Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~_~_~_~

The week after the strike, all the leaders gather together at Medda’s for, as Dave is calling it, the Annual Newsboys of New York Union Meeting. They’re supposed to discuss an agenda, office terms, dues, and other very important union business. They’re supposed to be an exceptional group of young men who are laying the groundwork for future generations.

Spot doesn’t know why Dave seems surprised that none of that is happening.

“Did you try the punch, Davey?” Jack asks from his apparent new favorite position; draped over Dave like a cloak, chin digging into the meat of Dave’s left shoulder and arms wrapped around his chest.

“No,” Dave answers. He looks a little uncomfortable to Spot, like maybe Jack is too heavy for him or something. “But I’m getting the sense that maybe you’ve had too much.”

Jack laughs, like Dave is the most humorous person he’s ever met. “You’s so funny, Dave.”

Spot watches as the younger boy carefully extracts himself from Jack’s hold and lowers him down into the nearest chair. “I’m going to go get some water, okay? Will you watch him, Spot?” He backs away a little hesitantly at first and then, when Spot waves in approval, he darts off and returns with a glass of water and some crackers.

“Here we go, pal,” he says, helping Jack take a drink.

“You’s lucky Jacky-boy is such an easy going drunk,” Spot informs Dave. “Most fellas’d be taking a swing at you by now.”

Dave glares at Spot even as Jack’s eyes go wide and alarmed. “I’d never hurt Davey,” he cries around a mouthful. “Not ever!” He turns his attention from Spot to Dave with the sudden, desperate urgency that only drunks seem to feel. “You knows I’d never hurt you, right, Davey?” 

“Of course I know that, Jacky,” the boy assures over the sounds of Spot’s laughter.

Spot wanders off after that, first checking in with his Brooklyn boys and then going to find Race. He finds him, predictably, at a table setting up a game of cards and he sits up in excitement when he sees Spot heading towards him. He waves enthusiastically and Spot waves back, settling down beside the shorter boy once he makes his way through the crowd.

“Wanna play with us?” Race asks, words slurred to almost unintelligible between his drunken lisp and his ever present, unlit cigar.

Spot hates gambling on principle but he shrugs anyways. “Sure. What’s the game?”

“Four card poker,” Race says excitedly and starts dealing. “It’s real easy, Spot, you’ll catch on.”

Race wins the first two games easily enough and Spot can’t help but bask in the warmth of a happy Racetrack Higgins. Sometime around the third game, Dave makes his way towards the table looking bored. Over in the corner, Spot can see Jack stretched out on the floor sleeping, Dave’s jacket spread out as a makeshift blanket. He leans against the back of Spot’s chair to inspect the game. “How’s it going?”

From across the table, Race smiles wide. “I’s clearing ‘em out, Mouth!” He declares excitedly.

Dave eyes the pile of peanut shells in front of Race. “I see that.”

“It’s bull shit, Mouth,” Spot grumbles playfully. “Don’t know why I ever plays with him.”

He has two cards left, a three of hearts and a queen of spades. The queen would win him the hand… and, in turn, wipe the happy smile off Race’s face. So Spot throws down the three and then gives a small grunt of disappointment when he loses. Dave, over Spot’s shoulder, frowns in confusion. “Spot, why didn’t you play-?”

Spot cuts him off with an elbow to the gut. “Don’t fucking look at my hand, Jacobs,” he snaps. “Don’t you have a mother to be getting home to?”

Dave flinches back at the sudden anger. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a fucking problem,” Spot snarls. He turns his attention back to the game and ignores the Manhattan boy for the rest of the round.

When Race has cleared everybody out of peanut shells and drank maybe two or three whiskeys too many, Spot leads him over to the corner where Jack is still curled up. He carefully lowers the shorter boy down and goes to find a glass of water, only to find Dave keeping Race company when he returns. At the sight of the glass of water, Race scowls. “I don’t want that,” he insists petulantly.

“You gotta drink it, Racer,” he commands gently and holds it out.

The younger boy bats at it with floppy hands and groans loudly. “I don’t want it, Spotty,” he whines.

“Too bad,” Spot growls and keeps prodding. “You’ll have a headache tomorrow if you don’t.”

Dave smiles at Spot like he’s doing something cute, which makes Spot want to punch Dave right in his know-it-all face. “He’s right, Racetrack, just drink the water.”

“Don’t need ya help, Mouth,” Spot mutters even as the drunk boy between them manages to slosh some of the water all over the table.

Dave hides his laugh in the crook of his arm. “You sure?” He asks after another few minutes of watching the struggle.

“Oh, fine!” Spot throws his hands up in defeat. “I’ll hold him, you gets the fucking water down his fucking throat.”

Between the two of them, they eventually manage to get Race to drink some water and then settle him in next to Jack where he immediately starts snoring. Spot can’t help but stare at Race, sprawled out and peaceful looking in sleep where he’s always a bouncing ball of energy awake. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, reaches out and tidies a few of Race’s stray curls. He frowns at the disobedient limb and tucks it into his pocket after that but when he looks up, Mouth has a strange expression on his face.

“You got something to say, Mouth?” He snaps, because Dave always has been too smart for his own good.

The taller boy shrugs and points to the door to the roof top exit. “Want to go smoke with me?”

Spot shifts on his feet a little awkwardly, caught off guard by the question. “Didn’t know you smoked,” he says, confused.

“I don’t,” Dave admits. “But you do and you look like you could use it.”

Spot scowls but follows Dave anyways, only sparing one more look towards the sleeping Race behind them. The roof is empty and the night breeze is blowing the muggy August heat away and while Spot strikes up a match and paces, Dave stretches out on an empty crate. “Smoking seems like a real inconvenient habit,” he points out, once Spot’s cigarette is halfway gone.

“Well, I lives a real inconvenient life,” Spot counters, feeling a lot calmer now that the nicotine is hitting his system.

Dave laughs at that. “You got me there.”

“So, why’d you drag me up here, Mouth?” Spot asks, settling down on the rooftop. “I knows you don’t care ‘bout me smoking.”

Dave sighs and drops down from the crate to join Spot on the floor. “I… Race and Jack are a lot alike, don’t you think?” He fidgets with a loose string in his sleeve.

Spot frowns and shakes his head. “Jack is a blow hard who don’t got enough brain cells to button his own pants,” he grunts. “And Race is-” Perfect. “-smart as hell. The only thing they have in common is that they thinks they can help every sorry sack in this city with a plucky attitude and a rousing speech.”

Dave laughs again, hard enough that he can’t quite speak. Most people don’t laugh around Spot -whether because they’re intimidated by him or because they just don’t find him funny, he’s not sure- and Spot has to admit to himself that he likes somebody getting his jokes. Once Dave calms down enough to speak, he nods in agreement. “I guess you’re right. Maybe it’s… you and me who are a lot alike.”

“We’s even less so. You couldn’t soak an alley cat.” And Spot couldn’t finish a book if he was payed, but he doesn’t really think he needs to point that part out.

“Maybe not the soaking thing,” Dave admits. “But I was thinking more about how… Well, like you said. Jack and Race both ‘do’ before they think, you know? And it seems like we’re always around to stop them from getting themselves into too much trouble.”

Spot rolls his eyes and picks up a rock to fidget with. “What’s ya fucking point, Mouth?” He snaps a little defensively.

Dave squirms a little and turns his attention towards the moon. “Guess my point is that it’s hard enough being a queer, seems unfair we both got stuck falling in love with such dumb asses.”

“What the fuck did you just say?!”

Spot, before Dave has time to even process what is going on, is up and wrestling Dave to the ground in an instant. Over the pounding of his own heart, he can hear Dave yelping in shock but he ignores it and presses his skinny forearm hard against Dave’s throat. The younger boy scrambles to gain purchase but Spot doesn’t even wince when his blunt nails dig into his skin. He doesn’t feel it; all he can feel is fear. Fear that Dave knows, that somebody knows what he is, what’s wrong with him. He pushes down the fear to make room for anger and gets his face right up in Dave’s, teeth barred.

“You go ‘round running ya trap like that, you better be ready to handle the consequences, Mouth.” He pushes down a little harder and can see a flicker of fear in Dave’s eye when his air supply is cut off. “I’s gonna let you up and you better have a good fucking excuse.”

“Okay, okay,” Dave mouths and nods frantically.

Spot releases the boy and leans back and, as Dave starts sputtering and choking in air, he squints at him. “So?”

