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Race gets there just before the first punch is thrown. Just in time to hear Jack say one more ill-timed remark about how Spot should run his borough, about how Spot should deal with his boys, the Brooklyn boys. Spot, who isn’t even there to see Jack, who is there to see Race and didn’t ask for Jack’s advice.
Race gets there just in time to see Spot punch the hell out of Jack.
To his credit, the leader of Manhattan holds his own, a head taller than the other boy despite being significantly smaller in every other way.
A flurry of punches follow the first swing, half bitten-off curse words trailing from their snarling mouths. It only takes a minute for the Manhattan newsies to pull the two apart, but that is enough to leave Jack with a broken, bloodied nose and Spot with the beginnings of a black eye.
Spot shrugs the boys off even as they surround Jack, checking his injuries and keeping a barrier between the two borough leaders.
He turns to Race, who rushed in to pull him out of the fight as soon as he saw it happening, and is the only one now to stay with Spot.
The leader of Brooklyn spits out blood from the corner of his mouth, eyes wild and bright. Race reaches out and puts a hand on his arm, tentatively. Spot jerks, but doesn’t push it off.
Before either boy can say a word, Jack’s voice, tinged with rage, emerges from the crowd of newsies. “Get tha’ hell outta Manhattan, Conlon. An’ don’ come back. If I eva’ need ya, I’ll send up a flare.”
He turns, beckoning the boys gathered around him. “Come on, let’s go.”
As the rest of his friends file into the lodging house, Race grimaces, but stays where he is.
Jack turns back to look at him, eyes flashing. “Race, c’mon. Let’s go.”
As Race stands frozen, the Manhattan newsies, his friends, all turn to look at him. He swallows hard, but stays where he is, hand still resting on Spot’s arm.
Jack raises an eyebrow. “Oh I see’s how it is. Youse gonna take ol’ Spot’s side huh? ‘Cause youse friends? Youse gonna take Brooklyn ova’ me, ova’ Manhattan.”
Jack laughs, cold and bitter. “Fine, Racetrack. Fine. I shoulda known you’d choose Spot fuckin’ Conlon ova’ anyone else. Go ahead, tha’ both a ya. Leave. Get outta Manhattan. You deserves each otha’.”
Race stares at the ground, finally looking up at Jack. Cold, hard eyes stare back at him, leaving no room for mercy. For Jack, you are either with him, or you are against him, and right now Race is dead-set against him. He sweeps his gaze over the rest of the Manhattan newsies. They stare back at him, some appearing betrayed, others sympathetic, many indifferent. They may be his friends, and practically his family, but they will stay loyal to Jack no matter what, even if that means exiling him. Race has chosen Spot over his own borough leader, and this cannot be forgiven. The sin is made even worse due to Spot’s status as a rival leader.
Race keeps his face wiped clean of emotion, nodding his head just once. He knows what he has done, and he has to accept the consequences, though he never thought Jack would completely disavow him. He and Spot watch in silence as the newsies, followed by Jack, enter the lodging house and shut the door behind them, leaving the pair to the cool November air.
And there they are, all alone.
Race turns to Spot, hesitantly peering into his face. The other boy turns at almost the same moment, eyes pained.
“Racer, I-“
Race shakes his head. Not here. He brushes his fingertips lightly over Spot’s bruising eye, trailing them over his lips as well before taking his hand.
“Come on, we need to go.”
The taller boy pulls Spot away from the Manhattan lodging house, through the crowded city streets filled with hundreds of people all blissfully oblivious to their shared pain.
Race makes it halfway to the Brooklyn Bridge when Spot pivots, jerking him into an empty alleyway.
They stumble into the dark, empty space in a tumble of limbs, Race half dreading the inevitable conversation that will come next.
When Spot kisses him, he does not expect it. He melts into the other boy, finding a familiar comfort in his arms.
Finally, Spot pulls away. Looking at Race, his eyes are soft, but troubled. He opens his mouth to speak, his voice coming out hoarse and quiet in the still air.
“Race, I- I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m so, so sorry.”
Race shakes his head. “‘S not your fault.”
At this, his friend and lover starts, looking shocked. “Not my fault? Racer, I started the damn fight. I punched Jack. I did. I’m tha’ reason ya just got thrown outta Manhattan. I’m the damn reason youse just lost your friends.”
He’s shaking, hands clenching and unclenching, grasping at nothing. “God, Racer, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Hey.” Race forces Spot to look up at him, taking his calloused hands into his own.
