Chapter Text
If you asked Tony Higgins how he thought things were going with Spot Conlon, he’d probably freeze, then blush, then glare at you (if your name happens to be Albert DaSilva) and then say ‘pretty fast’. Because it’s been 10 days since they had their first ‘conversation’, a week since they made out under the bleachers at a football game and 2 days since they had sex in the back of a Toyota in an empty parking lot - talk about romantic.
And now he, Antonio Higgins, is going on a date, with THE Spot Conlon. He really can’t believe it.
-
“How do I look?” he asks for the third time, adjusting his hair in the mirror again.
Beside him, his best friend sighs. “I told you before. But if ya really wanna hear it again: you look weird.”
Tony kinda agrees - he normally wears ratty old jeans and t-shirts, or his track jersey if it’s a good day (or rather, a warm day), yet now he’s wearing new, clean jeans and Jack’s fancy blue shirt.
“Don’t be mean, Al - you look good, Tony,” Crutchie assures him with his signature smile which helps to put the Italian boy at ease as he wrestles his ungodly curls.
“Yeah! Real fancy!” Romeo chimes in with an adorable grin that boosts Tony’s self-esteem tenfold. He can do this. It’s just a date…….with Spot Conlon.
He closes his eyes for a second, hearing the boys move around (and Crutchie’s sticks clunking around). When he opens them again, Albert is still sat on the couch, staring at him with an unreadable look. Tony sighs. “What now, Al?”
“Nothing. I’m just….curious. Do you really like him?”
“I don’t know!” he says, throwing his hands up in the air. “That’s why I agreed to go on a date! If he turns out to be an asshole or, well, not my type, then we’ll leave it at that.”
Albert is quiet for a second, something that has only started occurring since Tony got involved with the short Brooklyn boy (another reason to date him, perhaps). “Well, if you don’t know if you like him yet, why’d ya sleep with him?”
“I...don’t know, Al,” he repeats, a little quieter. “I guess I’m just...messed up.”
His best friend scoffs lightly, but he’s smiling a little. “Ain’t we all, Tony. Ain’t we all.”
-
Jack Kelly sits on the steps of Kloppman’s Home for Boys, pencil tucked behind his ear and a scowl on his face. His eyes narrow as an unfamiliar car pulls up, and an all-too-familiar boy steps out.
“Conlon,” he greets tersely, standing up.
“Kelly,” the stockier boy greets back, just as confident.
Jack has never considered himself above Spot - equal at most - but right now, he has the higher ground. “I think you and I should have a little talk.” It’s not a suggestion.
“Alright, but make it quick.” Spot isn’t dumb; the look on his face is stoic but his eyes give away his nerves.
Jack folds his arms. “You know I see Tony as my little brother - all of these boys are my brothers, but Tony especially.” The shorter boy merely nods, mirroring the Manhattan boy’s stance. “Good, that means you know the drill: if you hurt him, I’ll make sure you’ll wish you’d never laid eyes on that boy. Got it?”
“We’re on the same page, Kelly. I wanna hurt Race- uh, Tony - no more than I wanna hurt any of my boys. I don’t make promises lightly, but I promise I’ll take good care of him.”
Jack pauses for a moment to consider and then nods. He spits in his palm and offers his hand to Spot. The other boy grins and does the same, and they shake on it.
Then, the door to the home opens, and there is Tony, with a crowd of about 7 boys behind him, all trying to get a read on the situation. Tony is visibly nervous.
Turning on his heel, Jack walks back to the bottom of the steps, waiting for the curly-haired boy to meet him.
“Have fun, Race,” he teases, grinning as the other boy blushes.
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll see you later,” he responds quietly. Jack stops him with a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up. “Yeah, Jack?”
The taller boy grinned. “Use protection.”
“Oh my god, Jack!”