And maybe Spot shouldn’t have told Dave that he’s too smart for his own good so many times, because the boy apparently feels the need to live up to his reputation. “I see the way you look at Racetrack. I know what that feels like.” When Spot moves to lunge forward again, Dave scurries back on his elbows. “Wait, just hear me out!”

“What’s you got to say that you hasn’t already said?!” Spot spits. He tries to sound intimidating but he can hear the shake in his own voice.

Dave smiles sadly at him. “I just thought it’d be nice- you know, to know that we’re going through the same thing.”

“Is that what you school boys does?” Spot questions angrily. “Talk ‘bout things that could get you carted off to jail? Or killed?”

The Manhattan boy shakes his head. “No, Spot. Mostly queer school boys kiss in the supply closet and try not to get caught. Is that not what queer newsies do?” He asks it sarcastically but Spot feels a blush rise to his cheeks all the same. Dave notices and frowns. “Wait… have you not had a first kiss yet?”

“Don’t see how that’s none of ya business,” he snaps defensively.

Dave shrugs a little and rubs the back of his neck. “That’s fine, if you haven’t. I’ve only kissed two people before. Supply closets aren’t exactly romantic.”

Spot feels himself shrink up a little, skinny frame feeling smaller than usual in his discomfort. “It’s just that I’s never met no one I wanted to kiss before, ‘sides Race. It’s only ever been Race for me, Mouth. I don’t even think of myself as queer, really. There’s just Race.”

Dave’s lips twist to the side. “Don’t you wonder what it’s like?” He asks, making some kind of vague hand gesture.

“Sure, but… never mind. Is we done here, Mouth?” Spot feels defeated in a way the King of Brooklyn never should and Dave -too smart for his own good Dave- scooches closer to wrap an arm around his shoulder.

When he speaks, his voice is possibly the gentlest tone that Spot can remember being addressed with. “It’s hard, Conlon, but somebody’s got to love those two numb skulls down there. Just don’t see why we got stuck with it though.”

“What’s that word?” He remembers Dave saying something once that reminds him of their situation. “For when, if you does something good, good stuff happens but if you does something bad, bad stuff happens?”

Dave laughs and nods. “Karma. Yeah, maybe we’ve got bad karma, Spot.” When he lets his arm fall away, Spot bumps their shoulders together in comradery.

“Karma,” He repeats.

They sit in silence after that and Spot thinks about what Dave had said. He thinks about how much he loves Race and, now that he has something to compare it to, he can connect all the little things that Dave is always doing or saying around Jack with the same utter devotion. He’s tried to imagine kissing Race before but it’s a little hard to build fantasies off of something you’ve only ever heard about. He looks over at Dave beside him who’s stretched out with his arms under his head, eyes glazed over in thoughts probably the same as Spot’s. He’s hit with what is probably a horrible idea but, hey, he never said he was the smart one here.

He reaches out a hand and fists it into Dave’s tie, which makes the younger boy frown. “What- mmph!”

Dave kisses the same way Dave does everything, Spot quickly realizes; hesitantly at first and then with whole-hearted commitment once he’s sure of what’s going on. His hands move to gently frame Spot’s face and, in return, Spot shifts his weight so each of his wiry thighs find their way to either side of Dave’s torso. He doesn’t particularly enjoy it; doesn’t like the way Dave’s hands and lips are soft and gentle. Race would kiss with far more passion, he’s sure. Race would take what he wanted as it struck his fancy and fight Spot every step of the way. A kiss is a kiss though, and Spot commits to it.

When he pulls away, Dave is as breathless as he’d been after the chokehold earlier. “Did you hear something?” He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest.

”No,” Spot pants. He doubts he’d be able to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. Once they both catch their breath, he hums in contemplation. “Would’ve been better with Tony,” he all but whispers.

Dave can only nod. “Yeah. Jack, too,” he whispers back.

“Let’s go check on them,” he suggests and pushes to his feet. He holds out a hand to Dave and the boy grabs it, leveling himself to his feet with a grunt

“You’re right. They really shouldn’t be left unsupervised this long.”

~_~_~_~

Dave very quickly finds himself with another friend. Not just an awkward acquaintanceship like he and Spot had had during the strike, but actual, genuine friendship. It isn’t uncommon for Dave to tag along with Jack on his meetings to Brooklyn or for Spot to show up for one of Race’s poker nights at Duane Street and then just… not play and instead sit off to the side with Dave to chat. They complain about both Jack and Race in depth, with grievances ranging everywhere from Jack’s stupidly perfect hair to how Race’s laugh is the most beautiful sound in the world.

“And then,” Spot is saying on a particularly chilly afternoon in October. “Get this, Mouth; and then, the little fucker jumps off the railing and into the hay wagon. So now we have the butcher boy chasing us, the dairy girl chasing him, and the hay wagon driver is yelling at Race to get out.”

Dave is laughing so hard he has to clutch his side. “So what’d you do?!”

“I followed him, of course,” Spot says dismissively.

Dave rolls his eyes. “I know you followed him. I meant how’d you get away from the butcher boy?” He prompts, wiping at the tears of laughter in his eyes.

“Right. So, I says to Race ‘was you flirting with her or not?’ and you knows what the shit said to me, Mouth?” Spot doesn’t wait for Dave to answer, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “He says ‘talking ain’t illegal, Spotty, even if she’s engaged.’ Which means-”

“He was flirting,” Dave finishes.

Spot makes another wild hand gesture. “Exactly! He only calls me Spotty when he knows I’ll get mad. So we jumped off the wagon and booked it to that market on Seventeenth and was able to lose them in the crowd.”

Dave shakes his head and shoots a look over at Jack and Race who are both frolicking around in the rain outside with some littles, splashing in puddles like children. “It’s a wonder how they survive when we’re not around, isn’t it?” He sits up a little straighter and rubs his hands together.

“Cold as hell’s bells, ain’t it?” Spot comments when he sees the movement. “Wanna go inside and get warmed up?”

Dave looks over at Jack, currently rolling around in the mud with Les wrapped around one leg and Snipes around the other, and Race, who’s throwing a Brooklyn little that tagged along with Spot this afternoon up into the air. “Sure.”

The pair make their way into the lodge and creep past Kloppman’s office, past the bedroom, and into the laundry room where Spot collapses onto a pile of sheets with a sigh. “Yesterday Racer told me I’d have beautiful children,” Spot confides in Dave without preamble.

“Jack pulled my chair out for me at Jacobi’s this morning,” Dave matches. “And he didn’t even seem to notice that it was weird.”

“That’s ‘cause Jack’s a moron,” Spot tells him.

Dave swings at him half-heartedly. “At least my moron didn’t tell me he thought I’d have beautiful babies.”

Spot throws his arms into the air in exasperation. “He won’t stop talking ‘bout my future wife, Mouth, it’s ridiculous.” He kicks his legs in a childish show up frustration and Dave laughs at him.

“I don’t even know what to say to that,” he says.

“’Cause there ain’t nothing to say! He’s never gonna like me back!” Spot sits up and huffs. “It’s too fucking bad I ain’t smitten on you, Mouth. Has you tried being less of an obnoxious know-it-all?”

Dave protests, offended. “Maybe you should try being less of an aggressive dick and I’d think about it.”

Both boys glare at each other but Spot gives in first. “I don’t even think you’s that handsome,” he mutters into his lap.

“You’re too short.”

“You’s too tall.”

“You’re too blond.”

“You laugh like a grandmother with a cold,” Spot snaps.

Dave laughs -not at all like a grandmother with a cold, thank you very much- and admits defeat. “You’re not Jack.”

“And you’s not Race,” Spot replies, quietly. After a beat, he bites his lips and looks away. “Our lives suck.”

Dave pats the shorter boy on the shoulder and stands. “At least they’re our friends?” He offers, a little weak but none the less genuine.

“Sure,” Spot agrees, because that’s the whole point of these conversations.

He grabs a handful of towels and Dave mimics the gesture and they leave the closet, making their way back down to the front door to wait. When the other boys come back inside, soaked and shivering, they pass the towels out and take turns scolding all the boys who come in with wet clothes. Dave watches as Spot grabs a dripping wet Race up by the collar and drags him off somewhere to berate in private and is only pulled back to reality when a cold hand presses against his neck.

He yelps and slaps at the hand which, unsurprisingly, turns out to be attached to Jack. “Have fun?” He asks, annoyed.

