Archive of Our Own ^beta

2 Years before the Strike

It was cold outside. Race shivered where he stood, paper held high above his head. His hands were blue as he waved the terrible headline high, his voice echoing in the empty street. Race was selling by himself today. Normally, Albert would be with him, but the poor kid was sick. Race was selling extra to try to get medicine for whatever ailment was bothering him this time.

“Pape, pape! Fresh news!” Race yelled, his voice cracking as his teeth chattered. His shoulders slumped as he glanced up and down the still-empty street. He sighed, bringing his hand down so he could bring his arms to his chest.

It wasn’t snowing, but the cold wind whipped through the city. The people who had been walking to work promptly ignored Race, their faces tucked into their jackets. Once the rush of people was gone, the street was deserted.

He was just about to give up when a figure rounded the corner. Race’s hand shot up, waving the newspaper back and forth.

“Fresh news! Hot off the press!” Race yelled.

“Would you shut it?” The figure yelled.

Race rolled his eyes. “Hot news, sir! Could warm you right up!”

“Seems to be working for you.” The figure said.

Race began to make out the figure. A man shorter than Race, but probably about the same age, strode towards him. As he came closer, Race noticed he was wearing a red shirt with no sleeves and winced.

“The deli two blocks over has a fireplace if you need to warm up.” Race said.

“Will I find Jack Kelly there?”

“Who’s asking?” Race said, instantly suspicious.

“Spot Conlon. He knows me.” The man, Spot, said.

“I’m his number 2 and I ain’t never heard of you.” Race said.

“Just take me to him.” Spot said.

Race looked him up and down. He wasn’t shivering, wasn’t even flinching as the wind whipped through the streets.

He was imposing, surprisingly enough. He stood tall even though he was about a foot shorter than Race. His face was blank and hard, not a wrinkle of emotion anywhere. Race studied him, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

“You’ll get to be inside.” Spot said after a moment, startling Race out of his thoughts.

Race narrowed his eyes. One of Spot’s eyebrows rose.

“Yeah, okay. I know a shortcut.” Race said, gesturing for Spot to follow.

He crossed the street to an alleyway, walking through it. He crossed Manhattan quickly, glancing back every now and then to make sure Spot was still with him. Each time, he could see Spot getting increasingly frustrated with him.

It wasn’t super evident, but the crease between his eyebrows deepened each time Race looked back.

Finally, they reached Jacobi’s Deli. Race’s hands were shaking so badly when he pushed the door open.

Inside, Crutchie, Elmer, and Albert were close to the fireplace, joking about something. Half-full bags of newspapers were strewn about, the same headline Race had been screaming all morning staring up at them.

Jack was sitting on one of the chairs, his feet propped up on one of the tables. He was sketching something on one of his own newspapers, charcoal covering his hands.

“Race! Jesus, man, you look frozen.” Albert called him over. Race shivered and quickly crossed over to the three by the fire, sighing as the warmth started to consume him.

“Kelly.” Spot said. Race had almost forgotten about his stowaway and he turned to Jack.

“Spot.” Jack did not look happy.

“He followed me home like a lost puppy.” Race said.

Jack didn’t laugh. Race felt his stomach drop as Jack stood, slamming his feet onto the ground.

“What do you want, Spot?” Jack said.

“I’m the new leader of Brooklyn.” Spot said.

Race raised his eyebrows. Crutchie looked at him, eyebrows raised as well.

“What happened to Red?” Jack asked.

Red was the old leader. Not as scary as Spot, but definitely taller. Race remembered standing behind Jack at a meeting. JoJo had done something stupid and Red had wanted to meet with them all. Red had been much bigger than Race had expected, standing taller than him and Jack. A good leader, but definitely not as intimidating as Spot was.

“Retired young. He’s big enough to work at the docks.” Spot said.

“Why are you here?” Jack said.

“Letting you know.” Spot said. His hands were in fists at his side. Jack crossed to Spot, standing over him. Easily a head taller than Spot, Jack looked like he had the upper hand.

“You’re real brave for coming here alone.” Jack said.

The smirk on Spot’s face made Race’s stomach twist, but not in the way he expected.

“I don’t need backup when I’m dealing with Manhattan.” Spot said simply, and Race felt a surge of anger. Spot turned on his heel and exited the deli, letting the door slam behind him.

“Who the fuck was that?” Albert asked.

“Spot Conlon. Used to be the number 2 for Brooklyn, but I guess he’s the goddamned leader now.” Jack said.

“What’s got your pants in a twist?” Elmer asked.

“Panties. Panties in a twist.” Albert whispered.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Elmer asked.

“He was a prick in the refuge. Didn’t help anyone but himself, the selfish bastard.” Jack said, “Never could understand why Red trusted him.” He picked up his drawing again and kicked his feet up.

“I never heard of him.” Race said.

“Good.” Jack said.

Race looked to where Spot had just exited. He felt an ache in his stomach.

“You ever see him again, you tell me.” Jack said.

Race nodded.

1 year, 10 months before the Strike

Race sprinted down the Brooklyn Bridge, legs pumping under him. He could hear people shouting at him as he ran, and he glanced back.

Two of the bulls were running after him, trying to keep up.

Race turned back forwards and ran faster.

His lungs were burning, his heart speeding up. He finished crossing the bridge and he ran into an alleyway. He ignored the shouts from the bulls and he tried to run as quietly as possible.

The buildings ended and he was suddenly hit by a wave of smoggy air. He coughed, looking around. He was by the river, boats chugging past old shipping containers. Race began to run again, passing the ones long abandoned. His eyes skittered across them, looking for a place to hide.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a red one. He backtracked and ran towards it. It was rusted to the ground, streaks of brown making the red paint peel. In the far corner, there was a hole rusted out of the side. He ducked into the hole, feeling a scratch carve into his skin, and he fell onto his knees.

He breathed heavily, laying his forehead on the cold metal. His eyes slipped shut as he tried to breathe.

He heard the bulls’ shouts and his head jerked up. He held his breath, feeling his pulse thrumming in his hands where they pressed against the bottom of the storage container. The voices of the bull’s passed, and he shuddered as he let his breath out.

“What the fuck?” A voice said.

Race’s eyes shot to the opposite corner of the storage container. He stood, surprised, but his legs buckled and he sank to the ground.

Spot Conlon took a step closer, the light from the hole illuminating his face.

“What are you doing here?” Spot said.

Race stared at him, his chest heaving. He put a hand to it, wincing.

“Breathe, dammit.” Spot said.

Race squeezed his eyes shut and tried to slow his breathing. He tried to pretend that Jack was standing next to him. His heart was still racing, his legs shook, and he put a hand to his mouth.

“I swear to God, if you puke in my storage container, I’ll kill you.” Spot said.

Race shook his head, burying it in his knees.

“My god, breathe. You’re gonna pass out.” Spot said, annoyance barely overtaking his concern.

Race did as he was told, and grimaced as he felt his heart rate slow. His chest ached, but he felt himself calming.

“Now I’m gonna ask again. What the fuck are you doing here?” Spot asked.

“Running.” Race gasped out.

“I can fuckin’ see that, but why?”

“Bulls. I ain’t trying to go to the refuge.” Race said.

Spot raised an eyebrow. “What’d they catch you doing?”

“What do you care?” Race said, his tone getting higher.

“Just curious why Kelly’s number 2 is panicking in my fucking storage container.” Spot said.

“‘M not panicking.” Race spat.

“Ah.” Spot said. He sat in front of Race.

They were quiet for a moment. Race’s breaths still stuttered, his body quivering as he got rid of all of his extra adrenaline. Spot was cross-legged, leaning back on his hands, a few feet in front of Race.

“Your storage container?” Race asked after a moment.

“Yeah.” Spot said. There was an edge to his voice.

“I’m not gonna take it.” Race said.

Spot nodded, a confused look on his face. They sat in silence for a few awkward moments.

“You’re bleeding.” Spot said.

Race looked down at his arm. Sure enough, there was a long cut carved into his forearm. He looked at it a little more carefully, realizing that it wasn’t deep enough to be concerned about but just long enough where it would be an inconvenience.

“So I am.” Race said.

Spot stood and walked to the other side of the — his? — storage container. In the corner, there were a few pillows, a ratty blanket, and a small box filled to the brim with something. He pulled out a bandage, walking towards Race.

“Don’t touch me.” Race said.

“Do you not want this?” Spot asked.

“No. Don’t touch me.” Race said.

Spot shrugged, tossing the bandage to the side. Race noticed the muscle definition in his arms and wondered what made him so muscular. Definitely not just throwing papes.

“Do you live here?” Race asked.

“No.” Spot said.