“It’s not your fault,” he states, quietly but vehemently. When Spot starts to shake his head again, Race squeezes his hands, hard. “Hey. It’s not your fault. I don’ give a fuck that you punched him first. I don’t care. I heard what Jack said. I knows he said things he shouldn’t‘a said, I knows he was trying to take control of ya. So youse punched him. Hell, I would too if he talked to me like that. I stood by you ‘cause it was tha’ right thing to do, an’ ‘cause I care about ya. Jack made the decision to throw me out, not you. That was his decision.”
Spot shivers under Race’s hands, eyes still troubled, still worried. “Still partly my fault. Youse still got thrown outta Manhattan. All your friends, all your things-“
Race cuts him off gently, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Spot, it don’t matter. It’s okay. I would always choose you. Ova’ Jack, ova’ Manhattan. Ova’ anyone. Spotty, youse my best friend, an’... an’ more. I love you. The boys’ll still be my friends, at least most of ‘em. Even Jack, once he calms down I’ll bet. An’ my things don’t matter, ‘s not like I had much anyways.”
Spot slowly nods, taking a deep breath before pushing Race back against the wall, kissing him fiercely. After a few long moments, they part, breathing heavily.
Spot leans his forehead against Race’s. “I love you, Racer, so much. An’ I don’t deserve you.”
He frowns when Race tries to argue. “No, it’s true. But don’ worry. Youse always got a home wit’ me, wit’ Brooklyn. Now it’s just official-like.”
Race smiles slightly, taking Spot’s hand. “Yeah, youse right,” he says softly. “Let’s go home.”
No one from Manhattan sees Race for two weeks. Rumors spread, and soon every newsie in New York knows that Race isn’t Manhattan anymore. They all know that now, he’s in Brooklyn.
The Brooklyn newsies, all familiar with and friends with Race, gladly take him in. Few could know Race and not like him, with his easy smiles and personable demeanor. He’s also a damned good newsie, and if he cleans them all out in poker, well, that can be forgiven.
Race bunks with Spot, sharing the small private room and single bed. The newsies chock this up to the close bond between best friends and the need for warmth in the winter, most no strangers to sharing a bed themselves. And if a few with especially good intuition notice anything between the two boys, they keep quiet. It is Spot Conlon after all.
The first day of the third week, a Tuesday, Race wakes up before dawn to try and get a head start on the day. He dresses quickly, debating whether or not to wake the still sleeping boy behind him or let him be for a few more minutes. Halfway through buttoning his coat, he is startled by arms twining around his waist, and a warm figure pressing into his back.
He turns and smiles at Spot, still getting used to waking up with him everyday. It is something he never thought would happen, that he can hardly believe is true.
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
The dark haired boy, still bleary eyed and yawning, lazily kisses Race before separating and pulling his own clothes on as well.
Once dressed, the two boys sneak out of the house, grabbing a few mouthfuls of breakfast on the way out. As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, they buy their papes and make their way down to Sheepshead. In this respect, nothing has changed. Spot and Race have always sold together in Sheepshead, always arriving early on a certain day when the races are supposed to be especially good.
Race wears red, Brooklyn’s color, though he has kept his Manhattan clothes in a box in Spot’s room. He still thinks of it by this name, though it is rapidly becoming known as their room. The thought makes his insides feel warm.
Spot’s voice breaks the comfortable silence. “Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout, Racer?”
Race turns, practically beaming. He knows he shouldn’t feel this giddy, knows he should be more upset about leaving Manhattan, but he can’t bring himself to care. Jack’s words hurt, and so did leaving his friends. He misses the familiarity of the Manhattan lodging house, the easy camaraderie that could only come from years of living with the other boys. But here, in Brooklyn, he has friends too, boys he’s known for years despite not living with them. Here he has nightly poker games, Sheepshead and the races only a few blocks away, a lodging house that had been his second home, and is now his only home. Here he has Spot.
So when he answers his partner, his voice is bright and clear, untainted by sadness. “Thinkin’ ‘bout you, Spotty.” Not one to be unnecessarily sentimental, the blonde-headed boy smirks. “‘Bout how I’m gonna whip you an’ the rest a the boys at poker ta’night.”
Spot rolls his eyes, smiling. “Better hope you can back that mouth a yours up.”
“Oh don’t worry ‘bout me. My mouth works jus’ fine, thank ya very much.”
The other boy raises an eyebrow. “That so?” He allows his eyes to flit quickly over Race’s figure, the slight innuendo clear in his gaze.
“You tell me,” Race responds cockily, before turning on his heel to shout out the headline. “Extra, extra, read all about it! Dodgers slaughtered by Yanks, four to none!”