Jack smile unapologetically. “What’s wrong, Davey, don’t like the cold?”

“Not when I was smart enough to stay inside,” he points out even as he shucks off his coat and holds it out. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

Jack takes the coat but hands it off to Snipes behind him. “I’s just gonna go climb into bed. Wanna come chat with me ‘fore you and Les have to take off?” He waits, eager eyed, and Dave nods even though he knows it’s a bad idea.

In the bedroom, he watches Jack undress and change into his long johns before hopping into his warm bad. “So what’d you and Spot talk ‘bout?”

“Just stuff,” Dave says evasively as he sets himself on the foot of the bed.

Jack squirms under his blankets until his feet are in Dave’s lap. “You two’s sure been spending lots of time together,” Jack mutters, tone a little sullen.

“Yeah, well,” Dave defends. “It’s not like he’s got many friends, you know?”

“’Cause he’s a dick,” Jack points out with raised eyebrows.

Dave shrugs and then puts his hands behind his back when he realizes he’s subconsciously stroking the callus on Jack’s ankle. The other boy doesn’t seem to mind but Dave still feels a blush pull at his cheeks. “Sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

Jack sits up on his elbows and stares at the other boy. “You’s been acting a little weird lately, Davey.”

“No, I haven’t,” Dave protests. “I’ve been totally normal.”

“Normal’s sudective,” Jack declares wisely.

That makes Dave laugh a little, which he suspects was Jack’s goal. “It’s ‘subjective’, Jacky,” he corrects.

Jack shrugs but smiles widely. “How’s’a ‘bout you and me go to Medda’s tomorrow? Through the front door and everything? Ya birthday’s coming up, it can be my present.”

“I don’t know if…” Jack pouts a little and Dave sighs. “Okay, yeah. That sounds wonderful, Jacky.”

The smile he gets in return is blinding and Dave thinks it’s really unfair that Jack can manipulate him so easily when he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. He supposes that’s just how love goes, though, and he ends up waiting on the fire escape the next night for Jack dressed in his nicest jacket and with his shoes shined. Jack shows up almost ten minutes early and he smiles and climbs the fire escape with enviable grace, sticking his head into the window to say hello to the other Jacobs before grabbing Dave by the wrist and tugging him off.

“You’s looking very dapper this evening, Davey,” he says once they’re both on the ground.

Dave shrugs and wills his heart to slow. “Thanks. I’d tell you the same but I’m sure you had at least three girls let you know on your walk here.”

“Well, maybe I did,” Jack says with a wink. “It’s still nice to hear from you, though,” he adds and then stops walking and holds his arms out to the side. “What’s you think, Davey, is I dapper or what?”

“Of course you is- are,” Dave manages around a sticky throat.

It’s the right answer, apparently, because Jack bounds forward and throws an arm around Dave’s shoulder. “Thanks, pal,” he says in his easy, happy way.

As they walk down the familiar streets, Dave narrates his day at school to Jack, telling him about everything from his studies -neutral to interesting- to his classmates -neutral to bastards- and his homework. Jack prompts him every few minutes with observations or comments but mostly stays silent, content as always to let Dave ramble. “And then Peterson, he’s the one with the brother who’s a doctor, he said that women poop babies out. Can you believe that, Jacky?”

“Sure can,” Jack answers. “He’s sounds like he’s got a box of rocks for brains.”

“Exactly!” Dave all but shouts, worked up from his own story.

Jack smiles at him and dips his head. “So what’d you say?” He asks.

Dave jumps back into the story and is just getting to the good part when he sees a familiar pair of bodies pushing through the crowd on the opposite side of the street. Spot and Race are walking close, heads bent, a happy smile on Race’s face and a smitten one on Spot’s, through the evening dinner rush. Dave points them out to Jack instantly and starts crossing the street without thinking. “Heya, Racer! Spot!” He calls out, ignoring Jack’s protest and catching the pair’s attention.

“Heya, Mouth,” Spot calls back, even as Race frowns at him. That makes Dave hesitate. Race never looks unhappy to see Dave. Race never looks unhappy to see anybody, actually.

Once he reaches the pair, Jack a step behind him, he smiles despite the nag of anxiety in his chest that he’s done something to offend Race. “What’re you fellas doing?”

“Headed to the bar,” Spot explains. “My favorite band is playing at George’s.”

Jack, at Dave’s shoulder, nods a little frantically. “That sounds fun. Come on, Davey, we’ll be late for Medda’s show.” Jack gives Dave a little tug but he ignores the taller boy.

“Say, Racer, Spot, do you two want to come to Medda’s with us?” Dave gestures over his shoulder in the direction of the theatre.

Spot looks down at Race in question. “Does you wanna go, Racer? I knows how much more you like Medda’s than George’s.”

“No!” Jack snaps, voice a little short. When all three of the other boys look at him, he winces. “I just meant… Well, you can come if you wants, course, just seems a shame to miss ya favorite band.”

Dave can tell that something is off here and a quick glance at Spot confirms it. They look at each other and both turn to inspect their respective fellas with suspicion. Race -friendly, excitable Race- is shifting awkwardly on his feet and huddling deep into his coat, not looking anyone in the eye. And Jack, the most easy-going person Dave has ever met, is glaring at Spot like he’s the enemy. Dave gets a feeling that Race and Jack have concocted up some kind of scheme which he knows, from experience, is nothing good.

“Well, why don’t we join them at the bar then?” Dave asks Jack, crossing his arms and waiting.

Jack, street smart in ways Dave will never be, obviously senses the trap. “Fine,” he snaps and wraps a hand around Race’s arm. “Come on, Race, let’s take Spot and Dave to the god damned bar, yeah?”

“Sure,” Race says simply, tugging himself free from the older boy’s grip. “Come on, Spotty.”

Spot starts to follow, tailed by Dave and then by Jack, confusion clear on his face. “Whatever you wants, Racer.”

“Yeah, this is exactly want I want,” Race mumbles.

By the time the group reaches the bar, all four of them are in foul moods. Dave because he doesn’t like being confused, Spot because he doesn’t like not being in control, and Jack and Race because they clearly didn’t want this night to end up this way. Only Dave can’t figure out what’s wrong with the night. The four of them hang out all the time and they always have fun. The only thing that seems different about tonight is that it wasn’t planned. The band is good, though, and when Dave offers to buy Jack a beer, the boy accepts.

About halfway through the night, Jack excuses himself to the restroom and then Race, a minute later, says he has to go smoke. That leaves Spot and Dave alone and the pair quickly stoops close. “Does you have any idea what’s going on?” Spot questions, obviously irritated.

“No!” Dave all but shouts. “They’re both acting weird!”

“Even weirder than normal,” Spot agrees.

Dave looks around before lowering his voice. “You don’t think that maybe they… know?”

Spot shakes his head. “No way,” he assures. “If they knew we was queer for ‘em, they wouldn’t be working so hard to get alone with us,” he points out.

“Unless they want to let us down gently.” The seed of anxiety in his chest has been growing all night and his breathing starts to grow a little labored. “Hell, Spot, they must know.”

“Hey, hey, hey, take it easy, Mouth,” Spot instructs and starts pushing Dave up and out of the bar.

They make it to the back alley before Dave caves to the pressure in his throat and starts sucking in air that doesn’t seem to reach his lungs. “Shit, Spot! Shit!”

Spot, good in a fight but completely unprepared for Dave’s special brand of panic, wraps a skinny arm around the taller boy. “Just breathe, Mouth, in and out,” he commands.

“I’m trying,” Dave spits out. “It’s not that easy!”

“It’s breathing! You do it in ya sleep!” Spot is starting to look alarmed and Dave has to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid the judgmental stare he’s getting.

After a few more moments without progress, Spot pulls Dave in for a full bodied hug. “Come on, Mouth, you’s gotta relax.”

“That’s not helping!” Dave exclaims but buries his head in the shorter boy’s neck anyway, trying to focus on the contrast of the cold fall breeze on one cheek and the body heat of his friend on the other. Just as Dave thinks he’s starting to get himself under control, a familiar voice in an unfamiliar tone shatters whatever calm he’d managed to get ahold of.

“What the hell is going on here?” Jack snaps. He is striding down the alley, Race at his side, and he’s staring at Spot with pure disdain. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Spot leans away from Dave, relief on his face. “Jack, you gotta calm him down-”

Crack!

