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When Race opened his eyes, he saw nothing.
He felt cold linen beneath him, cool air above him, and soft clothes on his body. He heard the unmistakable sounds of the Manhattan lodging house, though he didn’t recognize any of the voices.
For a brief moment, panic gripped him, clawing at his windpipe and pooling in his stomach, before his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Looking around, he realized why he didn’t recognize any of the voices. This wasn’t Manhattan’s lodging house. This was Brooklyn’s. And he was in Spot Conlon’s room. In Spot Conlon’s bed.
He struggled to sit up, giving up with a strangled moan as pain wracked his body. Resigning himself to just laying in the bed, he tried to remember why he was here.
It wasn’t his first time in Spot’s room, in fact, he could frequently be found here. His breath hitched slightly as he remembered his time spent here, curling around Spot in the bed or perching on the windowsill, talking, laughing, embracing. He knew this room like it was his own, and as long as Spot stayed here, and as long as Spot was his, it practically was.
As he reminisced, the door opened, lights flickering on, and Spot himself slipped into the room.
His face was flat and empty, only his eyes betraying his concern as they darted quickly around the small space, before he turned and shut the door behind him.
Once the door was closed, he moved swiftly toward the bed, sitting gingerly on the very edge. He reached out, gently taking Race’s hand in his.
“Hey,” Spot said quietly. “How ya feelin’?”
Race smirked. “How am I feeling? Not so hot, Spotty. But why the hell am I here?”
The shorter boy frowned. “You sayin’ ya don’t remember?”
Looking up at the other boy, Race opened his mouth to reply, to tell Spot that no, his mind was blank and it scared him, when it hit him. Race. Crow. Blacker. The alleyway in Manhattan. Yelling for Jack, for Spot, for anyone, and no one coming. Fists. Blood. Giving almost as good as he got, but two against one wasn’t a fair fight. More fists, more blood, then nothing.
He collapsed back against the bed, boneless, staring up at the ceiling.
He didn’t know why they had done it, didn’t know why they seemed to want him hurt, or dead, bleeding out in an alleyway in the middle of Manhattan. All he knew was that they did, and he had paid the price for it. As he shifted his weight and futilely tried to get comfortable, his lungs tightened painfully, his entire body throbbing, and he wanted to scream.
Spot nudged him, his shoulder pressing into his ribs. “Okay, you’re okay. You remember now?”
Race nodded slowly, moving closer to the dark-haired boy until he was curled up against his side.
“Alright, you think you can tell me?”
Race was silent for a long moment, noticing the concern and comfort in Spot’s eyes, the barely contained anger in his throat, the heaviness that seemed to weigh them both down in the small bed. Finally, his eyes focused and it only took a kind nod from the other boy before he was turning and pressing his face against the rough fabric of Spot’s shirt.
In quiet murmurs, he told him what he remembered, his mind going blank in some places, where even his imagination was unwilling to fill in the gaps. After he finished, he paused, then said, haltingly, “How- How did you find me?”
Spot wrapped an arm around his waist, running his thumb over his boyfriend’s hand. As he listened to Spot, Race thought distantly about how nice that felt, about how soft Spot was being for a change. They didn’t get many stolen moments. The other boy’s voice broke through his thoughts then, low and wavering, despite his attempts to keep it steady.
“Fish was running a message to the Bronx, passing through Manhattan. He found you at the mouth of an alley.” His eyes darkened as he continued. “Bastards didn’t even try to hide you. If Fish hadn’t found you-“
Race rested his hand on Spot’s cheek, trying to assuage his fears, though his head kept spinning in circles, fracturing his vision, and his ribs ached every time he took a breath.
“Hey, hey. He did find me. He did, and that’s what counts.”
Spot’s eyes softened, though his voice was still filled with rage. “I know, Racer. I just- Fuck, I don’t know what I’d do if youse wasn’t okay.”
Race felt his lips turn up into a smile as he leaned over to kiss the dark-haired boy, touched by both his concern and his anger on behalf of Race.
“Don’t worry, I ain’t letting nothin’ happen to me again.” Then he smirked. “Look at you, goin’ soft on me. Fearless leader of Brooklyn, my ass.”
Spot rolled his eyes, before turning serious. “You knows I’d do anything for you, Tony. I’d give up Brooklyn for you, in an instant.”
Race stared at him, wide-eyed. Brooklyn meant everything to Spot. If he would give up Brooklyn for Race, that meant Race was more important than... than anything to him. As he gaped, Spot continued.
“I don’ say it a lot, but you know I love you. And there’ll be hell to pay for those boys who did this to ya. I just wish I’d been there.”
Race continued to stare at Spot, still shocked by his admission. They didn’t talk about feelings a lot, didn’t get the chance, but he felt exactly the same way about Spot. Hearing his boyfriend voice his feelings for him, without trying to make a joke or dismiss them, meant a lot to him, and almost made him forget his injuries for a few minutes. Wincing in pain, he rested his head on Spot’s chest, settling into his embrace. “I know. And I love you too.”