An audience is generated, payment is exchanged, and by the time the boys make it to Sheepshead, his bag is five papes lighter.
They split up, hawking their papes from either side of the racetrack. Race has always made it into a competition, both boys striving to sell their last newspaper before the other one can. For once, Spot succeeds, dropping onto a bench with his bag empty just minutes before Race. It’s not that Spot’s bad at selling papes, Race thinks. He’s the self anointed King of Brooklyn after all. Race just has more of a way with his customers, acting charming and funny and giving good tips on the races.
The day trots on, time told only by the number of laps the horses run endlessly around the dusty tracks. Each boy watches the races with wide eyes and chattering tongues, taking bets on the outcomes, telling old jokes, and regaling each other with stories. Finally, they gather their things and make the trek back to the Brooklyn lodging house.
Race quickly becomes caught up in an animated discussion with Spot about whether or not one of their regulars, Mr. Maltser, actually bets to win or just to impress a certain lady, not even noticing when the dark haired boy comes to a halt beside him.
He continues to walk, twirling his cigar between his fingers and loudly refuting the idea that anyone could gamble willingly if they know they will lose.
By the time he realizes Spot is no longer with him, he has noticed another, far more pressing issue. Jack Kelly stands not twenty feet from him in front of the lodging house, flanked by five other Manhattan newsies.
Fisher, Spot’s second in command, stands in the doorway, scowling. His eyes shift over the group, sizing them up and displaying his distaste for the out of place bunch.
As soon as he sees the two newcomers, Fish’s face lights up with barely concealed relief, but also worry. Jack shouldn’t be here, no one from Manhattan should, but six against one isn’t a fair fight.
In the time it takes Race to gather all this information, Spot has closed the distance between them, throwing an arm carelessly across his shoulders in a show of solidarity. Race sees the way this makes Jack’s face tighten, noticing how his eyes dart to the place their skin connects, but chooses to ignore the pinched look on his previous leader’s face.
He can feel the tension Spot is holding within him and feels exactly the same way, as if he’s about to witness a car crash, or maybe about to get hit.
Despite this, Spot makes the first move. Of course he does. His turf, his rules, his Race.
Plastering a smirk onto his face, he speaks to the leader of the six boys. “Heya, Jacky. Youse here for a chat? ‘Cause I gots some things ta take care a, an’ youse weren’t exactly invited in.”
The challenge is his voice is clear. He doesn’t want Jack here, and if he doesn’t leave soon, the borough leader will make him leave.
Jack acts unfazed by Spot’s statement, though Race can see the boys around him stir restlessly. He feels a slight pang for his friends, before quickly brushing it aside. He knows they’re here to take him home, and Race doesn’t want to go home. He wants Jack to apologize, but even that won’t change his mind.
Jack glances at the boys around him before stepping forward. “I’m here to talk to Race.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Alone.”
Race’s breath hitches slightly as he feels Spot stiffen, his friend’s chest contracting before he pushes a heavy breath out. “I think that’s up ta Racer, don’t you, Jacky?”
The vocalization of his nickname, which only Spot is allowed to use, surprises Race. His lover is purposefully staking his claim in front of Jack, although he and Spot are the only ones who know the true intimate nature of their relationship. Most of the time Race doesn’t mind the secrecy, and since he and Spot have always been best friends, he doesn’t mind everyone else viewing them that way.
Race blinks, refocusing his attention on the situation at hand. He swallows thickly, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He can feel Spot’s hand squeezing his shoulder, doing what? Warning him? Supporting him? He ducks out from under it, taking one step toward Jack before he feels a hand on his arm, stopping him.
When he turns he is only inches away from Spot. Looking into the shorter boy’s eyes, Race can see apprehension and fear reflected back at him, but all his partner says is, “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do, Racer,” before releasing him.
Race gives Spot a slight smirk before flipping around to face Jack. He motions toward the nearest alley, waiting for Jack to pass him and then following. He almost looks back over his shoulder at Spot, but resists the urge. The Brooklyn borough leader will have to trust Race to do what he thinks is right, and Race has to worry about Jack, not Spot right now.
Alone in the alley together, Jack stands ramrod straight even as Race slumps against the brick, shoving his cigar between his teeth. After a moment of careful silence, Jack clears his throat.
“Racetrack, I-“ He breaks off and sighs. “Look. I was wrong to throw you out. An’ I’m sorry. I just... Spot? You chose Spot ova’ me? I needed youse to back me up in front of everyone, and you chose Brooklyn’s leader. I couldn’t....”
Jack breaks off again, rubbing his temples and looking pained.