The sound of Jack’s fist slamming into Spot’s nose echoes around the alley, louder than Spot’s grunt of pain, Race’s swear of shock, or Dave’s scared gasp.

“What the fuck, Cowboy?” Race shouts at the same time that Spot leaps onto the taller boy.

They start to tussle and it’s like nothing that Dave has ever seen. They’re both vicious and strong and it takes him and Race both to separate them. Dave manages to get his arms around Jack’s torso and he yanks with all his strength, managing to get the taller boy against the alley wall. Spot is still on the ground, pinned there by a flailing Race, and the small back street is loud with all four of their shouts.

“Everybody relax!” Dave shouts for what must be the dozenth time.

Jack, still fighting against him, shakes his head. “Not ‘til I teach that little punk to keep his hands to himself!”

“We wasn’t doing nothing!” Spot spits back. “He was having one of his panic fits and you wasn’t around!”

Race, struggling to contain the Brooklyn boy, grunts. “You could’ve come and found us,” he points out.

“Maybe he would have, if you hadn’t been such dicks all evening,” Dave snarls, unfamiliar anger breaking loose.

Under his hold, Jack stops straining to get free. “Shit, Davey, I- I’s sorry, I didn’t mean to- Aw, hell, Davey, I’s real sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Race bites back. “Sorry we walked in on them kissing?”

Spot goes completely still underneath the shorter boy. “Did you just say you thinks me and Mouth was… kissing?”

“Well wasn’t yous?” Jack sneers. “You two’s’ve been kissing for weeks! Ever since that union party at Medda’s in August!” His words shock Dave so much that his hands go loose and limp and Jack shrugs them off but stays where he is against the wall. “Me and Race saw you on the roof. You thinks we didn’t know where you’s been going all the time? Every time you sneaks off together and come back all smiley?!” His anger cracks and gives way to sadness; sadness that tugs at Dave’s heart.

He sees the beginning of tears forming in Jack’s eyes and he raises a hand to wipe at them but then pulls his hand back, unsure if the touch will be welcome. “Jacky, that’s not it,” he tries to explain softly.

Race snorts and climbs off Spot, patting down his trousers for dirt in apparent disinterest. “Sure, Dave. You’s so smart, guess we don’t know nothing at all. I’s leaving. See you fellas later.”

“Wait, Racer- Tony, stop!” Spot scrambles up and, when Race doesn’t break stride on his path out of the alley, he shoots an apologetic look at Dave. “Mouth, I gotta explain, I’s sorry-”

“It’s fine, just go,” Dave assures him and watches as Spot takes off after the other boy.

That leaves just Dave and Jack in the alley and the younger boy doesn’t know what to say or do but he can’t figure out where to start. It’s Jack who eventually breaks the silence, voice a little wet sounding but tears still unfallen. “I’s… not mad at you or nothing, Davey. I just want to be ya friend.”

Dave shakes his head a little. “But Spot and I haven’t been- We only kissed that one time, Jacky. I didn’t even like it,” he admits, giving a self-depreciating smile.

“Oh,” Jack says and looks down at his boots. “So you don’t like kissing fellas?” His voice is weak. “Guess that makes sense. “

“Makes sense-? Jack, I do like kissing boys. I’m queer. I just didn’t like kissing Spot.” He trembles at saying the words out loud but he feels like if he doesn’t come clean now, things will never be the same. “I don’t want you to hate me. I promise things won’t change, we’ll just keep on being friends.”

Something he said must have gotten his point across, because Jack’s is looking at Dave with an almost... hopeful expression instead of the heartbreaking sadness that’d been in his eye moments before. “So… you’s really, actually queer? And you really, actually hasn’t been courting Spot?”

“Courting Spot? Jacky, no, he’s… well, he’s kind of a dick, you know?” He tries to make it sound like a joke and Jack laughs, a light, relieved sound.

Why would Jack be relieved that- Oh.

Dave continues, taking a step closer to the taller boy. “And he’s too short,” he continues, tilting his chin so that he can look up into Jack’s eyes. “And too blond,” he adds, running his fingers through Jack’s dark, tangled hair. “And… I think he might have a thing for Race.”

“Wait, Race- mmph!”

It’s the exact kiss that Dave has been dreaming of since the day he met Jack Kelly. It’s soft and gentle and he falls into it with enthusiasm. Where Race’s hands had been pushy and rough, Jack’s fall to Dave’s hips and rest there gently. His lips are chapped from his habit of biting them and he makes the softest, sweetest noise that Dave could have ever hoped to hear. After a few minutes, they separate just an inch and Dave lets his forehead fall to Jack’s shoulder as he struggles to regain his breath.

“How was that?” Jack whispers into his ear.

Dave laughs and hums. “Perfect. You know you’re going to have to apologize to Spot for breaking his nose, right?”

“Aw, hell.”

~_~_~_~

Spot takes off after Race, trying to ignore the blood dripping from his broken nose. He catches up with him on the next block and he hurries to block the boy’s path, hands grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket. His heart is beating so loudly in his chest that when he speaks, he can’t even hear his own voice.

“Racer,” he pants, trying to stay calm. “Racer, just stop a second!”

“Why? Does you want to tell me more ‘bout how you and Mouth’ve been kissing?” Race’s face is unfamiliar in its anger and Spot flinches away a little.

He shakes his head and nods towards the nearest alley. Race sighs and throws his hands up in defeat, following Spot until they’re hidden behind a stack of pallets. Once Spot is sure they’re alone, he reaches out a shaky hand and grabs Race’s shoulder. “Me and Mouth only ever kissed the once and it was horrible.”

Race rolls his eyes. “Only the once, huh? Then what’s you two been sneaking away for these past few weeks?” He raises his eyebrows in defiance and Spot winces.

“We’s been…” Man up, Conlon. “We’s been talking ‘bout you. I… I’s queer for you, Tony, and nobody else. Me and Mouth’s been talking ‘bout how much I lo- likes you.”

Race’s eyebrows hit his hairline in shock and he swallows. “Did you… was you ‘bout to say you love me, Sean Conlon?”

“I’d offer a free punch, but Cowboy already broke my nose. So if you’s mad, can I ask that we banks the punch for a few days?” Spot tries to smile like it doesn’t bother him but Race has always known him better than that.

He reaches out a hand and prods gently at Spot’s broken nose, causing him to hiss in pain. “The only reason I’d want to punch you, Spotty,” Race says, “is for not telling me how you felt sooner.”

And then, before Spot realizes what’s happening, they’re kissing. It hurts his nose and Race reaches up to yank on his hair so hard that it brings tears to his eyes but it’s everything he’s ever hoped for. After a few minutes of kissing, Spot sweeps Race’s legs and they both fall to the ground with twin grunts of pain but the kissing doesn’t stop. Spot remembers his kiss with Dave being tame and lack luster but with Race, it’s like fireworks under his skin. Every scratch of nails against his scalp and every nip of teeth on his lips makes him groan in pleasure.

Just as he’s considering how dangerous it would be to start undressing Race right there in the alley, he hears an awkward cough. He jerks back and Race yelps in shock and they both scramble to their feet to run- except the cough is followed by laughter.

“I sees everything worked out on ya end, Higgins,” Jack says, clearly amused by the sight.

Beside him, Dave laughs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t tease them, Jack,” he scolds.

Race, relaxing and letting one of his normal grins take over his face, nods. “Yeah, Cowboy, don’t tease us.”

“Better yet,” Spot adds, glaring. “Don’t say nothing at all, you bastard.”

“Sorry ‘bout ya nose,” Jack offers instead of rising to the bait.

Spot crosses his arms in what is most definitely not a childish manner. “I should beat ya ass for that,” he threatens. It’s an empty threat, though, and the whole group knows it.

Dave seems to think that it’s a funny thing to say and he tugs Jack’s red bandana loose from the taller boy’s neck before offering it out. “Clean yourself up and let’s get back to the lodge.”

“Actually,” Race says, slyly wrapping an arm around Spot’s waist. “I thinks me and Spotty here is gonna go back to Brooklyn tonight. Maybe swing by Sheepshead on the way, if you knows what I’m saying.”

When he wiggles his eyebrows in a clear attempt at insinuating something scandalous, Jack’s nose wrinkles up. “Ew, Racer, I don’t wanna know nothing like that,” he complains, disgusted.

Spot laughs, because anything that offends Jack pleases him, and Dave laughs, probably because he thinks Jack’s prudishness is charming or something stupid like that. The group parts ways after that and Spot allows Race to lead him over the Brooklyn Bridge and through his secret entrance to the Sheepshead stables, all the time griping and complaining about how this whole situation is somehow Spot’s fault.