Spot hummed in return, the two boys drifting into a comfortable silence. In a matter of minutes, Race was asleep.
When he woke, it was to the fond feeling of Spot’s arms wrapped around his waist, and the less welcome sensation of a hole being drilled into his head. He groaned, shifting in the shorter boy’s grip. As he came further into consciousness, Race recognized the noise currently giving him a pounding headache as someone knocking on the door.
The knocking grew even louder, and he rolled his eyes tiredly. Make that some asshole knocking on the door.
Beside him, Spot rubbed a calloused hand over his eyes. “What tha hell?” He mumbled, evidently still half asleep.
From outside the room, the familiar sound of Jack Kelly’s voice, steadily gaining in volume as he went on, reached their ears.
“Conlon, I know he’s in here, an’ swear to god, if youse don’t open this door right the hell now, I will break it down myself. Conlon, do you hear me?”
Race would have preferred to ignore his borough leader indefinitely, but Spot scowled, propping himself up on his elbows before climbing out of the small bed, carefully skirting around Race’s injuries.
In three strides he was at the door, turning the lock and flinging it open to reveal Jack, red-faced and open mouthed, ready to keep shouting.
“Fuck off Kelly, I’s right here and so is Race.”
As Race struggled to sit up, head spinning from the sudden movement, Jack pushed past Spot, intent on seeing the boy in the bed. He stopped only a few feet from the blonde-headed boy, taking in the extent of Race’s injuries. “Jesus, what the hell, Racer,” he breathed out. “Who did this to you?”
From across the room, Spot scoffed. “What, no one told you?”
Race felt his heartbeat pick up, staring at his lover as he hesitated. They locked eyes, Spot searching for something, but Race didn’t stop him. Letting Spot tell Jack what had happened was far easier than telling the borough leader himself.
Spot broke eye contact, glancing back at an evidently confused Jack, who frowned. “Tell me what?” He turned toward Race, pinning him under the weight of his stare.
The taller boy shrunk back into the bed, relief flooding over him as Spot answered for him.
“Your boys is the ones who did this, Kelly.” He spat out Jack’s name like it left a bad taste in his mouth before continuing. “Crow and Blacker, didn’ you say, Race?”
Race nodded, staring down at his bruised knees to avoid looking at Jack.
Even without looking, he could feel the other boy’s intense stare, could hear his muttered curse.
“Race, look at me.”
He stubbornly kept his eyes down, trying to ignore Jack’s commanding tone.
“Racetrack, look at me.”
He grimaced, then lifted his head, meeting Jack’s gaze unflinchingly. As he did so, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, getting to his feet clumsily. He wobbled, but kept his footing even as his muscles gasped in pain.
His friend looked him steadily in the eye, his face unreadable even to Race, who considered himself an expert at reading people.
“Did Crow and Blacker do this to you?” Jack asked lowly.
Race raised his eyebrows, leaning against the wooden bed frame for support. “That’s what I said, ain’t it?”
He didn’t know why Jack wouldn’t just take Spot’s word for it, why he had to ask Race. He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to talk, just wanted to lay in bed with Spot all day if he was lucky.
Turns out he wasn’t.
Jack took a step toward him, starting to respond, when Spot stepped in front of him. “Tha’s close enough Kelly.”
Race blinked up at Spot, unsure why he was being so protective. He guessed it was because of his injuries, making Spot want to keep him safe. He couldn’t blame him, but it was just Jack. Not a threat.
Disbelief was painted across his friend’s features as he snorted. “Excuse me?”
Spot shrugged, glancing back at Race, who said nothing. “You heard me. I don’ think I trusts Manhattan wit’ him anymore.”
Jack laughed, cold and bitter, a sound that made Race flinch. “You don’t trust ‘Hattan wit’ him? First of all, ’s not my damn fault they jumped him. I can’t watch all my boys all the time, and I’m sorry as hell that this happened, but it’s not my fault.”
As Jack paused, Race’s thoughts tangled in his mind, replaying what he’d just said. Not his fault, his mind whispered, even as another voice contradicted it. Yes. His fault, it hissed. Race’s face screwed up in a grimace as he tried to block out the words, only settling when his eyes landed on Spot.
Before he could try and figure it out, Jack continued. “Second of all, you don’ get to decide. Race ain’t yours to keep or give away. Just ‘cause he used to be Brooklyn don’t mean shit. He’s Manhattan now, so technically, I get to decide.”
Spot’s eyes flashed dangerously, his mouth turning down into a snarl. “Like hell you do, Kelly.”
The dark-haired boy stepped backwards to stand next to Race, whose mind was running a mile a minute. He didn’t mind Spot taking control, he never had, but hearing Jack try to do it felt wrong.
Jack looked between the two of them, sizing them up and noticing the way Race leaned into Spot for support. His eyes, hard as flint, drilled into the taller boy.
