, searching his pocket for his key when the door opened and Jack Kelly bumped directly into him.

“Racer!” Jack exclaimed, “For the love of Pete, where were ya??” Jack hit Race with his hat, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

“Geez Mom, good mornin’ to ya too.” Race teased. “Stayed the night in Brooklyn ‘cuz ‘a the storm.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed with concern. “You’s okay? Storm was pretty bad.” Other than Spot, Jack was the only person who knew how Race felt during thunderstorms. He’d been worried about him all night as he listened to the thunder rolling and rain pelting the city.

“I’m fine,” Race assured him. “But starvin’. We got any food?”

“Yeah, sure.” Jack pulled Race through the door. “Come on.”

Race was greeted by the other boys the second he walked through the door, immediately peppered with whoops, hollers and questions.

“Where were ya??” Albert asked, “You had Jackie all worried ‘bout ya.”

“Poor Mom didn’t know what to do with ya lost in Brooklyn.” Romeo teased, elbowing Jack, who rolled his eyes.

“We was ready ta send out the search party!” Elmer added.

The littler Newsies chased one another around the small kitchen until Albert shouted for them to scram. A few lingered though, surprised to see Race.

“Where’d ya go Mr. Racer?” one of the younger Newsies asked. Race snorted.

“Got caught in the rain, so I’s stayed in Brooklyn for the night.” He explained simply.

“An’ ya didn’t get soaked by them Brooklyn boys?” A kid asked, and Race laughed.

“‘Course not.”

“Where’d ya stay?” Crutchie asked, handing Race a plate with toast and half an apple on it.

“Thanks,” Race said as he started to eat. “Stayed at the Brooklyn boys’ lodgin’ house. It’s nicer ‘n ours is.” he joked, mouth full.

“You stayed there?” one of the younger kids asked.

“Yep.”

“Spot Conlon let you stay with his boys?” Another little kid asked, wide eyed.

Race flicked a piece of his crust at the kid, hitting him in the forehead. “Yeah, he did. No big thing.”

“Wow.” the kid gaped. “Why didn’t he beat ya up??”  he asked.

“‘Cuz we’s friends.” Race said simply.

The kid turned to his friend next to him. “So why’d you beat me up?” he asked, poking at his own healing black eye.

“Cuz you’s a dummy!!” his friend shouted, and the two lightly brawled until Jack kicked them out of the kitchen.

“Enough, ya knuckleheads.” he shook his head. “Go get yerselves lookin’ presentable or no one’ll wanna buy from ya today.”

The boys obeyed and ran up the stairs, leaving the older boys in the kitchen.

“You really stayed with Spot last night?” Elmer asked, a little surprised.

Race bit into his apple half. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Just curious.” Elmer said, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

“He ain’t the friendliest kid in the city,” Crutchie said, and Race gave him a grin.

“He’s friendly ta me.”

“You’s lucky.” Albert commented. “He’d prob’ly soak any’a us on sight for invadin’ his territory.”

Race snorted. “Nah, he ain’t so bad.”

“Sure he is.” Elmer said, “You’s heard the stories, ain’t ya?”

“Sure,” Race shrugged, “But that don’t mean they’s true.”

Jack didn’t comment, watching Race carefully. He’d been worried sick about his friend, knowing just how he felt when bad lightning storms hit, and was ready to go out in the middle of the storm to find him until Crutchie stopped him from doin’ anything dumb. He was relieved that Race was okay, and more relieved that he was indoors and not hidin’ out under the bridge or nothin’. But now Jack was curious. Race had been spending more and more time in Brooklyn lately, a lot more than his occasional excursion to the Sheepshead Races he’d take after a particularly good headline dropped and filled his pockets with extra cash. Jack had never commented on it, a little wary of questioning anything Spot Conlon did, even if it included friendship with one of his boys. Jack wouldn’t necessarily consider Spot a friend, more of a reluctant ally. He came through for them during the strike last year, and now he an’ Race were friends, which meant Manhattan an’ Brooklyn stayed allies. But that didn’t mean Jack wasn’t skeptical of Spot and his intentions with his friend.

“Alright ya slackers,” Jack interrupted, brushing Race off his perch on the kitchen counter, “Let’s get to work. Ya can bug Race ‘bout Brooklyn later.”

Race smirked and finished his apple half in one more bite, spitting the seeds onto his plate and putting it in the getting-rather-full sink.

“Let’s hope we’s got a good headline today,” Race commented as he followed Jack from the kitchen to round up the boys and head to Newsies Square. Jack fell back to walk with Race on the way over to the square.

“Ay, you sure you’s aight Racer?” he asked gently and Race gave him a toothy grin through the cigar between his teeth.

“‘Course I am, Jackie. Why?”

Jack gave him a look. They both knew why.

“I mean it,” Race insisted. “I’m a’ight. Spot was real nice to let me stay wit’ ‘im last night. I even was able to sleep.”

“Ya were?” Jack was impressed.

“Yeah.” the corners of Race’s lips were tempted to tug into a smile but he forced his expression to remain neutral. “I was.”

Jack watched him curiously. “Good.” he said, “I’m glad Spot was nice to ‘ya.” he chose his words carefully, observing Race’s reaction.

This time Race couldn’t hide his little smile. Jack tried to place where he’d seen the look in Race’s eyes before and it took him a minute to figure it out. The way Race’s eyes lit up when he talked about Spot Conlon was the exact same way Katherine’s eyes lit up when he brought her flowers at work last week. It was the same look she gave him when he made her dinner at her apartment, and the same look he was sure he gave her when she’d show him her articles to read before anyone else did, or got excited about his latest drawings.

Love.

Racetrack nodded. “Yeah, me too. He’s a good pal.” he fought the little smile away.

Jack wasn’t sure how anyone could feel anything other than respect and healthy fear for Spot Conlon, but he was pretty sure that whatever Race was feeling, it was more than that. Jack took a second to process that, wondering if he was jumping to conclusions or if he was right. He knew Race pretty well, and he could tell how much happier he was after spending the day in Brooklyn. Jack’s stomach hurt with a pang of sadness, knowing that as happy as Spot seemed to make him, he and Race could never really do anything about it. Race’s life was hard enough as it was, this would only make it harder. Spot Conlon was a dangerous kid, but being in love with him was far more dangerous. Especially Race being in love with him. Jack tried to push the thoughts away. He couldn’t protect Race from this, but he’d be there for him if he got hurt.

“I’m glad he’s your pal,” Jack settled on saying, and Race nodded.

“Yeah.” he looked down at his boots as they walked.

That’s all he’ll ever be.

*

http://archiveofourown.org/works/12941445  ao3 link :)