“If it’s my fault for starting it, Higgins,” Spot points out as Race pushes him into a haystack. “Then I get credit for fixing it, too.”

~_~_~_~

Dave, at twenty three, like to think that he’s good at a lot of things. He’s an amazing English teacher, he can coax even the most anxious of orphans into the Duane Street Newsie Lodge, and he’s been told by multiple sources that his banana bread is the best they’ve ever had. A skill he hasn’t quite mastered, however, is mediating the blow out arguments between Jack Kelly and Sean Conlon.

“Spot, it’s Tuesday!” Jack is currently shouting as Dave walks through the door to their apartment. “Tuesday is ya day to the dishes! We all knows that!”

“I won our dice game last week! Part of the bet was you took my dishes for the week!” Spot has a dish towel raised over his head like a weapon and across from him, Jack is wielding a dirty spoon.

On the couch, clearly amused, Race waves at Dave. “Heya, Mouth.”

Dave flips the other man off and drops his briefcase onto the table. “What’s going on?” He asks wearily.

The answer he gets is an unintelligible mess of accusations and excuses and Dave pinches the bridge of his nose. “Race, you’re no help,” he says instead of addressing the actual problem.

“I know,” he admits, unrepentant. “But it’s just so much fun to let things play out naturally.”

“May I just say, Racetrack Higgins, that if you weren’t my best friend’s husband and my husband’s best friend, I don’t think I could stand living with you.”

“I know that, too.”

~_~_~_~

Chapter Text

~_~_~_~

“Jacky, I’s gonna go meet Spot, okay?” Race, tugging on his boots, can’t see the sneer on Jack’s face but he can definitely feel it.

When Jack speaks, his attitude is just as clear in his voice. “Conlon is a big boy, Racer, he don’t need you to meet him at the bridge every time he comes to Manhattan.”

Race sits up and turns so that he can glare at Jack head on. “If Spot can make his own way there ‘cause he’s a big boy, what’s that make Mouth?” He asks a little snidely.

“That’s different!” Jack protest. “Davey only lives three blocks away.”

“Three blocks in the wrong direction,” Race points out.

They’re seated on Race’s bunk which is empty, all of the other boys still out selling papers. Race, Dave, and Jack are the only three Lower Manhattan boys going to the union meeting tonight and they’d skipped the evening addition in favor of coming back to the lodge to get cleaned up. ‘Cleaned up’ is relative, of course, seeing as they both only own one pair of trousers, but Jack had insisted that it was the thought that counted. Now, shoulder to shoulder, the two boys both simultaneously check the room out of habit before bending close.

Jack’s voice is soft in Race’s ear, shaking with either excitement or nerves, Race isn’t sure which. “Does you think you’s gonna do it tonight?”

Race shrugs and fiddles with his watch. “Maybe. I don’t want him to hate me, Jacky,” the younger whispers, voice cracking.

“Don’t be like that, Racer,” Jack comforts, bumping their shoulders together. “Spot might be a dick-”

“Is not!”

“-but he’ll never hate you. You two’s best pals.”

Race squeezes his eyes shut and breathes. “If he takes a swing at me, should I let him hit me?”

“He’s not gonna hit you,” Jack says with a half-laugh. “I thought you was the- what’d Davey call it? I thought you was the optimist of our bunch.”

He peeks an eye open to glare at Jack. “I thinks this counts as a special circumstance,” he points out. “’Sides. What’s’a ‘bout you? I suppose you’s just gonna plant a big one on Mouth and tell him you want to run away to Santa Fe together?” His voice teeters on the edge of playfully sarcastic and sarcastically cruel and he winces before Jack even has the time to answer. “Sorry, Cowboy, I didn’t mean that.”

Jack shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. But… no, I ain’t putting no moves on Davey tonight. He’d probably panic. I’s gonna wait ‘til we’s alone. Find somewhere nice and private- and romantic, I bet Davey’d appreciate that.”

Race rolls his eyes. “Jesus H. Christ, you’s like one of those penny romances they sell outside hair salons.” He has to flail back a little avoid Jack’s swing.

“You and Conlon deserve each other,” he mutters sullenly.

“That’s the plan,” Race says with a grin, hoping it covers his fear. “See you tonight.”

“See you.”

Race makes it to the line of the bridge fairly early but is pleasantly surprised when Spot shows up only five minutes later, Irish skin pink in the summer heat and trademark red suspenders swinging loose around his hips. He can’t help but smirk at the sight and he elbows Spot playfully when the pair draw close, letting their bodies rest against each other for a brief moment before he pulls back.

“Looking sharp, Spot,” he jibes, prodding at the taller boy’s exposed chest. Would it kill him to button his shirt up even halfway?

Spot bats at Race’s hand and scowls. “Yeah, I’s leaving for the picture show any day now.”

Race laughs and starts walking backwards on the street so that he can face Spot as they walk; sue him, he likes the view. “Spot Conlon in the picture show, imagine that.” He makes a large dramatic hand gesture and Spot roll his eyes.

“I can’t even afford to see the pictures, let alone audition,” Spot grunts. And then- “Fucking Christ, Racer!”

Spot’s strong hands grab ahold of Race by the waist and tugs him close, just in time for Race’s foot to step off the edge of the street and into the gutter. They stumble but Spot manages to keep them upright and Race laughs at the indignant look on the taller boy’s face “What?”

“What?! Look where you’s fucking going, you bastard!” Spot snaps and smacks Race’s chest in anger.

Race rolls his eyes. “Relax, Spotty, it’s fine.”

“Only ‘cause I caught you!”

“Exactly! Thanks!” Race reaches an arm up to pull them closer together. “My hero!” He cries and dramatically falls back, letting Spot take his weight. “What would I do without you?”

Spot shoves him away and starts walking again, shoulders hunched. “Get run over by a carriage?” He asks sullenly.

Race ignores Spot’s attitude and starts regaling him with his most recent misadventure at the dog track and by the time they reach Medda’s, he’s in as good a mood as Spot Conlon ever seems to be. They mingle for a while, cave and discuss actual business for just long enough to mollify Dave, and then start partying like the teenage boys that they are. Race and Jack drink together -a bad idea, he has to admit- and before Race knows what’s happened, the party is in full swing around him.

Race is teetering right on edge of rowdy and stumbling when he manages to get enough fellas together for a game of cards and he looks up just in time to see Spot approaching the table. He sits up and waves and tries to ignore the butterflies he feels when Spot waves back.  “Wanna play with us?” He asks once the boy sits down beside him. 

Spot shrugs and scoots his chair closer to the table. “Sure. What’s the game?”  

“Four card poker,” Race explains as he starts dealing. “It’s real easy, Spot, you’ll catch on.”  

The first two games come and go without much of a challenge and by the time the third game is really gearing up, Race has to admit that maybe he’s drunk a little too much. He can’t seem to help himself, though. Spot is smiling and laughing and losing with grace at cards and that is probably the only thing in the world that Racetrack Higgins likes more than winning at cards. By the time Dave shows up, leaning against the back of Spot’s chair, Race is floating high on his good mood.

“How’s it going?” Dave asks as he looks around at the game.  

Race grins and makes a gesture towards his pile of peanut shells. “I’s clearing ‘ em out, Mouth!”

The other boy smiles. “I see that,” he says in amusement.  

From his place at the table, Spot flops back in exasperation. “It’s bull shit, Mouth, don't know why I ever plays with him.”

Race worries for a moment that maybe Spot isn’t having a good time but he can see the hidden twinkle in the older boy’s eye, so he relaxes and focuses on the game. He wins easily enough when Spot fumbles the last two hands and he happily pulls in his winnings and starts to deal out the fourth game. He drinks another few whiskeys and plays a few more games and loses himself in the flow of the night. Spot seems a little grouchier the next time Race turns his attention back to the boy so he scoots his chair closer and leans his head -has his head always been this heavy? - against the older boy’s shoulder.

“You okay, Spotty?” He asks, trying to focus his vision on the familiar face. “You shleems - sheems - fuck. You seems sad, Spotty.”

“I ain’t sad, Racer,” Spot assures him and pats at his shoulder.

Race rolls his head a little and grins. “Good. I don’t want you to be sad, Spotty.” That’s important, Race knows. Spot shouldn’t ever, ever be sad.