“I’m sorry Race, I really am. I’ll deal wit’ the boys who did this. But you needs to come back to Manhattan. Now.”
As Spot opened his mouth to respond, Jack cut him off.
“And I don’t think you should be coming back anytime soon. I’s been too loose with the rules, but you belongs to Manhattan, and tha’s where you’ll stay.”
Race’s eyes widened. He wasn’t used to the Manhattan leader exercising his authority like this. He respected Jack, and considered them to be good friends, but he barely recognized the boy standing in front of him. Jack had always ruled fairly, asking opinions and allowing his boys to make up their own minds. For him to demand that Race leave Brooklyn, even as he was still injured, wasn’t fair. And for him to suggest that Race not be allowed to come back at all wasn’t just unfair, it was cruel. He didn’t have that kind of authority over Race, leader or not.
Looking Jack firmly in the eye, Race shook his head. “No.”
Jack stared right back, expression level and eyes growing cold. “This ain’t a discussion, Racetrack. We’re leaving.”
“Like hell he is,” Spot spat out. His arm curled around Race’s waist, hand resting possessively on his hip bone.
As Jack’s eyes darted down to where Spot touched him, Race realized something. Jack was jealous. Not of Race’s affections, but of his loyalty. He was scared of his loyalty to Spot, and now he was challenging him. Spot had started it, by insinuating that he didn’t trust Jack, or anyone from Manhattan, around Race, but Race knew he would’ve backed down as soon as he healed, letting him go back home. Jack was the one making Race choose between Spot and Jack. He should’ve known that Race would always choose Spot.
The Manhattan leader’s eyes narrowed. “Race, I’m serious. If you don’ come wit’ me right now, that’s it. You’re done. You won’t have a home in ‘Hattan anymore.”
For the first time, Race hated Jack Kelly. He hated him with every inch of his being, for forcing him to choose between Manhattan and Brooklyn, between Jack and Spot. For not even caring that Race was injured and couldn’t walk back to Manhattan even if he wanted to, just dismissing it and acting on jealousy.
Race put on his best poker face, ignoring both his physical and emotional pain. “Then I guess that’s it. I’m stayin’ here, so if you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.”
His resolve almost wavered when he saw hurt flash through Jack’s eyes, but he held firm. This was Jack’s fault, not his.
Finally, his former borough leader nodded. “Then I guess I’ll see you around, Racetrack.”
With that, he walked back out the door he came through, leaving the room’s occupants silent and still.
As soon as Jack was out of the room, Race slumped back against the bed with a muffled groan, legs threatening to buckle beneath him. Spot cursed under his breath, removing his arm from the other boy’s waist and attempting to maneuver him into a more comfortable position. His hands fluttered anxiously over the taller boy, not sure what he should do.
“I’m not made of glass, Spot,” Race snapped, annoyed with both the other boy’s fussing and the situation at large.
All of Spot’s movements stilled, and he stepped back, wringing his hands and looking distraught.
“I- I know, I- fuck, shit, Racer, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- well, fuck.” His eyebrows furrowed, and he peered down helplessly at his boyfriend.
Race drew a breath in through his nose, holding it and then letting it out. He didn’t need to take his anger out on Spot, who was trying to care for him. “No, it’s okay. I- c’mere.” He patted the bed, motioning Spot to sit beside him.
The dark-haired boy cautiously settled his weight down beside Race, who dragged him closer, resting his head on Spot’s broad shoulder.
After a moment, Spot broke the silence, sounding so much younger than he usually did. “You’re not- you’re not mad?”
Race shrugged, not looking up. “Yes, I’m mad. Not at you. Well, a little. But mostly at Jack. It’s just... this woulda happened eventually, I guess. The two of you has never gotten along, and youse never liked sharing me. I just... I’s just disappointed it happened like this. I’s disappointed Jack couldn’t put aside his pride for me.”
Spot was silent, taking in his words. “I didn’ mean for this to happen. I’s always wanted you in Brooklyn, of course, but I never thought you’d be kicked outta Manhattan. I’m sorry, Racer.”
Race shifted so he was looking directly at Spot, wrapping his hand in his own. He couldn’t deny feeling a little annoyed at the other boy, but he could tell Spot really was sorry, and it wasn’t truly his fault.
“‘S okay. Or at least, it will be. Sometimes you’re jealous, and possessive, and I’s always liked that about you ‘cause it means you’d do anything for me, or for your boys. Jack’s the same way, and it just didn’t work. I had to choose, and I chose you. I don’t regret it.”
His boyfriend sighed, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips and his eyes growing fond. He leaned in to kiss Race, soft and slow, only pulling away to rest his forehead against the other boy’s. “Love you Racer,” he mumbled against his lips. “An’ I’m sorry.”
Race wrapped an arm around Spot’s waist, holding him in place as he repeated, “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay, not really. But soon, it would be. And that was enough for him.