“Dammit Race, what was I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do? I’m not mad at ya anymore, but I can’t... everyone knows about this! Everyone knows you took Brooklyn over ‘hattan. How am I supposed ta handle this?”
Race bites down on his cigar, contemplating Jack’s words. This is not how he expected the confrontation to go. In all honesty, he had no idea how it would play out, but this is not it.
Race flicks his eyes up, meeting Jack’s gaze. Measuring his words, he takes one more moment to consider: is this what he wants? He decides it is.
“I’m sorry too.” His quiet apology causes Jack to nod. The time for apologies is over, now Race has to make up his mind.
“There is no solution. Not really.” At Jack’s look of surprise, Race continues. “I mean, there’s no solution where I go back to Manhattan, back to the way things were before.” He holds up a hand to silence Jack’s noise of protest. “No, listen. You’re right. I challenged you in front a everyone. I chose Spot ova you, my borough leader. And I’m sorry. Maybe it was the wrong decision, but I thought it was the right one. Now I’s here in Brooklyn. You and I both know I’s can’t go back to Manhattan.”
Jack reluctantly nods in agreement, but Race keeps talking before he can say anything else.
“I can’t go back to ‘hattan, and honest Jack, I’s not sure I wants to.” Seeing a slightly hurt look slide across the Manhattan leader’s face, he scrambles to finish his thought. “Not that I’s don’t want ta see you guys! You’re my family, alla’ youse. But I got a family here, too, in Brooklyn. An’ I’ve been slowly movin’ toward Brooklyn for so long, Jack. Coming here now, it jus’ feels right. Manhattan was my home, an’ a damn good one too. But now I think I belongs in Brooklyn.”
Jack is quiet, letting Race’s words sink in to the silence between them. They both knew there was no easy solution to the problem, but Race doesn’t want to see how the Manhattan newsies react to this. They really are his family, and he doesn’t want to see them hurt.
Finally, Jack sighs. “You’re right. And it’s your decision.”
He spits into his palm, holding the hand out for Race to shake. Race does the same, and the two boys hold it for just a moment before Jack pulls him into a rough hug. No more words are exchanged, but both boys understand what the other is trying to say.
Jack finally breaks the silence. “Well, we should be getting back. I’ll tell tha’ boys what youse said- or did you wants to tell ‘em yourself?”
Race thinks about it for only a moment before declining, knowing that his friends would want more information, would protest and cajole him and finally just accept it and say their goodbyes, but that
he doesn’t have the energy to deal with that right now.
He shakes his head. “No, you tell ‘em. Once youse all get back to tha’ lodging house, tell all tha’ boys. I’ll drop by tomorrow ta see ‘em. Make sure you tell ‘em I’m still gonna visit though. I’s not gone for good.”
Jack nods. “Yeah, don’ worry. I’ll tell ‘em.”
Together, they leave the alleyway, Jack in front of Race. He watches as Jack goes over to the Manhattan boys, talking to them in a low voice. So distracted is he by this scene, he fails to notice footsteps approaching until Spot is right behind him, touch light on his shoulder.
He starts, then relaxes. Without turning his head, he sighs. “Hey.” The word is quiet, simple, conveying his exhaustion.
Spot fidgets, feet shuffling back and forth before finally pulling Race around to face him. Race can see the fear and worry bright in his eyes now, clouding over his normally stoic facade.
“Well? What’d ya decide Racer?” He knows Spot is trying to be brave, trying to act like he doesn’t care what Race chose, even though they both know he does.
Race smiles, and with that, everything he saw in Spot before dissipates. His tone is light and teasing, but his words hold so much meaning within them.
“You really thought I would choose anything other than home?”
For a split second, Spot’s face falls, thinking of how Manhattan is Race’s home, but he’s wrong.
Race continues, leaning in close to whisper in his partner’s ear. “You’re my home, Spotty.”
The boy’s cheeks flush, though he holds his composure out in the open. Still, Race sees his face flood with relief, and he lightly squeezes his hand before releasing it.
A shout from Jack causes them both to turn around. “Alright Conlon, we’ll be goin’ now.” He focuses on Race, nodding his head. “Take care, Race, an’ we’ll see ya tomorrow.”
Race nods back, avoiding the stares of his other friends, who look confused and a little hurt. They’ll understand once Jack explains to them, and Race will visit often enough that they won’t forget him.
He stands with Spot watching them leave, waiting until they disappear into the crowd before he turns to the shorter boy. A look passes between them, and Spot slings an arm around his shoulders.
“Alright Racer. Let’s go home.”
Race smiles, leaning into Spot, content in the knowledge of what is his. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”