Spot runs a soft hand through Race’s hair and speaks in a gentle voice. “I ain’t sad. What’a ‘bout you? Won all four games, huh?”

“All thanks to you,” Race mumbles and yawns. “I always seems to win when you’s around, huh, Spotty? You must be my good luck charm.”

That makes Spot laugh for some reason. “Come on,” he says and hefts Race up and onto his feet. “We’s gonna find you somewhere to sleep this off.”

Spot all but drags Race -whose legs don’t seem to be working- to the corner of the theatre where Jack is curled up and gives him very serious sounding instructions to not move. He then disappears and Race hums quietly to himself while he waits. He hears footsteps in the next moment and looks up to find Dave smirking down at him in humor. He smiles back because he likes Dave and that’s the nice thing to do and is rewarded with Dave’s company on the floor.

“How you feeling, Racetrack?” He asks, offering a steadying hand.

“So good, Mouth,” Race mumbles. “I’s so good.”

Dave looks like he has something else to say but they’re interrupted by Spot’s return. He holds a glass of water with a firm pout. “Drink this.”

Race’s stomach curls at the idea. “I don’t want that,” he argues.  

“You gotta drink it, Racer,” Spot tells him and moves a little closer.  

“I don’t want it, Spotty,” Race declares and watches as his hand tries to push it away.  

Spot glares, which only makes his pout that much cuter. “Too bad. You’ll have a headache tomorrow if you don’t.”  

“He’s right, Racetrack,” somebody else says. Oh, right, Dave is here. “Just drink the water.” 

Race starts to drift in and out of sleep and he gives in, allowing Dave and Spot to manhandle some of the water into him before tucking him next to Jack. He can’t seem to truly fall asleep, stomach rolling painfully, and he can’t help but shift against Jack in distress. The taller boy wakes up and looks at him through sleep heavy, intoxicated eyes.

“What’s ya problem?” He slurs.

Race groans a little. “Don’t feel so good, Cowboy,” he admits quietly.

“This ‘bout Spot?”

Race shakes his head. “Nah, I didn’t do nothing tonight. I thinks I’s gonna be sick.” He is hit by another pang of nausea and he grabs at his side with a groan.

“Hey, hey, alright,” Jack says, struggling up and grabbing ahold of Race. “Let’s get to the roof, huh? Get you some air.”  

Race stumbles along behind the stumbling Jack and they make it to the roof with only a few wrong turns. The fresh air feels good and Race starts looking for a convenient place to hurl, only to be grabbed by a quietly swearing Jack.

“What’s ya problem-?”

“Sh!” Jack yanks Race around to the corner of the chimney. “Just look!”

He points at- Race’s nausea dulls in comparison to the rush of cold, all consuming distress. In the middle of the roof, sitting on David Jacobs’ lap and kissing like his life depends on it, is Spot Conlon. His hands are clenched in the fabric of Dave’s shirt, eyes closed in concentration, and his face -the face Race dreams about- is framed in Dave’s gentle hands.

Race tries to speak, tries to yell Spot’s name, but all that comes out is a little croak. He can’t think, can’t focus, and when Jack drags him back through the door and down the stairs, he follows blindly. His heart is squeezing so tightly in his chest that he thinks it’s going to pop. He can hear Jack shouting and kicking at something in the corner of… Medda’s dressing room, Race thinks is where they’ve ended up, but he doesn’t have the energy to try and calm anybody down right now. All he feels is world ending pain.

“I don’t understand,” he finally whispers.

Jack snarls at him. “What’s not to understand, Race? They loves each other!”

“But they’s not even friends,” Race points out weakly. “Have they ever hung out without us?”

Jack throws his hands up. “How’s that matter right now?!” He snaps.

“This isn’t right!” Race yells back.

The taller boy runs his hands through his hair in a shaky gesture. “Of course it ain’t right. Davey is mine. And, as much as I thinks he’s a dick, you deserves Spot, if that’s what you want.”

“But they- We don’t…” Race shakes his head. He can’t focus, too much alcohol and distress warring for room in his thoughts. “What can we even do?”

Jack starts nodding to himself and Race recognizes the expression as the same one that started a strike two months ago. “Race, let’s just thinks here… This is actually good news. Yeah, that’s it. We got proof that they’s both queer. That’s more than we started with.” Race shakes his head but Jack doesn’t let him interrupt. “Really, this is fantastic. Now all we’s got to do is break them up and get them with us.” He holds his arms out and looks at Race, expression a little manic. “We can do that, right?”

“Um… Yes?” Race nods once slowly, which is apparently all Jack needs to keep going.

He straightens his jacket and grabs Race by the arm. “Okay. Step on; prove we’d both be good sweethearts. Step two; break them up. Step three; get them to ourselves.”

“Okay,” Race repeats. “Let’s do this.”

~_~_~_~

Jack, six weeks into their plan, isn’t feeling as optimistic as he had been at three in the morning drunk off his ass and broken hearted at the sight of the love of his life kissing his sworn-enemy-turned-reluctant-associate/love-of-his-best-friend’s-life.

He and Race are outside playing in the rain with some of the littles, taking advantage of one of the last days of the year where such activities won’t lead to pneumonia. He can see Dave and Spot both sitting in the window of the lodge, supposedly keeping an eye on them. They’re not really paying attention to anything happening outside, though, more focused on each other. They’re bent close until Spot says something that Dave must think is funny because the brunette leans back in laughter while the blond looks away smugly. Jack turns away, irritated, and starts tossing Les around in a mud puddle. Maybe Dave will get scolded by his mother for letting his brother get dirty, Jack thinks vindictively.

Another half an hour or so passes before Race draws his attention back to the window. “Where’d they go?” He asks, annoyed.

“I don’t wanna know,” Jack hisses and glares at the empty window.

When they make it back inside, Spot and Dave are waiting by the door with towels. Race immediately clamps onto Spot and gets the other boy wet, causing Spot to grimace and haul Race off, probably to yell at him in private. Jack turns to do the same to Dave- only to find him watching Spot’s back with something similar to longing in his eyes. Jack scowls and presses his cold hands to Dave’s neck in retribution.

Dave jumps in shock and slaps Jack’s hand away. “Have fun?”

“What’s wrong, Davey, don’t like the cold?” He smiles to soften the blow and it works like a charm, Dave’s annoyance giving way to begrudging fondness.  

“Not when I was smart enough to stay inside,” he says as he takes off his jacket and hands it over. “Get out of those wet clothes.”  

Jack looks at the coat and considers his options. He could take it… Or he could take Dave upstairs with him to change into dry clothes instead. “I’s just gonna go climb into bed,” he says, mind made up. He passes the coat to one of the littles behind him and wiggles his eyebrows at Dave. “Wanna come chat with me ‘fore you and Les have to take off?”

Dave looks like he’s considering saying no but Jack pouts a little. The younger boy rolls his eyes, nods, and follows- easy as pie. In the bedroom, Jack changes right in front of Dave and is annoyed when he doesn’t get a reaction but he hops into his warm bed anyways, beckoning Dave to join him. “So what’d you and Spot talk ‘bout?”

Dave shrugs as he slides up onto the foot of the bed. “Just stuff.”

“You two’s sure been spending lots of time together,” Jac k points out and wiggles until his feet are in Dave’s lap.  

“Yeah, well,” Dave looks down and runs a gentle finger up the side of Jack’s foot. “It’s not like he’s got many friends, you know?”  

Jack’s mouth goes dry. “That's ’cause he’s a dick,” he manages to say even as the sensation of Dave’s fingers on his bare skin fills his head with a bubbly sensation. 

The other boy opens his mouth to speak but cuts himself off and pulls his hands away “ Sorry,” he mumbles and his cheeks go all pink. Adorable. 

“You’s been acting a little weird lately, Davey,” Jack says instead of commenting.  

Dave shakes his head and looks somewhere over Jack’s shoulder. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been totally normal.” 

Jack smirks and repeats one of Dave’s favorite phrases. “Normal’s sudective,” he says and sticks out his tongue.

“It’s ‘su bjective’, Jacky,” he corrects even as his laugh fills Jack with warmth.  

“How’s’a ‘bout you and me go to Medda’s tomorrow?” Jack suggests, hoping to take advantage of Dave’s good mood. “Through the front door and everything? Ya birthday’s coming up, it can be my present." 

“I don’t know if… Okay, yeah. That sounds wonderful, Jacky."

