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The first night wasn’t really out of the ordinary. Race had gotten an hour or so in before his father came in with a belt and he let out a scream, jolting forward in his bed, breath ragged. Thankfully, the scream didn’t continue after he woke up like it sometimes did, but it shook him up pretty bad and he ended up sitting out on the fire escape until the sun started rising. Jack came down around that time and he’d tear Race a new one if he found out he hadn’t slept.
The second night didn’t bother him much either. Tired as he was from selling and hauling ass back from Brooklyn, sometimes sleep just wasn’t in the cards for him and he ended up walking over to the bridge and watching the water for a while. The bulls weren’t out past midnight usually and he knew well enough which parts of town to avoid after dark. It was nice actually. His head was buzzing a little, but the water looked awful pretty.
Crutchie and Albert gave him a glance or two throughout the day if he started to sway on his feet a little, Jack had definitely tried to corner him once he got back to the lodging house, but one of the younger newsies walked in right after him with a busted lip and a black eye, so he got himself out of the spotlight for pretty much the rest of the night.
The third night was bad though. He almost never got to the third night. And he’d actually never gotten to the third day until that next morning.
And predictably, he never made it out of Brooklyn.
“Pape, sir?”
What turned out to definitely be a woman scoffed at him and rushed down the street, leaving Race kicking himself with twenty papes left and an half an hour before he had to start for the bridge.
With a yawn, he stumbled toward Sheepshead’s main gate. He was really dead on his feet. That was the fifth or sixth time that day he’d screwed up a sale, his words kept coming out jumbled and slow. Honest to god he probably sounded drunk, felt a little like he was drunk too. The ground kept shifting when he walked.
Be really couldn’t afford to be short today, so he picked up the pace. If he caught a couple people leaving the seven o’clock race he might finish solid; the odds had been damn good and a good amount of people should be making a profit.
“Sir, would ya-”
A hand clamped down on Race’s shoulder, and the guy he’d been trying to sell to’s eyes widened before he darted off.
He took a swing before he’d even fully turned around.
“What the fuck-”
At this point Race realized all too late that Spot had the grip on his shoulder and his mind was moving way too sluggish too to have any sort of grace in backing off. Spot had dodged the shot anyway.
“Jesus fuckin’ christ Racer,” Spot breathed out, “ya tryna kill me or somethin’?”
He allowed a rare laugh that he would have turned into a snarl for anybody else, but Race was still reeling and the rush of adrenaline popped stars behind his eyes.
Spot caught at the glazed look in his eyes and dropped the half smile in a second, taking a step forward. “Aye, ya doin’ okay? Ya don’t look so good.”
“Yeah, I uh,” Race could actually feel his brain buzzing after seventy two hours of running on high and it fucking hurt, “I’m good, little tired I guess.”
Spot didn’t look like he believed him and Race forced a smirk.
“Don’t get used to catchin’ me off guard like that, I got them cat reflexes.”
Spot’s frown lessened and he rocked back on his heels for a second, while Race tried not to let his eyelids fall shut like they desperately wanted to. He needed to get home first. Back to Manhattan.
“Dead cat reflexes.”
The deadpan got a burst of nervous laughter out of Race and Spot looked fully relaxed, slinging an arm around Race’s shoulder and started walking them toward the gate. “But even a dead cat coulda’ sold the rest of ya papes, huh hotshot?”
“Shut it,” Race quipped. Spot’s side pressed against his was warm and he was focusing really hard on putting one foot in front of the other. “All’a them in Brooklyn is broke and outta luck, you’se lucky i keep sellin’ on this side a’ the bridge.”
“Aw you’se a shit liar, Manhattan, we both know why ya keep comin’ back,” Spot drawled. He ruffled Race’s hair, the contact was soft unexpected. Spot must’ve had a real great selling day or something, he was never this affection in public, even if it was innocent.
He started rubbing circles in Race’s shoulder with his thumb though, and Race knew he was talking, but everything started to sound muffled and far away.
“Fuck.”
Spot stopped and looked over at Race, frown decorating his face. “What’s a’ matter?”
The scene around Spot’s head started getting dark and fuzzy, creeping up to cover more and more of his vision. Knees buckling, he opened his mouth to get something out, but couldn’t make the words.
He was just so tired.
Everything was black and a distant pain shot through his head, but it faded along with everything else in seconds. And he was gone.
The first thing Race tried to do was sit up. He didn’t know where he was, and he couldn’t really remember anything past Spot leading him toward the gate at Sheepshead. He’d passed out, probably.
“Stay down, dumbass.”
Race’s back slammed down onto a thin mattress and he formed a thin smile while his eyes adjusted to the dark of the room. “You’se so romantic sometimes, ya know that?”
He couldn’t really see yet, but he was pretty sure Spot rolled his eyes.
“And you’se stupid all the time,” he growled out. “When was the last time ya got any sleep? Passin’ out in the fuckin’ street like an idiot, Higgins, god.”
There was an edge in his voice but Race knew him well enough to catch the concern as well. “It’s been a couple days, Spotty, ya know I have trouble sleepin’ sometimes.”
Spot exhaled and nodded in the dim room, his room presumably, it was small and there wasn’t another bed in sight. And it had to be past midnight, with the moonlight coming through the window he could guess, Jack would have his ass when he got back.
As if reading his mind, Spot looked from Race to the window and back again, and said, “I already sent one of my boys to ‘Hattan to let Jackie know you’d be sleepin’ here.”
“Aw well I hope ya didn’t say it like that.” Race smiled and rubbed at his eyes. “We wouldn’t want anyone gettin’ the wrong idea, would we?”
This time Spot settled for shoving him over to the other side of the bed. “Shut your mouth once and a while, I betcha you’d sleep better if ya weren’t runnin’ it day and night.”
Race let out a low chuckle and grazed his fingers over his forehead, hissing when he made contact with a bump; he must over hit his head awful hard when he went down. He hated not remembering that stuff.
“Hit ya head on the curb, it ain’t bad, just gonna be sore for a while.”
Turning his head, Race’s just barely smiled. Spot was burrowed in the blanket next to him. Without a thought, he turned and moved in so that his head rested underneath Spot’s chin. “Been hurt worse, s’okay.”
Spot mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a ‘dumbass’ and Race started to feel his own breathing start to even out in time with Spot’s. He was still so tired.
He grabbed Spot’s hand clumsily and burrowed deeper into his side. Everything was starting to feel soft in his head again.
And this time he didn’t fall down in the street like an idiot. His sleep was blissfully dreamless. And he was so warm.