“What the fuck is this place then?” Race said, gesturing.

“What the fuck do you care?”

“Just trying to bother you.” Race said, a smile coming easy.

“Then get out of Brooklyn. You’ve got your breath back.” Spot said.

Race felt a tug in his chest. Spot did not look impressed. He winced as he tried to stand the first time, his calves burning. There were voices outside and he stopped short.

“What if the bulls are outside?” Race asked quickly.

Spot sighed. He rolled his eyes and walked over to the hole in the wall. After a moment, he returned, gesturing to the outside world.

“Nobody is here.” Spot said.

“How do I know I can trust you?” Race asked.

“Doesn’t Kelly?” Spot questioned.

“Not one bit.” Race said.

Spot’s face fell, but the crease between his eyebrows came back a second later.

“Stay the fuck out of Brooklyn. If I ever see you near here again, I’ll kick your ass to Queens.” Spot said, his voice low and dangerous.

Race all but cowered under Spot’s glare as he disappeared. He shuddered and pushed himself to his feet.

He exited the storage container, quickly looking left and right before taking off back to Manhattan. He looked back at the storage container, memorizing the location.

He would be back.

1 year, 9 months before the Strike

Jack was stalking across the Brooklyn Bridge. Race was close behind, Crutchie on his back. He and Crutchie shared the “number 2” spot, which is why Race was walking close behind Jack. Jack was pissed about something. Crutchie knew the story, Race did not.

He had come back from the morning paper and Jack was fuming. All Race had caught was mumbles of “I’m gonna kill him” and then he was carrying Crutchie across the Brooklyn Bridge.

At the other side, Spot stood there with three Brooklyn cronies. Spot turned as they got closer and closer to them, and Race felt his stomach flip. He watched as Spot adjusted his suspenders and hat, putting his hands on his hips.

“Let me down.” Crutchie whispered in Race’s ear.

Race let him down quickly, helping him get back on his feet before walking beside him. Race enjoyed walking next to Crutchie. It forced him to slow down.

“Conlon.” Jack said.

“Jack.” Spot said.

“They switched. Spot used to call Jack ‘Kelly’ but now it’s vice versa.” Race commented quietly.

“Spot’s just good at pissing Jack off.” Crutchie said.

Race stifled a laugh as they walked up to Brooklyn.

“What’s your deal?” Jack asked.

“Why are you so pissed?” Spot asked.

“Because you’re sending your fellas to Manhattan for the afternoon paper.” Jack said.

“Just to make a few more cents.” Spot said.

“Don’t do that shit.” Jack said.

“Fine, I won’t anymore.” Spot said.

Race could see Jack falter, and he wasn’t even facing him. “That’s it? You make me walk all the goddamned way from Manhattan for you to just concede.”

“I didn’t ask you to come all the way here. You coulda just sent Zoomie here.” Spot gestured to Race.

“Zoomie?” Race said.

“It’s Race, you fucking idiot.” Jack spat. Race tried not to recoil at the malice in Jack’s voice. Spot’s eyes darkened.

“You come onto my turf-”

“After you came onto mine!” Jack interrupted Spot. Race felt a sick satisfaction as he saw Spot try in vain to hide a shudder at Jack’s shout. He was surprised, however, to feel a jolt of pain replace it quickly.

“You come onto my turf every month and bother me. What is your deal?” Spot said.

“Nobody came last month.” Jack said.

“He did.” Spot said, pointing at Race.

Race felt a pit in his stomach as Jack turned to him. A look of betrayal darkened Jack’s face.

“Stay out of Manhattan.” Jack said to Spot, though he was still facing Race.

Jack crossed to Race, shoving his chest before grabbing the nape of his neck. Race met the leader’s eyes sheepishly as he turned Race around. Race caught a glimpse of Spot’s face, shocked to see it was full of concern. Race ducked out of Jack’s hold, earning him a growl from Jack.

“Crutchie.” Race said. He paused, letting Crutchie climb onto his back before continuing to walk.

“You should have told him.” Crutchie said after a few moments of walking in silence. Jack was far enough ahead that he couldn’t hear him.

Race hummed. He resisted the urge to glance back.

“I don’t even know why he is still so pissy towards Brooklyn. They’d be good to be friends with. The refuge was so long ago.” Crutchie said.

“What happened in the refuge?” Race asked.

“Spot kept to himself. Did what the spider asked, disappeared for hours. One day he was just gone. Couldn’t figure out if they let him go or he died. Then he turned up as leader of Brooklyn.” Crutchie shrugged where he held onto Race’s shoulders.

“And Jack’s pissed about that?” Race asked.

“Apparently Spot was ratting out kids in the refuge.” Crutchie said.

Race felt a burn in his chest. “I’d be pissed too.”

Crutchie nodded on Race’s shoulder. They finished crossing the bridge and continued to make their way towards the Manhattan lodging. They entered and Race let Crutchie down. Jack whirled around and stared at Race.

“I told you to tell me if you ever saw Spot again.” Jack said to Race.

“I didn’t want…” Race trailed off.

“Didn’t want what?” Jack said.

“I was running from the bulls.” Race said. Jack sighed.

“What did you do?” Jack asked.

Race kicked at the ground, the toe of his shoe thudding against the floorboards. Jack stood there patiently. Out of the corner of his eye, Race could see Crutchie sitting next to Albert. He felt their eyes on him and he grimaced.

His stomach tightened and Race bit his lip. He didn’t know why it was such a big deal. He saw Spot on his own turf. Race had fucked up. Why couldn’t they leave it at that?

“Alright.” Jack said.

Jack grabbed Race’s shoulder and pushed him upstairs. They walked into Race’s bedroom that he shared with Albert and Elmer. Elmer was sitting on his bed, but quickly left when Jack growled. He shot Race a sympathetic smile before he closed the door.

“What did you do.” Jack said. It wasn’t a question.

“I stole a loaf of bread.” Race said.

“Race.” Jack said.

“I didn’t pay at Jacobi’s deli.” Race said. He kicked at the ground again, harder this time.

“Race.” Jack said. Race felt his face heat up.

“I punched one of the Delanceys. They was threatening me.” Race said.

“Threatening you?” Jack asked. His voice was soft.

Race shrugged, kicking at the ground over and over again. He could feel his chest getting tight and he felt like he had in the storage container.

“Breathe, Race.” Jack said softly.

Jack pushed him onto his bed, making him sit down. Race could feel Jack’s gaze on him as he clamped his mouth shut and breathed through his nose. Jack put a hand on the back of Race’s neck, letting him lean into his hip.

“You’re okay.” Jack said.

His shoulders moved up and down against Jack’s hip as he tried to breathe normally.

“I’m sorry I got mad.” Jack said.

Race hummed. His breathing slowed and he sighed, letting his eyes close. Jack squeezed the back of Race’s neck. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Race was just a nervous guy, who sometimes couldn’t breathe. That’s all it was. Jack had figured out quickly how to make sure Race was okay, even if he accidentally scared him now and then.

“You don’t have to tell me the specifics. Just be more careful, okay Racer?” Jack said.

Race nodded.

“And tell me sooner. I ain’t gonna get mad at you for running.” Jack said.

“It’s all I do, though.” Race said.

“Do you prefer Antonio?” Jack asked.

Race wrinkled his nose.

“That’s why we call you Racetrack. You run.”

1 Year, 8 months before the Strike

Race saw Spot crossing the bridge. His heart rate sped up as he ran to him.

“Spot.” Race said.

“Zoomie.” Spot said.

“It’s Race.” Race replied.

“Race.” Spot said in a sing-song voice. Race rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Race asked.

“Going for a walk.” Spot said.

“Really?” Race asked.

“Yes.” Spot said, walking past Race. They bumped shoulders, making Race jerk back.

Race shot his hand out, stopping Spot with a hand on his chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I told you. A walk.”

“Not to Manhattan.” Race said.

“Why not?” Spot asked.

“Jack doesn’t trust you alone in Manhattan. He prefers you with your cronies.” Race said.

“Then you better come with me.” Spot said. Race sighed.

He took his hand off of Spot’s chest and gestured in front of him. Spot smirked and continued on his walk. Race followed behind him a few paces, selling papers as he followed. Somehow, they didn’t come across a single Manhattan newsie.

Spot weaved in and out alleys and streets that Race knew by heart, and he knew that nobody ever walked them so there was no point in selling there. It was lucky Race only had one paper left. He tucked it back into his bag, watching Spot from behind.

He walked with his shoulders pressed back, hat firmly on his head. His short hair had gotten a little longer since the last time Race had seen him. His hands were in fists by his side. Though he looked intimidating as fuck, even from behind, he nodded to each person who looked at him.