That night, after Dave and Les have gone home and Jack has tucked all the littles in, he herds Race up to the roof for one of their now regular scheming sessions. They both light up a smoke as soon as they settle onto the ledge, Jack one of his hand-rolled cowboy cigarettes and Race his habitual cigar. After they’ve both taken in a few deep puffs, Jack turns to the other boy with a scowl.

“This isn’t working,” he says with a huff.

Race glares and looks out over the city. “Yeah, I noticed, Cowboy. They acts like they don’t even notice.”

“We needs try something different,” the older boy states firmly. “Needs to be more obvious.”

Race gives Jack a blank stare. “Really? More obvious? Short of offering to suck his dick, I thinks I’s done everything possible.” He falls back and stares up at the stars, face twisted up in distress. “What’s Mouth got that I ain’t?”

Jack hums in thought. “Big blue eyes, pouty lips, a pretty voice-” He’s cut off by Race smacking the back of his head.

“Oh for Christ’s sake! Forget I asked!” He sits up and sighs. “But for real. Yesterday I told him- I says to him ‘you knows, Spot, any girl you marries is gonna be real lucky. I bet you two’s’ll have real beautiful babies’.”

“And how’d that work for you?” Jack asks, wondering if he should have brought his sketchbook to take notes.

Race makes a complicated hand gesture. “He said he ain’t sure if he ever wants kids!”

Jack nods in understanding. “And did you ask ‘bout the wife thing, specifically?” He questions.

“’Course I asked ‘bout the wife specifically!” Race shouts. “And he told me to stop bringing up his hypothetical wife!”

“Then how’s you supposed to know what he’s looking for in a wife?” Jack wonders, confused.

Race nods frantically. “Exactly! Ugh. What’s’a ‘bout you?”

The older boy shrugs and picks at his nails. “I’s been trying to do real romantic stuff for him. Opening doors, pulling out his chair, that type of stuff.” He shrugs again and flicks his cigarette butt off the side of the building.

“What we needs to do,” Race says after a moment of silence. “Is get in the way of their alone time. They can’t run off smooching each other if we stop them from going off together.”

“That’s a… that’s a pretty good idea,” Jack admits.

Race squints at him. “Don’t sound so surprised, Cowboy. Look, you invited Mouth to Medda’s tomorrow, right? So I’ll invite Spot out. That way, we knows they ain’t together.”

Jack feels excitement thrum under his skin. The next day, he sells with a frantic energy that must transfer over to Dave because they sell out of papers far earlier than normal. They part ways at the distribution gate with a promise of seeing each other again in two hours and Jack hurries back to the lodge to wash up and change. He runs into Race on the way out and they exchange quick thumbs ups and encouraging smiles before Jack slips out the door and heads over to pick Dave up.

When he gets to the Jacobs’, he gives a quick hello to the rest of the family before tugging Dave away. “You’s looking very dapper this evening, Davey,” he compliments.  

“Thanks,” Dave says a little shyly. “I’d tell you the same but I’m sure you had at least three girls let you know on your walk here.”  

The words send a quick thrill through him. “Well, maybe I did, but it’s still nice to hear from you. ” He poses as if for inspection. “What’s you think, Davey, is I dapper or what?”  

“Of course you is- are,” Dave says with his familiar, exasperated tone.  

Jack can’t help but grin and throw an arm around Dave’s shoulder, unable to hold in his excitement. “Thanks, pal,” he says as he starts leading Dave down the familiar streets.

Dave tells Jack about his bastard classmates, his more interesting school work, and the pile of homework waiting for him back at the house. Jack listens to him talk happily and only adds to the conversation when Dave looks to him for comment. When the younger boy cuts off mid-sentence, Jack looks around in confusion, only to see-

“Heya, Racer! Spot!” Dave darts across the street towards the two familiar boys.

“Fucking bull shit,” Jack mumbles as stumbles to keep up with Dave. “Can’t get one god damned night.”

Dave waves, all good natured cheer, and Jack feels his eye twitch when Spot waves back. Race looks practically murderous. Dave slows as they reach the pair, sensing Race’s bad mood. “What’re you fellas doing?” He asks a little uncertainly.  

“Headed to the bar,” Spot explains. “My favorite band is playing at George’s.”  

“That sounds fun. Come on, Davey, we’ll be late for Medda’s show,” Jack gushes, grabbing Dave by the elbow and trying to tug him away.

Dave shrugs Jack’s hand off with a frown. “Say, Racer, Spot, do you two want to come to Medda’s with us?” 

Spot turns to Race who is still glowering at Dave. “Does you wanna go, Racer? I knows how much more you like Medda’s than George’s.” He points in the direction of the theatre and moves a step closer to Dave. Jack moves to block his path with a jerky movement. 

“No!” He snaps . His voice comes out harsher than he’d meant and he hurries to smooth it over. “I just meant… Well, you can come if you wants, course, just seems a shame to miss ya favorite band.”

Dave -smart as a whip Dave- looks between Race and Jack with raised eyebrows before crossing his arms. “Well, why don’t we join them at the bar then?” 

“Fine,” Jack snarls, recognizing that Dave has sensed his and Race’s plan. “Come on, Race, let’s take Spot and Dave to the god damned bar, yeah?”

He grabs ahold of Race’s sleeve but the shorter boy jerks away. “Sure, come on, Spotty.”  

“Whatever you wants, Racer,” Spot says, tone confused.

“Yeah, this is exactly want I want.”

~_~_~_~

This is not what Race wants.

Squeezed in between Spot and Dave and kicking Jack under the table every few minutes out of spite, Race can honestly say that this may be one of the worst nights of his life. His heart is squeezing in his chest with every glance shared between the two boys and he slouches in his chair miserably, nursing a beer and staring at the wall. When Jack excuses himself to go to the bathroom a few hours later, Race waits a minute and then follows, mumbling something about a smoke break. He finds Jack out front, pacing and tugging at his hair.

“This fucking sucks,” Race tells him simply.

Jack glares. “I got that much, Race.”

“Well, what’s we gonna do?” He asks shortly. “Sit there and watch? Maybe we should just leave and let them enjoy their night.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. Let’s just go back in and convince them to leave,” he suggest and pushes back through the double doors.

Race follows and finds- an empty table. “Fucking Christ. Seriously?”

“Let’s go check out back,” Jack commands, tugging at his jacket.

Race shoves at his hands but follows and once they’re outside, he can make out the familiar timber of Spot’s voice coming from the back alley. They follow it and come across a scene just as painful as the one they’d found six weeks ago at Medda’s. Spot has his arms wrapped around Dave and the taller boy has his face tucked into Spot’s neck, shoulders heaving with heavy breathes. Race stutters to a stand-still even as Jack speeds up, striding forward with clenched fists.

“What the hell is going on here? What the fuck are you doing?” He yells.  

Spot pulls away from Dave and breathes a sigh of relief. “Jack, you gotta calm him down-”  

Crack!  

Even as mad as Race is at Spot, his stomach drops at the sight of a fist slamming into the boy’s face and blood spilling forth. “What the fuck, Cowboy?” He yells and bolts forward.

What follows is an all-out brawl and it takes everything Race has to pull Spot away from the taller boy. Dave manages to get Jack pinned to the wall at the same time that Race gets Spot onto the ground and the air is full of quick, rapid fire threats and insults. Over the chaos, Dave manages to make his individual voice heard. “Everybody relax!”  

“Not ‘til I teach that little punk to keep his hands to himself!” Jack spits out.  

“We wasn’t doing nothing!” Spot defends. “He was having one of his panic fits and you wasn’t around!”  

Race’s whole body is a mess of irritated anger and painful heartbreak . “You could’ve come and foun d us,” he snarks.  

Dave, in an uncommon display of his temper, turns to glare down at him. “Maybe he would have, if you hadn’t been such dicks all evening.”  

“Shit, Davey, I- I’s sorry, I didn’t mean to- Aw, hell, Davey, I’s real sorry.” Jack practically melts and Race rolls his eyes in annoyance. Jack, in typically Jack fashion, would let Dave punch him in the face and then apologize for hurting the boy’s fingers.  

“Sorry for what?” Race yells. “Sorry we walked in on them kissing?”  

Underneath him, Spot goes still and his face creases in confusion. “Did you just say you thinks me and Mouth was… kissing?”  

