Work Text:
Spot took a deep breath and let it out slowly. At least, he tried to, anyway. He had never been this scared in his life, but he had never been this excited, either. He sat behind the steering wheel of his parked truck, probably looking like a total creeper, staring at the entrance to the shitty apartment building that had become a second home to him over the past few weeks.
He glanced at the dashboard clock, red letters proclaiming 5:53. His mom would be waking up for work in seven minutes, and if she realized he was gone—
“Come on, Racetrack,” Spot grumbled, bouncing his knee.
Finally, the gate into the building swung open, and Race came crashing out, stopping and smiling when he saw Spot’s truck. The bags on his eyes were almost as big and noticeable as the one tossed over his shoulder. He probably hadn’t slept at all. Neither had Spot.
He booked it across the narrow street and climbed into Spot’s passenger seat, tossing his duffel over his shoulder into the back. As soon as it was out of the way, Spot leaned across the center console and took Race’s face in his hands, kissing him slowly, reveling in the feel of his skin beneath his palms, his hair between his fingers, his lips against his own.
He wanted this. For the rest of his life, he wanted Race.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured against Race’s lips. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Race smiled. “I’m not sure of much, Spotty, but I’m sure about this.”
Spot put the car in gear and took off like a shot.
Race hummed, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. “Can we stop by a Starbucks or somethin’? I wanna be awake for this.”
“Baby, Starbucks coffee sucks.”
“I’m a frappuccino boy.”
“Of course. How could I forget?” Spot chuckled lowly.
He pulled into the first Starbucks he saw.
“What if they don’t give us the waiver?” Race asked, brushing his fingers over the little piece of paper on the desk in front of him for the millionth time. It looked so insignificant, so unimportant, but it was easily the most significant and important thing he’d ever touched.
Spot grabbed his hand, pulling it away from the paper. “Then we’ll wait until tomorrow.”
“Our faces will be on a milk carton, by tomorrow.”
Spot chuckled, bringing Race’s hand up to his lips to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “Watch ‘em try to stop us now, baby.”
Race nodded, smiling, focusing on relaxing his tense muscles as he exhaled. What mattered—the only thing that mattered—was Spot, and Race being by his side where he belonged, for the rest of their lives.
Their life, Race mentally corrected himself, leaning his head against Spot’s shoulder, and then he was grinning. It was their one, shared life, Sean and Anthony against the world, like it was always meant to be.
Race might have been in love with Spot at first sight. He didn’t realize it until sixth grade, right around the time he realized he was gay, but it might have been there all along. They didn’t do anything about it for years. It was always the wrong time, not worth the risk of ruining the friendship they had, not worth the risk of upsetting Race’s friend and Spot’s adopted brother (the same person). Race let himself be used by boys and men who didn’t care about him. He got emancipated from his drug-addicted parents. Nothing was certain. Nothing was forever. He never had anything or anyone he could count on.
Until now.
The man who had issued their marriage license walked back into the room with another piece of paper in his hand. “Here you go.” He set it on top of the license. “Take that with you, show it to your officiant.”
Race sat up straight. “That’s the waiver? You got it?”
“That’s the waiver.”
Race let out a squeal that would have been embarrassing for anyone else, but was entirely on brand for Race. He twisted around in his chair to throw his arm around Spot’s neck. “We’re getting married!”
“Now, all you need are witnesses.”
Race froze and slowly pulled back, away from Spot. “Shit, babe, we forgot the witnesses.”
It took a lot to make Spot Conlon emotional. Years of practice, of brothers and bullies and having to be strong to make up for being short, had turned him into a brick wall.
If Spot was a brick wall, though, Race was dynamite.
Spot wanted to memorize every little detail of this scene—the few wrinkles in Race’s button-down shirt, tucked into what Spot knew was his only pair of jeans that weren’t ripped, his golden blond hair curling around his white, dollar store flower crown like a halo, the slight flush on his cheeks that always appeared when he was worked up or nervous. He was beautiful. Shit, he was more than beautiful. Immaculate, resplendent, and a bunch of other words Spot must have learned once but certainly never thought he would use popped into his head. He pushed them away. He wanted to remember this moment for what it was.
“Anthony Higgins, do you take Sean Conlon to be your husband?”
A wedding at New York City Hall, witnessed by two old ladies they had found at the dollar store.
“To honor and cherish for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”
This was the moment Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins gave themselves to each other for keeps.
Race gripped Spot’s hands so tight, they shook. He nodded, and Spot could see he was holding back tears. “Yes. I do.”
This was the happy ending they deserved and the beginning of the rest of their lives.
“Sean Conlon, do you take Anthony Higgins to be your husband? To honor and cherish for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
A happy little sob escaped Race’s mouth, as if he’d been afraid Spot would back out at the last moment.
The officiant smiled diplomatically. “I now pronounce you Mr. and Mr. Conlon. You may both kiss the groom.”
The first time Race kissed his husband wasn’t electric. He didn’t see fireworks behind his closed eyelids, didn’t feel like he was flying or falling. It was so much better than that. It was grounding, warm, full of the promise that Spot would be there for Race when no one else was.
One moment, Race had no family, emancipated at sixteen and alone ever since. The next, he had a beautiful family of two, Sean and Anthony against the world, the way it was always meant to be.
The kiss ended, but the feeling didn’t, and Race grinned. How long would it last? He hoped it would last forever, just like them.
“Mr. Conlon,” Spot said as a smile slowly parted his lips.
Race giggled breathlessly. That was him . He was Mr. Conlon, and he loved it.
God, watch the world try to stop them now.