Ahead of him, Spot said something.

“What’d you say?” Race asked.

Spot turned to him. “I said, do you think Jack is at Jacobi’s deli?”

Race shrugged.

“I could really go for a seltzer.” Spot said, turning down an alley.

“Not a smart idea, Conlon.” Race said.

“Nobody calls me fuckin’ Conlon. It’s Spot.” Spot said.

Race ran up next to him. “It ain’t a good idea, Conlon. Jack hates you.”

“I know that. But absence makes the heart go stronger.” Spot said.

Race sighed and shook his head. Spot laughed as they arrived at Jacobi’s. Spot opened the door and Race held his breath.

Jacobi’s was empty.

“Only the best newsies can come to Jacobi’s at this time.” Spot said.

“What?” Race asked.

“It’s a boring headline. Only the best newsies can sell all 50 papes when it’s a shitty day. Also, it’s the second rush to work. Now is when all the people with high paying jobs go to work in Manhattan, and nobody would miss out on that if they could help it.” Spot said.

Race stared at him.

“You’re a good one. Jack’s a good leader, not a good newsie. You’ve only got one left, you’re probably the top newsie for Manhattan.” Spot said.

Race stood behind him, shocked. He felt his face heat up at the idea that Spot thought he was a good newsie. How did Spot know? Who was telling him? Spot turned to him and laughed. Race suddenly felt the need to do whatever it took to hear that noise as often as he could.

“What, you think I’m dumb? Have a seat.” Spot said.

Race sat down opposite him at a table. A second later, Jacobi came in with a water and a seltzer water.

“Spot, and Race, I never thought I’d see the likes of you two sitting together.” Jacobi said.

“Business.” Spot and Race said at the same time.

“Business, business, business.” Jacobi tutted, setting the waters in front of them.

Spot gave him a quarter and Jacobi smiled. Jacobi then whacked Race in the back of the head and left.

“He don’t make you pay for the water?” Spot said.

“Not the normal water.” Race said.

“Damn.” Spot said. His eyebrows rose, and his dark eyes peered at him over the glass.

They sipped their waters in silence, Race looking at his last newspaper. He squinted at the headline, grimacing.

“What’s it about again?” Spot asked.

“Like you said, a shitty headline, just something about how a new laundromat opened.” Race said.

“Ah.” Spot said.

They sat in silence some more. Spot sipped slowly. He took his hat off, scrubbing at his hair. He didn’t look as mean as Race remembered, as though he was sitting and drinking with a stranger rather than facing off with an enemy.

His complexion was dark, his eyes were dark, his hair was dark. His hair fell in soft curls on his forehead without the hat, though the hair on top of his head was flattened by it despite the scrubbing that Spot did in an attempt to fix it.

He was peering out the window, watching people pass by. The rest of the deli was empty, but Race didn’t feel awkward.

“You’re staring at me.” Spot said.

Race felt his face flush again and he moved back to looking at the paper. His hand trembled as he lifted the water to his lips. He glanced up at Spot, who was looking out the window still and smirking. His stomach flipped as Spot looked over at him. They met eyes for a split second before Race looked away.

“Now you’re purposefully not looking at me.” Spot said.

“Well, which would you prefer?” Race asked. He looked to Spot again.

Spot had a grin on his face, eyes tracking over Race’s. Race felt a smile tug at his lips and he forced it down, refusing to smile back.

“Remember when you didn’t tell Kelly you had seen me?” Spot said.

“Yeah.” Race said.

“Why?” Spot said.

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“He’s got littler kids than me,” Race said, “He doesn’t need to worry about me almost getting caught by the bulls.”

“Does he know about the storage container?”

“What’s so special about this fucking container?”

“Nothing, just wondering.” Spot said. “I don’t need more people coming to bother me in Brooklyn.”

“They won’t.” Race said.

Spot nodded, finishing his seltzer water, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He set it down, looking to Race again. He grinned after a moment, thrumming his fingers on the table.

“Follow me.” Spot said. He then stood and began walking out the door. Race stood quickly, running after him.

By the time he got outside the deli, Spot was almost down the street. He ran to catch up, news bag bouncing on his hip. He followed Spot across the bridge, constantly glancing around to make sure that nobody saw him with the leader of Brooklyn.

It was just so that he wouldn’t get in trouble with Jack. Nobody would think anything was happening.

They crossed into the dockyard, and Spot led him to the red storage container. He entered, gesturing for Race to follow.

“Are you gonna soak me?” Race asked.

“No.” Spot said.

Race entered, the darkness of the container startling him. “Jesus, it’s dark in here.”

“Let’s talk about something.” Spot said.

Race felt his stomach drop, but his heart pitter-pattered.

“Why does Kelly hate me?” Spot said.

“Huh?” Race said.

“Jack. Jack Kelly. He fuckin’ hates me, and I can’t figure out why.” Spot said.

“He’s Jack. He’s not a fan of a lot of people.” Race kicked the ground, feeling his toe poke through his shoe.

“It’s more than that, though.”

Race kicked the ground. He grimaced, feeling his toes slam against the ground.

“C’mon, Race.” Spot said.

Race kicked the ground again. “He didn’t like you in the refuge, he don’t like you now.”

“Really? That’s it?” Spot groaned.

“Yeah, what were you expecting?”

“An actual reason.” Spot said.

Race kicked harder. “Coming from the guy who ratted kids out in the refuge, that’s pretty rich.”

“Excuse you?” Spot’s voice was shaking.

“Just what I heard from Crutchie and Jack.”

“The crip?” Spot asked.

Race nodded, then hummed in agreement when he realized Spot couldn’t see him. He heard Spot sigh. There were steps towards Race and he winced, his shoulders tensing up. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Do you think I ratted out kids in the refuge?” Spot said. He was right in front of Race, his voice trembling. Whether it was with sadness or anger, Race didn’t know.

“I dunno.” Race whispered.

“I didn’t.” Spot said. He sounded more upset than angry, and Race breathed easier.

“I believe you.” Race said. Even with his eyes closed, he could imagine Spot looking at him funny. “You’re an asshole but you’re not that big of an asshole.”

Spot was silent for a moment. Race was worried he had fucked up, but then Spot laughed. Race smiled at the noise bouncing off the metal container.

“I appreciate that.” Spot said.

Race laughed too.

“You’re not as dumb as I thought you were.” Spot said.

“You think I’m dumb?” Race asked.

“No. Used to.” Spot said.

1 year, 6 months before the Strike

Race was standing in one of the empty alleyways, twirling a cigar in his fingers. He knew Spot would show up at any moment, and then he would follow him to Jacobi’s, and if Spot was having a good day, he would buy a seltzer water. If not, then just a regular water.

Jacobi made Spot pay for the regular water.

Race was impressed at how good Spot was at avoiding all the Manhattan newsies. He had somehow figured out all the best selling spots in Manhattan, and completely avoided them. It made Race wary, however, the thought of Spot just wandering around his borough with no supervision.

That was why Race followed him whenever he could.

They had been on a walk together almost every day for the past month or so. Often just talking about everything and nothing. Spot often got annoyed with Race, and Race just followed him wherever they went.

Sometimes, they ended up in the storage container, sitting quietly until Race had to go to the afternoon edition. Sometimes they would read the newspaper and talk about the stories in them.

Jack and none of the Manhattan newsies knew that he did this. And if they did, they didn’t say anything.

Race liked spending time with Spot. He also liked spending time with Elmer, Albert, and Jack, but spending time with Spot was different. His heart beat faster and he had butterflies in his stomach, but he still had fun and enjoyed the time they spent in silence and the time they spent talking.

Race looked down the alleyway, ready for things to start.

Sure enough, Spot turned the corner.

“Do you ever get tired of following me?” Spot said.

“Do you ever get tired of wandering the streets of Manhattan?” Race asked.

“No.” Spot said. He walked past Race, hitting their shoulders together.

“Do you sell papes? You’re always here in the morning.” Race asked after they had walked a few blocks.

“Yes. Don’t take long, I know what I’m doing.” Spot said.

“Really?” Race said.

“I’ve sold my 50 papes. What about you? Why do you keep asking questions?” Spot asked.

“Just making conversation.” Race said.

“Well, shut up.” Spot said.

Race nodded to himself and followed right behind Spot. The leader of Brooklyn was not having a good day. To his surprise, he didn’t head for Jacobi’s, he turned and started walking over the bridge. Race followed him, his empty news bag bouncing on his hip.

They walked in silence. Spot’s hands were in his pockets, face staring ahead. Race walked next to him as they walked over the bridge, taking a few steps to ensure they were side by side.