Jack’s easy forgiveness apparently doesn’t extend to Spot. “Well wasn’t yous? You two’s’ve been kissing for weeks! Ever since that union party at Medda’s in August!” Race wants to shut Jack up but he supposes that the cat is out of the bag now and he only glares. Beneath him, Spot’s mouth falls open in shock. “Me and Race saw you on the roof. You thinks we didn’t know where you’s been going all the time? Every time you sneaks off together and come back all smiley?!”  

Dave is shaking his head in denial. “Jacky, that’s not it.”  

Race snorts and stands up. “Sure, Dave. You’s so smart, guess we don’t know nothing at all. I’s leaving. See you fellas later.” He gives the group at large an angry gesture and then spins on his heels and heads in the direction farthest from Brooklyn.  

“Wait, Racer- Tony, stop!” Behind him, Spot is calling out in protest but Race doesn’t slow. The taller boy catches up with him after a few blocks, though, and grabs onto the lapels of his jacket before he can step around him. He looks down right pathetic, with big watery eyes and a bloodied, crooked nose, and Race stops fighting out of pity.  

“Racer, just stop a second,” Spot pants out once he seems sure that he’s not going to bolt.  

“Why?” Race tries to keep the hurt off his face as much as possible as he stares down the boy who has repeatedly broken his heart. “Does you want to tell me more ‘bout how you and Mouth’ve been kissing?”  

Spot winces and coaxes Race into the nearest alley where he grabs onto Race’s shoulder with a death grip. “Me and Mouth only ever kissed the once and it was horrible.”  

Race can’t help but roll his eyes. “Only the once, huh? Then what’s you two been sneaking away for these past few weeks?” He tries to pull away from Spot but the other boy only pulls him back in.  

“We’s been… We’s been talking ‘bout you.” What? “I… I’s queer for you, Tony.” What?! “And nobody else. Me and Mouth’s been talking ‘bout how much I lo- likes you."

Race’s brain short circuits. He tries to look for some logic al sign in the sight before him that he’s gone crazy but besides for Spot’s words, everything seems normal. Queer for you. I like you. I lo-  

“Did you… was you ‘bout to say you love me, Sean Conlon?” He can hardly get the question out of his suddenly tight throat.  

Spot gives the weakest smile that Race has ever seen. “I’d offer a free punch, but Cowboy already broke my nose. So if you’s mad, can I ask that we banks the punch for a few days?”

Race reaches out with a shaky hand and runs the tip of his finger down the tip of said nose, earning him a quiet hiss  of pain. “The only reason I’d want to punch you, Spotty, is for not telling me how you felt sooner.” And then he latches onto the taller boy with every fiber of his being.

The kiss is rough and wild and so, so Spot Conlon that Race loses himself in the touches and grunts and moans.  They end up rolling around on the dirty alley floor, laws and worries be damned. Race is floating on a high hither to undiscovered. It’s better than betting on the winning horse, better than the rush of playing a royal full house, better than the blunt edge of booze and the sharp hit of nicotine. He breathes in deeply and thinks that, if he were to die right now, he’d be going out in his prime.

They don’t pull apart until there’s an awkward cough and a familiar, dry laugh from somewhere behind them. 

“I sees everything worked out on ya end, Higgins,” Jack quips, wrapped around a blushing Dave.  

That earns the taller boy an elbow to the gut. “Don’t tease them, Jack,” Dave scolds.  

“Yeah, Cowboy,” Race leers as he stands. “Don’t tease us.” 

Beside him, Spot only glares. “Better yet, say nothing at all, you bastard.”  

“Sorry ‘bout ya nose,” Jack offers. Race thinks he looks a little too smug about everything but he’s known Jack long enough to know that ‘inordinately pleased with himself’ is just his default mood.

Spot crosses his arms in an adorable show of frustration. “I should beat ya ass for that,” he mutters.  

It’s so damn cute that Race can’t stand it any longer and he excuses himself and Spot, dragging the boy by the wrist all the way to his secret hide out at the Sheepshead Racetrack where he shows Spot Conlon just how long he’s been thinking about getting the other boy alone.

~_~_~_~

Jack Kelly doesn’t get nervous. Nervy, maybe, definitely not nervous.

“You looks nervous, Cowboy,” Race comments.

Jack flips his best friend off and keeps pacing the short length of their kitchen. “I’s not nervous,” he argues on principle.

“You sure seems nervous,” Spot quips from where he’s sprawled out on the floor flipping through a penny novel. “Did Mouth finally break up with you?”

Jack stops pacing just long enough to glare. “What the fuck is the point of you, Conlon?”

“He’s handsome,” Race says as if that’s explanation enough.

Spot smirks up at Jack. “You heard my fella,” he leers. “I’s handsome. Too bad ‘bout ya ugly mug. No wonder Mouth’s been stepping out.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Jack snaps and throws his hat.

“Let’s take it easy,” Race demurs half-heartedly. “Tell me why you’s so nervous.”

He really shouldn’t… but he is nervous and talking to Race always makes him feel better. After shooting a quick look at the door, Jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a drawstring bag. It’s small and velvet and black and out if it, he pulls what he’s spent months saving up for; two small, plain gold bands.

“Is those rings?” Spot asks, sitting up on the floor.

Race stands and steps close.   “Good luck finding a preacher to marry you twos,” Race says, incredulously. “Or a priest.”

Spot stands, too, and comes to peak over Race’s shoulder. “Or a rabbi,” he adds.

“Yeah, or a rabbi,” Race repeats. “Really, Cowboy, what’s you thinking?”

Jack shrugs and slides them back into the bag before tucking it carefully into his pocket. “I just wants Davey to know that I wants us to be forever. I ain’t under any delusion of having no wedding.”

“Then why’d you spend money on rings that you twos won’t be able to wear?” Spot asks, clearly trying to point out the flaws in Jack’s logic.

He ignores the blond and starts up his pacing again. He can feel Race’s eyes on him even as Spot huffs and goes back to his book. He is only given a few more minutes of peace before his friend lets out a weary sigh. “Is you really worried he’s gonna say no? You twos’ve been together for four years.”

“That’s not the point, Racer!” Jack exclaims and throws his hands in the air. “The point is I’s ‘bout to ask him to be my husband! It’s a big deal!”

Spot looks up, face bored. “No, it ain’t.”

“Yes, it is!” Jack has to squeeze his eyes shut and count backwards from ten; his Davey-approved ‘just because Spot Conlon deserves to be soaked doesn’t mean I should soak him’ technique.

When he opens his eyes again, Spot is giving Race a sly glance. “Hey, Jacky-boy,” he says, shit eating grin pulling at his lips. “Watch this. Heya, Tony?” Spot gets up onto his knees and shuffles over to where Race is sitting on the couch.

“Spot, don’t you dare-!”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Race asks, putting his chin into his hands.

Jack stomps his foot. “That ain’t funny, fellas!”

“Antonio Higgins,” Spot croons as he tenderly picks up Race’s free hand. “Love of my life…” He shoots a clearly teasing look at Jack before wiping his face of anything save genuine affection and leaning in close to Race. “Would you do me the honor of being my husband?”

Jack wants to be annoyed but when he sees the smitten look on Race’s face, he only sighs and keeps his annoyance to himself. The younger man bites at his lip and, when he speaks, his voice comes out a little cracked. “Sean Conlon, it would be my honor.”

He falls off the couch into the other man’s arms and they kiss the way they always do, like alley cats squabbling over a dead mouse. Or at least, that’s what Jack sees. Race claims they’re just passionate. They keep kissing far past what the four men have agreed is acceptable for the living room and Jack clears his throat. “Alright, fellas, that’s eno ugh,” he tries, only to be ignored completely.

“ Ew . Come on.” All three of the men are caught off guard by Dave’s voice at the door. Jack spins on his heels to see his sweetheart looking at the pair on the floor with his face wrinkled in disgust. “I thought we agreed on a three second limit on living room kisses.”

“It’s a special occasion,” Spot says as he reaches up to wipe saliva away from his lips. Disgusting.

Dave must think so as well but he puts his hands on his hips patiently. “And what occasion is that?”

Spot’s eyes flicker down to Race’s face and his smirk softens into a genuine smile. “I’s asked Race to be me husband and he’s agreed,” he all but whispers.

“Oh my- oh, that’s so sweet!” Dave gushes. He steps forward and wraps Jack in a hug. “Isn’t that so sweet, Jacky?”

Jack decides he has to rethink his anti-Spot-Conlon-soaking stance.

~_~_~_~