Chapter Text
As is pretty standard for his life, Spot is wondering what the hell is going on. He and Race have been hanging out more often, going to dinner and catching movies and taking walks in the park after sundown. That’s not the weird part, though. The weird part is that Race has been using his limited budget to do things like buy Spot flowers and gifts. The weird thing is that Race is acting like he’s courting Spot, holding doors for him and laughing too loud at his bad jokes. The weird thing is that Race ends up in Spot’s bed more often than not, curled up right beside him every weekend when Spot can actually sleep at night. The weird thing is Race has this huge shirt in life perspective and the breakdown that comes with it, and after Spot helped him come to terms with it, he started acting like they’re dating.
Are they dating?
No, of course not. Race would have told him if they were dating. And Race definitely would have kissed him by now if they were dating. Even with his new no-kissing lifestyle, there’s no way he’d go almost three months without kissing someone he was dating.
So they’re not dating. Except Race keeps acting like they are, and it’s giving Spot all the warm-and-fuzzy feelings that he wants nothing to do with. He spends entirely too much time imagining that Race is his boyfriend, thinking of being together and how soft Race’s lips probably are and having a family and— oh god, he’s in too deep. If only Race would just go back to normal and date that other teacher so Spot could move on with his life. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure he could handle losing Race’s new affection. And if he’s being really, super-duper honest with himself, in his heart of hearts, he’s not sure he’ll ever get over Race.
He wishes he could drive, because bus rides give him way too much time to think. If he drove, he could focus on the road and not the thoughts flying around his mind, mostly centered around his roommate-slash-best-friend. Luckily it doesn’t take long to get to his stop, so he tries to focus on the passing care insurance rad or how cute Race looked in his shirt sleeve button down today for the twenty minute ride. Okay, maybe twenty minutes wasn’t short to a normal person, but he takes public transit out of the city for work five days a week, so it doesn’t seem so bad for him. Besides, half the twenty minutes is just because of traffic anyway. Once he’s off the bus, it’s only another ten minute walk until he reaches Race’s school. He’s a bit early for Race’s lunch period, so he waits by the front desk after he checks in and gets his visitor sticker. The secretary behind the desk makes sure he lute converse ion while he waits, and it makes the time go faster. Soon enough, the bell rings and students rush the halls. The sheer mass and density of the horde makes him decide to stay put until they clear out before going to Race’s room. The sound of hundreds, if not over a thousand, students is so overwhelming and cacophonous that trying to talk to the secretary again is useless. So he just stands there for four minutes, food bag in hand, waiting for the tide of students to recede.
Finally, the bell rings and the rest of the students filter into their classrooms. Spot bids the secretary adieu and starts off in the direction of Race’s classroom. The silence of the halls is almost deafening after the caucus deluge of students. He finds himself humming a little tune just to fill the absence, some old Cuban lullaby his mother used to sing to him as a child. It’s one Race likes, which means he’s thinking of Race again, which means he’s feeling like a pathetic little boy with a crush on the most popular boy in school, which he used to be when he was the new punk from Brooklyn and Race was his new school’s favorite class-clown-slash-sports-Star. Then Race befriended him despite Spot’s best efforts, and with Race came the rest of the crew, and suddenly he was popular for the first time. Plus he became star of the ice hockey team, which brought its own friends and notoriety. After so many years with only his gang behind him, and most of them only deferring out of fear, it had taken him a while to get used to having real friends who genuinely enjoyed his company. But he did and now they’re all certified Big Kids and still just as close. He had Race and his tenacity to thank for the fact that he wasn’t locked up or dead. To thank for the fact that he could call himself an honest man. He’s getting off track. The point of the matter is that Spot is still in love with Race and Race has done everything to deserve it.
He’s been to the school enough times that he only gets a little bit lost on his way to the classroom. He must pass the classroom twice before he finally realizes where it is, and he shakes his head at his own obliviousness. The eight of students still in the room stops him in his tracks in the doorway. It’s just three young boys, no more than 17, gathered on the near side of Race’s desk in the back of the room. They’re all fidgeting like they can’t bear to sit still, bumping shoulders and punching arms like they’re close friends. He can’t really see Race past the wall of teenager, and so assumes Race can’t see him either. It would be rude to interrupt, so Spot stands in the doorway and totally doesn’t eavesdrop.
“So you don’t have your colors yet?” The not furthest to Spot’s right asks. The middle boy shoves him, hissing “you can’t just ask people that!” The first boy shoves him back, defending himself.
“He doesn’t mind, right, Mr. Higgins?” He turns his head back toward Race for support. Race just laughs, a laugh Spot would know in death.
“I don’t mind,” he assures them, his voice gaining a warning tone as he adds, “Just don’t make a habit of asking people that. It’s a sensitive subject for some people.” The boys nod and give various affirmative responses.
“So you don’t have your colors yet?” The boy on the left reaffirms softly. Race must shake his head because the kid continues, “But don’t you have a boyfriend?” Spot can see the other two perk up at that.
“Yeah!” One says, “That guy who always brings you lunch!” The other two nod.
“You always look at him like you’re in lo-ove,” one teases. Race laughs again and Spot’s heart skips a beat. Of course Race is laughing, because the idea of them dating is laughable. He’s the only one who brings Race lunch, so they have to be talking about him. It hurts, to know that Race thinks the idea of them together is so ridiculous, but at least he knows the answer to “are they dating”. Except maybe he doesn’t, because Race responds:
“Yeah, I guess you could say he’s my boyfriend,” and Spot’s mind is reeling as Race says, “We’ve been dating for a few months.” Spot wracks his brain for anyone else that they could be talking about, literally anyone , and comes up empty. Race said they’re dating. All these dinners and gifts and quality time has been Race wooing him, and it worked, and Spot didn’t even know it. They’re dating, which means Race likes him, like, like-likes him; and Spot has been agonizing for weeks over nothing.
“Have you kissed him yet?” One student asks, and Spot is too off his rhythm to figure out which one is talking. He’s thinking of flowers and hand holding and how he’s an idiot for not realizing sooner.
“Yeah,” Race responds, melancholy nipping at his tone. And the students are asking a question and Race is explaining that soulmates aren’t everything and Race is an idiot too, because they’ve never kissed and god, they’re just perfect for each other aren’t they? Two absolute idiots dancing around each other for years, a tango of unnecessarily ridiculous proportions, all because Race likes to get drunk and kiss everyone but him.
“Race, you are so fucking dumb,” he blurts out, feet carrying him across the room, hands dropping bags of food on desks, “ We are so fucking dumb.” He gives a laugh, maybe a little hysterical, and the students part like a tiny Red Sea to let Spot approach the desk. He’s so preoccupied with Race that he doesn’t realize all their faces silently scream “holy shit”.
“We’ve never kissed,” Spot says, coming to a stop right in front of the desk. Race sits up, brow furrowing.
“We must have kissed,” Race insists, “I’ve kissed all my friends.” Spot shakes his head, smile spreading across his face.
“Except me,” Spot replies, excitement bubbling up in his stomach like butterflies, like bird wings, like years of longing bursting out at once.
“Spot,” Race says his name like a prayer, standing from his chair. Spot grabs him by his stupid short sleeved button-up in goddamn winter and Race’s hands tangle in Spot’s not-much-more-sensible leather jacket. They stare each other down, breathing growing more ragged by the second. Finally, finally, fifteen years finally, they lean in.
When they part, Spot hears cheering alongside the roaring in his ears.
Race’s eyes are blue.