Spot led him to the storage container, ducking in before him. Spot sat against the far side of the container, stretching his legs out in front of him. Race sat cross-legged in the middle of the container, leaning back on his hands.

“You’re so cheery all the time.” Spot said.

Race chuckled. “I try.”

“It’s a good thing.” Spot said.

Race could hear the sentiment in his voice. They sat in silence for a moment, breathing in the slightly stale air of the shipping container. Race felt his hands digging into the slightly rusted bottom of the container and he lifted them, rubbing some feeling back into them.

“Do you ever have bad days, Race?” Spot asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Yeah.” Race replied after a minute, taken aback by the question.

“How so?” Spot asked.

“My breathing gets all funny and I don’t want to be around people.” Race said.

“What do you mean?” Spot said.

Race shrugged. “What else is there to say?”

“What do you mean ‘all funny?’” Spot said.

“I mean, my chest hurts and Jack usually makes me leave the room.” Race said.

Spot hummed. Race suddenly became very insecure. Only Jack knew about his bad days. Not even Elmer or Albert knew, and they shared a room.

“Don’t hum at me, I just told you my biggest weakness.” Race said.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” Spot said.

“‘M not.” Race said.

Spot laughed. “C’mere.”

Race scooted over and leaned against the wall next to Spot. He pressed his shoulder against Spot’s.

“I don’t like it when people yell at me.” Spot said after a few moments of slightly uncomfortable silence.

“Nobody does.” Race said.

“Yeah, but I breathe all funny and don’t want to be around people when I get yelled at.”

“The King of Brooklyn, scared of a little shouting?” Race joked, bumping their shoulders together.

Spot was silent for a moment before he chuckled a little bit. “You know, if it was anybody except for you, I would have soaked you until you were black and blue.”

Race laughed. Spot joined in after a second, pushing his shoulder against Race’s again. Race felt that flutter in his stomach and he smiled.

1 year, 5 months before the Strike

Race had finished the afternoon edition and was meandering towards Jacobi’s Deli. He had sold all of his papers, and he was ready to end the day early.

The Delanceys rounded the corner before he could even begin to debate if he wanted a seltzer water.

“Heyo, Antonio!” Morris shouted.

Race winced and ignored him. He turned into an alleyway, picking up the pace as he heard Morris and Oscar walk in behind him.

“Tony! Where ya goin’?” Oscar shouted.

Despite his pride, he began running. He heard two other sets of feet following him and he ran even faster. He could hear the jeers and jests from the brothers as his feet slapped the ground.

He glanced behind him, his heart beating faster as he saw the Delanceys closer than he expected. He could feel that creeping nervousness in his chest, the one that made him breathe funny, the one that made him run faster than ever, the one that—

Suddenly, he slammed into something and hit the ground, hard.

He pressed his chest and face and hands into the concrete, his body barely able to lie sideways in the skinny alleyway. He pressed his cheek hard into the ground, sucking in a breath to brace himself for the Delanceys’ arrival.

“What the hell?” A familiar shout rang through the alley.

Race flipped onto his back, eyes wide. Spot stood over Race, brushing himself off. Race realized that Spot was what he had slammed into, but it didn’t help his panic. Spot turned to him, holding his hand out. Race stared up at him, frozen with fear.

“Race?” Spot said, brow furrowed.

“Tony! What’re you doing with Brooklyn?” Morris shouted.

Race grabbed Spot’s hand and Spot hoisted him up. Spot squeezed his hand slightly, then let go. Race felt a jolt of electricity as Spot took a step towards the Delanceys, squaring his shoulders.

“What are you doing fucking with Manhattan?” Spot asked, his voice taking that level of seriousness that Race envied.

The Delanceys kept walking down the alleyway. Race stood behind Spot, resisting the itch to kick the ground, the urge to sprint away as fast as his legs could take him. Spot was between him and the Delanceys, and he felt a strange sense of safety.

“Are you… are you fucking Manhattan?” Oscar countered, gesturing to the two of them, eyebrows raised.

Morris laughed. Race felt his face burning and he looked down.

“Who are you to protect Tony?” Morris said.

“Who are you to soak him?” Spot retaliated.

“Just let it be, Brooklyn,” Oscar said, putting his hand out in front of him. “Tony ain’t worth your time.”

Race kicked the ground, staring at the wall.

“Christ, what’s wrong with you?” Morris gestured to Race.

Race’s heart plummeted. He could take this if he was alone. Hell, he could take it if he was with any of his Manhattan newsies. But not in front of Spot.

Spot smacked the arm stuck out toward them to the side, making Morris raise his eyebrows. “Get out of here.” Spot snapped, his voice becoming less level.

“Big words from a little man.” Morris said.

Suddenly, Spot’s fist shot forwards and struck Morris in the face. Race barely had any time to react before Morris hit the ground and Oscar was beginning to shout. Race grabbed Spots' other hand and yanked him along with him as he began running.

He could hear Oscar shouting after them, but neither of them looked back. Race led Spot through the alleyways, weaving in and out of streets he barely walked on. He didn’t even realize where he was running to until he was almost completely over the Brooklyn Bridge. He felt Spot’s hand in his and he ran to the docks, running through the shipping containers until he dragged Spot into the familiar rusted red one.

“Why did you do that?” Race said to Spot, his chest heaving.

“Why did you run? We could have taken them!” Spot said.

“I didn’t want to fight them!” Race said, his harsh breathing bouncing off of the metal walls.

“Then why did you involve me?”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“You ran right into me! I was waiting for you, and you lead them to our spot!” Spot said.

“I didn’t want to fight, just get away!” Race said.

“What are you, a coward?” Spot said.

“No, I just—” Race stuttered.

“Why didn’t you fight back then?” Spot’s voice grew louder.

“I just didn’t want to!” Race said. He winced when he realized how high his voice had gotten, his chest moving quickly. He put a hand to it, surprising himself when he realized how quick it was moving.

Spot’s face crumpled into an expression of concern, the faint light in the storage container filling each crease in his brow. “Sit.”

Race did, and Spot sat next to him. Spot bumped Race’s shoulder with his, encouraging him. Race took a breath, his lungs filling

Race went to take his hat off, but realized he couldn’t move his hand. It was still laced with Spot’s, their hands holding each other. Spot seemed to notice this as well, and squeezed his hand.

Race felt an emotion he couldn’t describe. Something in between butterflies and nausea.

“You were waiting for me?” Race asked.

Spot looked over to him, a smile on his face. Race felt a surge of the butterfly-nausea as Spot’s whole face softened.

Spot shrugged, his shoulder moving against Race’s. “Can’t start the afternoon without you following me.”

“I didn’t mean to drag you all the way across Manhattan.” Race said after a minute.

“Well, I did mean to punch that guy.” Spot said.

Race snorted. “Does your hand hurt?” Race asked.

“Nah.” Spot answered.

They sat there for a few moments, and Race tried to not think too hard about Spot’s hands in his. His hand was warm, his fingers loosely holding Race’s. He could feel Spot’s callouses on the pads of his fingers.

“Tony? That’s your real name?” Spot said.

“Antonio Higgins.” Race said.

“Antonio ‘Race’ Higgins.”

“Racetrack.” Race said.

“Antonio ‘Racetrack’ Higgins.” Spot said. He drew out each and every syllable, making Race’s heart beat faster.

“Don’t wear it out.” Race said.

“My fucking god, I’ve learned so much about you today.” Spot said after a minute of silence.

“What’s your name?” Race said.

“We ain’t there yet, Race.” Spot said.

“That ain’t fair, you know my name!” Race said.

Spot chuckled, squeezing Race’s hand again. Race felt his stomach flutter and he squeezed back.

“All in good time, Racer.”

1 year, 2 months before the Strike

Race and Spot were lying on top of the container. It was dark, the moon new and barely able to be seen in the sky. The stars were bright, but not bright enough to light their faces or anything with great detail. Spot had taken Race’s hand a few moments ago while they were talking much to Race’s delight. Spot’s hand was warm, the callouses surprisingly comfortable against his palm. Now, they just lay in silence.

They didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was long enough where Race yawned and put an arm over his eyes.

“I’m so goddamn tired.” Race said.

“What for?” Spot asked.

“Albert and Elmer have been up late, and JoJo hurt himself again. Oh, and Jack’s been up at his penthouse and not dealing with the littles.” Race yawned.

Spot hummed. He squeezed Race’s hand, making Race’s heart flutter like it did every time.

“Come back to Brooklyn.” Spot said suddenly.

“Huh?” Race said.

“Come back with me.” Spot said.

“I’m already in Brooklyn.” Race said, his muddled brain not grasping at what Spot was saying.

“No, back to the lodging.” Spot said.

Race’s body went cold and he froze. As if Spot could sense his sudden panic, he squeezed Race’s hand and propped himself up on his elbows, turning towards him.

“Just sleeping. I have my own room because I’m leader, nobody will bother you.” Spot said.

Race let out a thoughtful sound that sounded much more like he was just in pain.

“You also don’t have to walk all the way back to Manhattan if you come to the lodging with me.” Spot said.

Race smiled. “Yeah, okay.”

The walk over was a quiet one. They had jumped down from the roof of the storage container, and Spot had taken his hand and led him out of the dockyard. Race was tripping over his feet, just trying to keep his eyes open.

“There’s a fire escape on the far side of the building. There’s a cracked window three flights up, that’s mine. I’ll be there in a minute.” Spot said.

Race looked up at the lodgehouse. It was far bigger than the Manhattan one, with several more floors and about twice as wide. Race nodded and squeezed Spot’s hand, going to move around back of the lodgehouse.

He climbed the fire escape, his legs burning. He found the window and sat on the landing right outside it, waiting. He could hear Spot shouting and footsteps running up the stairs, hoots and hollers echoing around the entire lodgehouse.

Race smiled, closing his eyes. He just listened for Spot’s shouts and heard shouts in response. More feet stepping onto staircases, doors slamming.

After a few moments of quiet, the window slid open.

“C’mon in, Racer.” Spot said.

Race tried to enter the window as gracefully as possible, wincing as he nearly faceplanted as he tripped. Spot caught him just in time, pushing him onto the bed. Spot’s soft chuckle made his heart pitter-patter.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” Spot said.

“No, you won’t.” Race stood.

“You aren’t sleeping on the floor.” Spot said, pushing at Race’s head.

“Neither of us are sleeping on the floor.” Race said, pushing at Spot back.

Race toed off his shoes and took his hat off, throwing them in the corner. He looked at Spot, who was standing there with a red face.

“Come on.” Race whispered.

Spot shrugged and took off his shoes, hat, and stood awkwardly by his bed. He laid down on his side after a moment, pushing himself up against the wall. Race laid down next to him, almost falling off of the bed.

They were face-to-face, though pointedly not looking at each other. Inches apart, though not touching. They laid there for a few moments before Spot let out a frustrated sigh.

“Come here.” Spot said.

He scooted towards Race, pulling him close by the shoulders. Race pushed himself into Spot’s chest, making Spot fall onto his back with a grunt. Race tucked his hands under Spot’s shoulders and Spot wrapped his arms around Race’s waist.

Race was lying half-on, half-off Spot, his face tucked into his neck. Their chests were pressed together, separated by Race’s thin shirt. Race’s body moved up and down slowly with Spot’s breathing, and he smiled into Spot’s neck.

“Too forward?” Spot asked after a minute.

“No.” Race sighed, letting his eyes close.

Spot laughed a little bit, linking his fingers in the small of Race’s back. Race sighed again, feeling his body relaxing in Spot’s embrace.

It wasn’t perfect. Spot’s knee was pressing into Race’s thigh, his hands were falling asleep where they were tucked under Spot’s shoulders, and Race couldn’t adjust the hair that was falling into his face without disturbing Spot.

But to Race, it was the most perfect thing in the world. He was warm, the heavy weight of Spot’s arms making him relaxed. He opted to shuffle closer, feeling his bones turn to mush.

After a few moments, Race was twitching. Spot wasn’t sleepy at all, but was content to lie on his bed, listening to his newsies upstairs and to Race’s breathing. Race’s hair tickled the underside of his chin, making him smile at the softness. He moved one of his hands, going to brush the hair away.

Race stirred, making Spot freeze. Race let out a small puff of air and buried his face further into Spot’s neck.

Spot felt his heart soar.

1 year before the Strike
Selling was going slowly. Another boring headline, another half-assed written front page. Race had sold about a third of his bag, and he knew that he wouldn’t have enough for dinner tonight. He sighed, stretching his arms.

“Heya Racer.” A voice came.

Race turned to see Jack. Jack sauntered up next to him, throwing an arm around him. Race laughed as Jack nearly shoved him down.

“Heya Jacky.” Race said. Race threw his arm around Jack’s shoulder as well, squeezing him into his side.

“How’s it going?” Jack asked.

“Not well. Another boring headline.” Race groaned.

“Jeez, Race, you’ve still got so many left!” Jack said. “Is your head in this?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired.”

“Well, you’ve taken to sleeping not in the lodging, so of course you are.” Jack said pointedly.

Race blushed. Jack looked at him and laughed.

“I knew it! The others didn’t believe me, but I knew it.” Jack said.

Race’s blood went cold and he felt the color drain from his face. “What?”

“You’re seeing some broad.” Jack said.

Race let out a relieved laugh.

“C’mon Racer, what’s her name?” Jack said.

“None of your business.” Race said.

Jack moaned and dragged Race in a circle. Race laughed and ducked out of his half-embrace, dodging Jack’s hands that tried to grab at his shirt.

“C’mon Race…” Jack said.

“Nope.” Race said.

Jack groaned. “I’ll take all your papers and buy you dinner if you tell me?”

“No way in hell.” Race said.

“Fine. But let me know if you’re gonna be away for more than a few days, alright Racer? Don’t disappear again.” Jack said.

Race smiled and nodded.

9 months before the Strike

Race was lying on top of Spot.

Since their first night together, Race rarely slept back in Manhattan. Ever since Jack had given him that weird half-blessing, he had taken it in stride.

Race would tell Jack at some point that it was Spot, just not soon. Now, he was just lying with him on a warm night. He was comfortable, not too hot, not too cold.

Spot held him close, Race’s nose tucked into Spot’s neck. Spot’s hands were splayed on Race’s back, rubbing slowly. Race’s arms were around Spot’s shoulders, their legs intertwined.

“I don’t know where Jack thinks I am.” Race commented offhandedly.

“He sure as hell doesn’t know I’m the one who has taken his number two away from him.” Spot said.

“You haven’t taken me away from anything. I’d just be sleeping with Elmer and Albert, but now they’ve just got an empty bed.” Race said, his voice muffled by Spot’s neck.

“Are you comfortable here?” Spot asked.

“Yeah. Most comfortable.” Race muttered.

Their breaths were synced, falling asleep together. Spot’s hands had stopped moving, his arms twitching every now and then.

“Spot!” A shout came from downstairs.

Race startled, pushing himself up on his elbows. Spot looked up at him, eyes wide.

“Hide.” Spot said.

Race clambered off of the bed, hiding in the corner behind the door just as it opened.

A newsie poked his head in. He had a shock of blond hair that stood up straight. Race knew that his name was Ducky, one of Spot’s seconds.

“Laces is hurt.” Ducky said. As if on cue, a shout of pain came from downstairs. Race winced. It reminded him of Elmer when he got hurt.

“I’ll be down in a minute.” Spot said.

Ducky nodded and left, slamming the door. Race left the corner, gesturing to the door.

“Go take care of your kid.” Race said.

“I’m sorry.” Spot said.

“No worries.” Race pulled his shoes on, settling his cap on his head. He opened the window and planted his feet on the fire escape. Spot crossed the room to close the window after him.

“Goodnight.” Spot said.

“Hey.” Race said.

Spot paused, and Race noticed how close they were.

“Can I kiss you?” Race said.

Spot flushed red.

He nodded.

Race put a hand on the back of Spot’s neck and Spot barely had time to close his eyes before Race kissed him. Spot put his hands on Race’s waist, squeezing gently as Race pushed closer. Race moved his thumb across the nape of Spot’s neck. Spot smiled against Race’s mouth, making Race smile as well.

Race pulled away, face bright red. He pressed a kiss to Spot’s forehead. He lingered for a moment, rubbing the nape of Spot’s neck again before pulling away and pressing their foreheads together.

“Go take care of your kid.” Race whispered.

“Okay.” Spot whispered back.

Race smiled at him through half-lidded eyes. He made to leave, but Spot pulled him close again, kissing him once more.

“Bye.” Spot said.

Race couldn’t find his voice, he just smiled a toothy smile. He ducked out of the window, taking the steps down the fire escape three at a time.

If Spot smiled like an idiot for a few minutes before leaving his room, there was nobody there to judge him.

7 months before the Strike

Race and Spot were sitting across from each other at Jacobi’s. Spot had his normal seltzer water and Race was sipping his regular water, feet propped up on the table. Race’s eyes were fluttering shut.

“Sean.” Spot’s voice came quietly.

Race’s eyes popped open. “Huh?”

“Sean Conlon.” Spot said.

Spot was staring out the window. He was gripping his seltzer water tightly, taking a long sip. Race smiled and took his feet off of the table. He kicked Spot’s shin under the table lightly, making Spot laugh.

“Sean.” Race said.

“But you never call me that.” Spot said.

“Understood.” Race said, smiling wider.

“Sap.” Spot said, kicking Race’s shin back.

Race kicked at Spot again, who retaliated quickly, making Race let out a peal of laughter.

5 months before the Strike

Jack was pissed.

Race, for the first time, could understand why.

Spot had refused to help one of the Manhattan newsies. JoJo was in Brooklyn getting a pastrami on rye and had mouthed off one of the Brooklyn newsies, so the newsie had soaked him. Needless to say, JoJo had arrived black, blue, and bloody with a warning from Spot to stay out of Brooklyn. Jack had cleaned him up, calmed him down, and listened to the story. He had then sent Mush to go get Spot, making Race stay with JoJo.

Personally, Race couldn’t decide whether the little bitch JoJo deserved it or if he was pissed out of his mind.

Spot arrived about a half an hour later, face red and arms quivering.

“What could you possibly want this late at night?” Spot snapped.

“I’ve told you so many times that you cannot fuck with my kids.” Jack said.

“I didn’t.” Spot said.

“Yes, you did. Well, your kids did.” Jack spat, crossing over to him.

“You get so pissy about me coming on your turf, your kids should know not to come onto mine. Go fuck yourself, Kelly.” Spot said, turning to leave.

Race turned to Jack and shrugged. Jack rolled his eyes and slammed his hand against the wall.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Jack shouted.

Race winced and he saw Spot’s shoulders forcibly stay down. Race felt his heart begin to beat fast as Spot whipped around. His face was still hard as a rock, but Race knew otherwise was brewing under the skin.

“Excuse you?” Spot said.

“I said who the fuck do you think you are!” Jack shouted.

Spot opened his mouth to answer, but Jack took a step towards him. Spot bit the inside of his lip and Race saw his muscles tense.

“You’re a stuck up-piece of shit. You don’t deserve to be the leader of Brooklyn.” Jack shouted.

Spot just stared at Jack. Race could see the fear in his shoulders, in the quiver of his hands.

“You’re a selfish, sorry excuse for a leader. Who do you think you are, the goddamned king of Brooklyn?” Jack shouted, his voice straining.

“I ain’t no king. I’m the fuckin’ leader of Brooklyn, and you don’t have to like me to respect that.” Spot said.

“I don’t like you, I don’t respect you, you’re a traitorous son of a bitch.” Jack spat.

Spot seemed to grow a foot and a half. He tilted his head back, taking a step toward Jack and crossing his arms. Race could see Jack falter, but Spot just stood tall.

“You do not speak to me like that. Do you understand?” Spot said. His voice was even and low. He didn’t slur his words, he wasn’t speaking with contractions. Race felt scared shitless, but also a strange sense of pride.

Jack didn’t respond.

“I asked you if you understood me or not. It is a yes or no answer.” Spot said.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I understand.” Jack said.

Race could feel eyes on him. He knew the people in the room were JoJo, Crutchie and Albert. Jack was getting chewed out by his least favorite person, and all eyes were on Race.

“Good. Stay off of my turf, don’t fuck with my boys. Your demands go both ways. Do you understand?” Spot said.

“Yes, I understand.” Jack said.

“Good. Glad we talked.” Spot said.

He turned on his heel and left before Jack could say anything. Jack turned to Race a moment later, eyes much less angry than he figured.

“He’s got a point.” Jack said.

“Yeah.” Race said.

“Don’t go fucking with Brooklyn anymore, got it JoJo?” Jack said.

JoJo nodded, looking sheepish. Race scrubbed his head, standing and stretching.

“Racer.” Jack said.

Race looked at him. There was a look on his face that Race couldn’t place, a weird little smile and a strange glint in his eyes.

“Make sure he makes it across the bridge. Don’t matter if you come back on time.” Jack said to him lowly.

Race felt his face heat up and he ducked it, running out of the lodging.

He caught up with Spot a few minutes later, falling into step next to him. Spot was staring straight ahead, shoulders locked as far down as they could get, and lips pressed tightly together. Race stayed quiet as he followed Spot across the bridge. His steps were in line with Spot’s, surprising due to the height difference.

They crossed the bridge in record time, and Spot turned immediately to go towards the docks. Race followed Spot, constantly making sure nobody was following them. He looked all around before ducking and following Spot into the shipping container.

As soon as Race had stood up straight, Spot pulled him into a fierce hug. Spot had never hugged him, but here he was, pressing his face into his chest and gripping the back of his shirt tightly.

Race recovered from the initial shock swiftly, squeezing him back. Spot shuddered in Race’s arms, pressing his face further into Race’s shoulder. Race pushed Spot’s hat off, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck and setting his chin on Spot’s head.

Spot sighed, his shoulders shaking on the exhale.

“You okay?” Race asked.

“Yeah.” Spot said.

“You’re lying.” Race said.

“It’s like I was in the refuge.” Spot said after a moment. Race walked them to the side of the container, sitting them down.

Spot settled in next to him, leaning up against the side of the storage container. Race pressed their shoulders together.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, just breathing. In the dark of the container and night, Race couldn’t see a thing.

“What happened there?” Race asked.

He could almost hear Spot tensing up. Race couldn’t see his face, but judging by the sharp intakes of breath, he wasn’t too relaxed.

“Spot?” Race asked.

“Nothing, really.” Spot said. “It was a shitty time just like how everyone else experienced.”

“Spot,” Race said, “You don’t have to tell me, but I’m…”

Race hesitated. He could feel Spot hesitating too.

“I’m concerned.” Race said.

“I don’t need you to baby me.” Spot said.

“I know,” Race hesitated, “But I care.”

Spot sat in silence for a minute. Their breaths were in sync, and Race couldn’t help but wonder if their heartbeats were too.

“They figured out how to get to me quickly.” Spot said.

Race sat in silence, waiting for him to go on.

“They realized early on that they could just shout at me and I would do anything they wanted me to,” Spot shuddered, “And they needed someone who knew the streets.”

Race felt his stomach lurch at the thought of Spot standing under Snyder. He fumbled in the dark for Spot’s hand, grabbing it when he made contact. He heard Spot’s intake of breath waver. He wasn’t surprised to feel Spot’s hand shaking.

“They wanted kids off the street, so they would send me out to find them. I didn’t do my job well. On purpose. I don’t think they ever figured that out.” Spot said.

Race sat quietly.

“But sometimes the kids were found no matter what, and then they would see me with the Spider, and they thought I was a rat.” Spot said.

Race squeezed Spot’s hand.

“I never told them any names, the dumb kids would get caught themselves.” Spot said.

Race still sat silently.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Spot asked.

“No, you’ve still got more to say.” Race said.

“No, I don’t.” Spot said vehemently.

Race squeezed his hand. He could feel Spot shake more.

“I thought I would get used to the shouting, but I never did.” Spot said. His voice was small, making Race’s heart hurt. “I didn’t, obviously. I still get scared shitless when people yell at me. Whether it’s Jack, or Ducky, or—”

“How did you get out?” Race interrupted the rising panic in Spot’s voice. He squeezed Spot’s hand.

Spot took a steadying breath. “One day when they let me out onto the streets, I decided to not go back. I became more scared of the kids and what they would do rather than what the Spider would do to me. I crossed to Brooklyn and stayed in this shipping container for a few days until Red found me.” Spot said.

“How?” Race asked before he could think.

“Shipping containers don’t cry.” Spot said.

Race felt his stomach plummet. He bit his lip, staring into the darkness of the container.

“Then, after a few days of being sick, and a few weeks of training, I was a Brooklyn newsie. And I never looked back.” Spot said.

He felt Spot’s head lean against his shoulder. They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the boats and the workers shouting in the distance. Race absently rubbed his thumb across Spot’s hand.

“I’ve never told anyone that before.” Spot whispered.

Race winced. “Not Ducky or Red?”

“No.” Spot said.

Race winced again, trying not to feel a pit in his stomach.

“Say something.” Spot said.

“What do you want me to say?” Race said.

“Anything.” Spot said. His voice was quivering.

“I didn’t like any of the headlines this week.” Race said.

Spot hesitated next to him. Then he let out a snort.

“No, really. I’m getting tired of all these crooked politicians.” Race said.

Spot eased into Race’s shoulder a little more.

“I mean, I’m frustrated with the people in charge being crooks.” Race said.

Spot nodded into Race’s shoulder. Race tucked an arm around him, practically pulling him into his lap. Spot was still tense, his muscles quivering. Race pressed a kiss to Spot’s forehead, pushing back the dark hair. Spot practically melted and put his face into Race’s neck, his own hands now limp in his own lap. Spot’s eyes were closed against the skin of Race’s neck, his breathing slower now.

“Can you come back to Brooklyn?” Spot asked.

“Yeah,” Race said, “Do you want to go now?”

“Just a few more minutes.” Spot said.

“We can pick this up back at Brooklyn.” Race said.

Spot stayed silent.

“Okay, just a few more minutes.” Race whispered.

Spot sighed, bringing his hand up to the back of Race’s neck. He pulled himself closer to Race, making Race’s heart beat faster. Spot chuckled and moved his hand to Race’s pulse on his neck.

“Your heart is beating fast.”

“You—”

“Don’t be a sap.” Spot said.

Race could hear the smile in his voice. Race squeezed him against his chest, rubbing his side.

“I’m ready.” Spot said a few moments later.

Race nodded. Spot stood and helped Race up, not letting go of his hand as they stepped outside the container. It was almost pitch-black outside, and Spot squeezed his hand instead of letting go.

Race smiled.

They arrived at the Brooklyn lodging, Race letting go of his hand and heading for the alleyway. He climbed the fire escape, leaning against the window of Spot’s small single.

A few moments passed, before Spot opened the window.

“It’s cold outside. Stay here, I still have work to do.” Spot said.

Race nodded. Spot left the room, closing the door behind him. Race toed his shoes off, putting them in the corner with his hat. He took off his belt and sat cross-legged at the edge of Spot’s bed, staring out at the night.

He could hear shouting from downstairs, and Spot’s level voice cutting through it all. He smiled as he could almost hear the sheepishness of the feet going up to the floors above, Spot lecturing them all the way up.

Race could hear Spot saying something to someone right outside the door. A voice answered, probably Ducky. A moment later, Spot opened the door.

“Hey.” Race said.

Spot smiled weakly, closing the door behind him. He collapsed onto the bed, moving the blankets to the side. He opened his arms.

Race crawled on top of him, pulling the blankets over them both. They moved to their normal positions, Race almost entirely on top of Spot with Spot’s arms around his waist. Spot’s embrace was looser than normal, though, and he buried his face deeper into Race’s neck.

“Okay?” Race asked.

Spot hesitated. “Could… could you…” Spot let out a frustrated sigh.

Race pushed himself up on his hands. Spot’s face was red, his eyes screwed shut.

“Scoot over.” Race said.

Spot looked up at him. Race nudged him with his elbow. Spot smiled gently, his face the softest Race had ever seen. He turned to the side and Race laid down in front of him. Spot buried himself into Race’s chest, letting out a shuddering sigh.

“Okay?” Race said after a moment.

Spot nodded.

Race pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Spot moved his face out of Race’s neck, looking up at him.

“Can I kiss you?” Spot asked.

“Yeah.” Race said, using his fingers to tilt Spot’s face up.

Spot pressed their lips together gently, and Race could feel his eyes close. They lingered for a moment before Spot pulled away.

Before he tucked his face back into Race’s neck, Race got a good look at him.

His face wasn’t as hard as it normally is, his eyebrows were relaxed and his eyes weren’t screwed shut, they were just gently closed. His face was flushed ever so slightly, but the bags under his eyes contrasted that.

Spot tucked his face into Race’s neck, his breathing slow against it. Race rubbed Spot’s back, sighing as Spot completely relaxed into his arms. He threw a leg over Spot’s, making him shudder with relief and press even closer to Race.

Race pressed one more kiss to his forehead, smiling against it.

“Okay?” Race whispered.

Spot nodded, letting out a sigh.

“Okay.” Race said.

1 month before the Strike

“What did you think of today’s paper?” Spot asked.

“It was okay. A little boring, there wasn’t much to sell about.” Race replied.

They were lying on top of the shipping container, hands intertwined in between them. The night sky was brighter than expected tonight, what with the full moon and all. Spot had found Race in the shipping container, and they had moved up to the roof once the night had come.

They were talking about nothing and everything, from the color of Spot’s eyes to whether or not Mush was gonna be taller than Jack when he’s full grown. Race thought so, and Spot wasn’t so sure. Race had cited the fact that Mush was almost taller than Spot and earned him a punch in the gut.

“The newspapers are getting more and more boring.” Spot complained.

“I agree, like come on, we’re busting our asses for some shitty story on whether or not people think houses are expensive.” Race said.

Spot chuckled. “You’re cute when you’re angry.” He said, squeezing his hand.

Race hesitated. He tilted his head, looking at the stars crookedly.

“What’s wrong?” Spot asked.

“You don’t like it when I’m actually angry though.” Race said.

It was Spot’s turn to hesitate. Race began rubbing Spot’s hand, squeezing it. Spot scooted closer to where Race was lying on the roof, pressing their arms together.

“I don’t like it when anyone is angry.” Spot said.

“I know that.” Race said.

Spot stayed silent.

“I’m not gonna make you say anything. You’ve told me the gist. But I am here.” Race said.

Spot propped himself up on his elbows. In the bright light of the moon, Race could see Spot’s smile.

“I know.” Spot said. “Can I kiss you?”

Race nodded. Spot pressed a kiss to his lips. It was drawn out, but still short, filling Race’s stomach with butterflies as if they haven’t kissed like this dozens of times. Spot pulled away, eyes closed. Race brought a hand up to Spot’s face.

“You’re handsome.” Race muttered.

Spot, still with his eyes closed, smiled and blushed. He planted his forehead on Race’s chest and chuckled.

“No, really.” Race said. He could almost feel Spot blushing.

“You’re such a sap.” Spot said.

Race scrubbed the back of Spot’s head.

“I love you.” Spot said.

Race’s hand froze. He let out a chuckle and pushed Spot up. Spot had a smile on his face, but it was fading quickly. His eyes looked everywhere but Race, making Spot smile a gentle smile of relief. Race touched Spot’s face and let out a huff of a laugh.

“I thought I was gonna say it first.” Race said.

“Well do you want to?” Spot said, smirking.

“Want to what?”

“Say it.” Spot said softly.

“I love you.” Race said.

Spot smiled widely, his face almost splitting in half. He put his face into Race’s chest again, chuckling.

“Stop hiding,” Race whined.

Spot laughed again, rolling onto his back next to Race. Their hands were still interlocked.

Day of the Strike

His head was pounding. His nose was bleeding profusely, his eye aching, his fists bloody. He winced with every step he ran, feeling his feet slam into the pavement. He felt his lungs aching, his body crying out as he ran faster and faster to his hideaway. Spot’s hideaway. Their hideaway.

Race ducked into the storage container, his head swimming.

“Where the fuck were you.” Race spat at the figure at the back of the storage container.

Spot turned to him. He didn’t have his hat, his hands were on his waist.

“Brooklyn.” Spot said.

“Really.” Race snapped sarcastically, crossing his arms.

“You can be mad.” Spot said.

“I’m not mad. I’m fucking crushed, Conlon.” Race said.

Spot stayed silent in the container. Race felt a snarl come to his face, and his eyes filled with tears. His eye was slowly swelling shut and he wiped at his nosebleed.

“They got Crutchie. They almost got Les, Davey’s beside himself.” Race said. He tried to keep his voice level, but he felt a pang in his heart and he fought against the urge to collapse into Spot’s arms, pulling him close, hugging him tight—

“Oh, god.” Spot said.

“I don’t know if Crutch can survive the refuge.” Race said, recentering in his anger.

“He will.”

“What the fuck do you care?” Race said.

“He’s your friend, your brother,” Spot said, “Of course I care.”

“If you cared you would have been by my side.” Race said.

“You know I couldn’t.” Spot said. He took a step towards Race and Race took a step back.

“Why though? All you say is that you can’t.” Race said. He felt a pang of anger.

“My kids are so, so young, Race, I—”

“So you couldn’t come?” Race said.

Spot let out a frustrated breath. “You think I’m gonna take a bunch of 8-year-olds to a strike? Or do you want me to take the three kids I have over the age of 16 and just hope that none of them get taken to the refuge, or fuckin’ worse? Or do you want me to come by myself, and hope that Jack doesn’t turn me over to the bulls?”

“You don’t think I want to help get your kids off the street!” Race shouted.

“Me putting my kids in danger isn’t going to help them.” Spot said. His voice was so level and calm and Race felt himself grow even angrier.

“We won’t win without you.” Race tried not to beg.

“I know.” Spot said.

“So you do know!” Race shouted.

“But your leader is a daydreamer for a city across the country, and his new number two is a priss who attends private school.” Spot said.

Race prickled. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I need to know they are both in for the long run before I do anything.”

“Are you calling them a bunch of scabbers?”

“I’ll call the bastards anything I want.” Spot said.

Race took large steps towards Spot, growling under his breath. Spot’s shoulders hiked up to his ears, and he put a hand up. Race could barely see Spot, but he knew what his face looked like. Race walked close enough where Spot’s back was cemented against the wall, his hand pressing into Race’s chest.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Race shouted.

Spot let out a pained sound. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? You’re the selfish bastard who couldn’t be bothered to show up for the newsies. For me.” Race got right up close to Spot’s face.

“Race.” Spot was badly masking his panic. Race felt a sharp pain in his stomach and he took a step back.

“I could have died! My friends could have died!” Race shouted.

“Race.”

“Was I just entertainment? Something you never actually cared about?” Race said. His throat was starting to hurt.

“Race.” Spot was trembling, Race could even tell in the dark.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think I am, but I ain’t someone you can just play around with.” Race knew that cut deep, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His tears were almost spilling over, his chest tighter than ever, and he squeezed his fists tight.

“Antonio.” Spot’s voice was shaking.

He loved the way Spot said his name.

“No.” Race spat.

He turned and ran, ducking out of the storage container. He took off like a shot, ignoring Spot’s shouts after him. He ran faster and faster, feeling his legs pumping under him. He felt his eye swelling up and he groaned against the pain in his calves.

Tears were pouring down his face, and he wiped them away furiously.

He didn’t remember the run back to Manhattan, all that his legs and lungs were burning when he entered the lodging.

“Racer!” Albert called to him.

Albert had Mush in his lap, pressing a cloth to his eye. Race felt his heart ache, seeing all of his newsies hurt.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Race asked.

“Now everyone is. Except for, except…” Albert screwed his eyes shut, patting at Mush’s eye again.

Race nodded, shoving at Albert’s head, making him chuckle wetly. Specs was stitching up a wincing JoJo in the other corner. Blink was curled up near the heater, his arm bandaged. Elmer appeared for a moment, locking eyes with Albert. They stared at each other for a moment, before Albert nodded. Elmer grabbed a bandage from Specs before running back up the stairs.

“Look at Finch.” Albert said.

Race nodded, turning to Finch who was leaning up against the wall next to him. He wasn’t bleeding, but he was doubled over.

“Sit up, kid.” Race said.

Finch groaned, but did. Race felt along his ribs, glad when he felt nothing broken. He nodded, brushing Finch’s hair out of his face.

“Go upstairs, get some sleep.” Race said.

Finch nodded, walking up the stairs. Suddenly, someone else stepped in the lodgehouse. Race jerked around, grabbing the person’s collar and pushing them against the wall before he registered who it was.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The kid said.

Race didn’t recognize him. Albert appeared at his side, also glaring at the kid.

“Who are you?” Albert snapped.

“Laces, from Brooklyn.” The kid said.

“Why are you here?” Albert said.

“Your next move, Brooklyn is behind you.” Laces said.

“Really.” Race said.

“Really!” Laces shouted in Race’s face.

“Great. Now get the fuck out of Manhattan.” Race said, letting go of the kid.

“Racer.” Albert said. Race sighed.

“Thank you for your support. We will keep Brooklyn updated.” Race said.

He turned on his heel, stalking up the stairs. He felt the newsies’ eyes on him, but he ignored it. The rest of the newsies had been taken care of before he got here, and he needed to go to bed.

“Race?” Albert said as he entered the room.

Elmer was already asleep on the top bunk. Race stood on his tiptoes and checked on him, a sudden burst of panic telling him to check if Elmer was actually breathing. He was, he was asleep, he was safe.

“Race.” Albert said.

“Yeah?” Race said.

“Are you okay?” Albert asked.

Race shrugged.

“Me too.” Albert said.

Race tucked his shoes under his bunk, pulling off his hat and kicking it under as well. He heard a sniffle, and he turned to see Albert sitting on his bunk, face in his hands.

“It’s okay, we will figure it out.” Race said.

“Will we?” Albert asked softly.

“Yes.” Race said, “Sleep.”

Albert sniffled again, but laid down, facing the wall.

Race stayed awake all night, listening to his newsies. He could hear Albert trying to stay quiet and he was about to say something, anything, when he heard Elmer climb down the bunk bed ladder. In his peripheral, and in the dark, he saw Elmer gather Albert in his arms and lay them both down.

Race felt his stomach sinking, and he missed Spot. He was met with a chill as he realized that he would not be going on a walk with him anytime soon.

Day of the Rally

When Spot walked in with his newsies, the only thing Race felt was a pit in his stomach. He could barely look at him. Spot didn’t look at him a single time, not when he entered, shook Davey’s hand, commanded the crowd with one clench of his fist.

“I forgot how fuckin’ scary Spot is.” Elmer whispered next to him.

“Ah, he ain’t so bad. Just kinda scary-looking.” Albert said.

If only they knew.

Everything got even worse.

Race watched as Jack told them not to do it.

He watched as he took the money from one of Pulitzer’s men.

He watched as Spot’s face fell and turned into one of anger.

He watched as Elmer and Albert grabbed each other’s arms, hard faces barely masking the pain of betrayal.

Everything went to hell, and Race saw Davey’s disappointment before running faster than he ever had in his life.

Race was sitting in the storage container when Spot entered. His face was pressed into his knees and he sighed. He pulled himself into a tighter ball, hands gripping at his thighs.

“Race?” Spot whispered.

“Who else?” Race said.

He could feel Spot hesitate, the air around them tense. Spot sat next to him. He didn’t sit close enough to touch shoulders like they normally did, and something inside Race snapped in two.

“I’m so sorry.” Race whispered.

“You’re alright.” Spot said.

“I should never have said those things to you. I am so sorry.” Race said.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You trusted me not to hurt you and I did.” Race felt his voice trembling.

“We can talk about this later.” Spot said.

“I want to talk about it now.” Race said.

“After that disaster?” Spot said.

Race sighed. He pressed his face into his knees. His eyes began to prickle.

He did want to talk about it. He did want to talk about how he hurt Spot, how he did what he promised he wouldn’t do. He didn’t want to talk about Jack. He didn’t want to talk about the rally, or the strike, or the fact that he was going to have to lead the Manhattan newsies if he never saw Jack again.

What if he never saw Jack again?

“It’s okay, Race. You’re okay.” Spot said.

“I’m not, though. You were right about Jack.” Race said. He could feel his breath going all funny, his chest beginning to burn, but not like when he ran. His tears welled up dangerously.

“I don’t want to be.” Spot said.

Race shuddered. “I can’t do this.”

“You’re alright.” Spot said, putting a hand on Race’s shoulder.

Race pushed him off, shoving him aside. He heard Spot gasp slightly, and he winced at himself. Spot shifted to press his shoulder to Race’s. Race choked back a sob, desperately trying to stay calm.

“Don’t touch me.” Race said. He tried to wriggle away but couldn’t get far away enough.

“Do you want me to leave?” Spot whispered after a moment. He sounded so heartbroken.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Race whimpered.

“You won’t. You haven’t.” Spot said.

Race lifted his head, staring at Spot. “I already did.”

“No, you—”

“Don’t lie to me. I know I hurt you. I know what I did was fucked up.” Race said.

“Race, I’m okay. I’m alright.” Spot said.

“I should not have—” Race’s voice was trembling, he had to cut himself off.

“Race.” Spot said.

Spot put a hand on Race’s shoulder and refused to move his hand when Race tried to squirm away. Spot moved closer to Race, pressing their shoulders together. Race moved his head, facing away from Spot. Spot laid his head on Race’s shoulder, however, and didn’t move.

Race’s breath was making his shoulders jerk up and down. He wasn’t sure how the hell Spot was leaning against him, but he was. He choked down another sob.

“Oh, Race…” Spot whispered.

“Jack’s a fuckin’ traitor. Crutchie’s gone. Davey’s done. I can’t do this by myself.” Race said.

“Race.” Spot said. Race tried to not think too hard about how much Spot was shaking.

“They’re all gone, Spot.” Race said, tears threatening to spill.

Spot tucked an arm around Race’s shoulder, pulling him close. “Just breathe.” Spot whispered.

Race let his tears fall as he pushed his face into Spot’s shoulder. Spot held him, bringing his other arm around him. Big droplets rolled down his face and onto Spot’s clothing, but somehow Race knew he wouldn’t mind.

They sat in silence for a minute, Race collecting his thoughts. He felt his stomach turning, and he let out a frustrated sigh. Spot reached over and took Race’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

Race’s breathing calmed after an eon, the need to breathe overcoming the burning in his lungs. