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Newsies almost always have a checkered past, one that usually isn’t discussed. The kid is just accepted, and that’s that. Another thing that’s common among the boys that peddle the papers was their Burrough pride. Manhattan newsies were Manhattan, and Brooklyn was Brooklyn. Racetrack Higgins was an exception, which isn’t uncommon for him. He was Brooklyn born, but his loyalties lay with Manhattan. They were his family, and they came first. But because he technically was also Brooklyn, Spot Conlon allowed him to sell at Sheepshead. Anywhere else, and he’d get his butt kicked. But Race did really well at Sheepshead, so that wasn’t a problem. Until it was.
Sheepshead never closed. /Never/. It was even open during the winter, and unless a giant blizzard came along, the stands were full and the races running. Race crossed the bridge, nodding to the Brooklyn newsie who was stationed on the Brooklyn side, simultaneously selling and guarding it. Hotshot only gave him a bored look before returning to his shouting. Race whistled a tune he’d heard at Medda’s as he walked down the streets towards the races, feeling rather cheerful that morning. Of course, when he got to the tracks and found it closed, his happiness level plummeted.
He angrily swore, moving closer to see the sign posted to the gates. ‘Sheepshead Racetrack is closed until further notice.’ Very informational. Great. He marched up to the worker leaning against the gates.
“ What’s up with this?” Race asked, waving at the closed sign. The worker sighed, and flicked some ashes of his cigar away.
“ The horses all got some disease or somethin’. Then all the jockeys got it too. So it’ll be closed for a bit. Now scram.”
“ That’s just stupid.”
“ It ain’t like I got them horses sick, kid. Go complain somewhere else.”
“ Ya wouldn’t want to buy a paper would ya?” Race held one up. “ Pretty boring just standing there.” The man shrugged and tossed him a penny. Race handed the paper over, then walked off.
What the heck was he supposed to do now? There was no way he just walked all the way to Brooklyn to just walk right back. He just needed to find somewhere out of the eye of Spot Conlon and his birdies, then book back across the bridge. He was surprised Hotshot even let him across, usually the track closing down would be reported to Spot immediately. Now that Race thought about it, there would still be a fair amount of foot traffic by the tracks, and he was /technically/ still selling at Sheepshead. He refused to walk all the way back to Manhattan, so whatever. He’d just sell around here, and hope for the best.
~~~~~
By the end of his selling day, which was longer than usual thanks to the races being closed, no Brooklyn newsies had ganged up on him, so that was a win. Even if it was almost completely dark by the time Race was finished. Walking back towards the bridge, he kept an eye out for any stray Brooklyn newsboys. Wouldn’t do any good to get soaked and left for dead. Surprisingly, no newsies were guarding the bridge. He suspiciously started across the nearly empty bridge, scanning the dark edges. Suddenly he was rammed up against the edge, a hand over his mouth. Race squirmed, immediately trying to push his attacker away. When the shadow didn’t budge, Race licked the hand.
“ Higgins!”
“ Spot?”
“ Conlon to you, ‘Hattan.” Spot growled, not releasing his hold on the blond.
“ What the heck you think you’re doing?”
“ What were you doing in Brooklyn?”
“ Selling, Conlon. I’m allowed to, remember your /lordship/ lets me?” Race said sarcastically.
“ You’se only allowed to sell at Sheepshead, Higgins. An’ today the track was closed.”
“ So?”
“ So?” Spot asked, pressing Race against the rail harder. “ /So/ you’se was trespassing on Brooklyn territory. I ain’t letting non-brooklynites sell on my turf.”
“ But I’m half Brooklyn!” Spot opened his mouth, then paused. “ An’ ‘sides, you like me too much anyway.”
“ Right now, I dunno if I wanna kiss you or shove you off the bridge.” Race’s eyes widened, but ever so cheeky he said,
“ Can I pick?” For once, Spot didn’t know what to say, and his hold against Race loosened. He wondered if he’d read the situation wrong. Of course Spot meant the whole kissing thing to be a snarky joke. Whoops. Spot seemed to gather his senses back and harder than ever, Race was pressed against the edge. The latter gulped, looking over his shoulder. He was so dead.
“ What’re you playing at?”
“ I choose kiss.” Race blurted, mentally slapping himself.
“ Is that so?” Spot asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“ Uh, yeah. Ya see, I can’t uh,” Race glanced over his shoulder again, “ Swim.” Spot again was silent. “And so I figure I’ll choose the one I at least got a chance of surviving.”
“ I doubt that.” Spot growled, slowly lifting Race up the shirt. Race panicked and did the only thing he could think of in the moment, and pressed his lips against Spot’s. In that second, everything seemed to freeze. It was just Race and Spot. His lips on his, Spot’s hand tangled in Race’s shirt, keeping the blond just above the ground. Race couldn’t explain why, but the kiss felt /right/. And then the world started to move again. Spot pushed him away and Race tumbled to the ground.
“ What the- How- why?” Spot stuttered, seeming almost vulnerable for once. Race scrambled to his feet, hoping to push past Spot and run for his life. Boy, when word got out about this, he was sooo dead. He could never leave the lodging house again! And what the heck was he supposed to tell the boys? Before he could book it, Spot grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against a supporting post. Race closed his eyes and waited for the first blow to come. And it did, on his lips. Race responded back eagerly before he even knew what was happening. The two broke apart, and Spot slowly released his hold on him. Race was breathless, heart pounding, lips tingling. He waited for Spot to say something, or shove him off the bridge, but nothing happened. Naturally, Race broke the silence.
“ The great Spot Conlon don’t got nothing to say?”
“ Oh, I got something to say Higgins.” Spot responded, snapping out of his trance. “ If you ain’t here again tomorrow, I’mma come hunt ya down.” Race grinned.
“ Deal.” He waited a moment, not sure what to do now, before deciding that was a Spot-style goodbye, and turning.
“ Wait.” A hand caught his shoulder, spinning him around. Spot rested his forehead on Race’s, “ Don’t be late.” He murmured against the blond’s lips.
“ Wouldn’t dream of it.” Race said breathily.
“ Good.” Spot pushed him away and fixed his shirt. “ Now get your sorry butt outta Brooklyn ‘fore I soak ya.”
“ Ya wouldn’t stand a chance Conlon. Bet.” Spot grinned, then turned and walked away. Race watched him for a moment, still light-headed, before following suit. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, whistling happily. He had no idea what had just happened, but he /loved/ it. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.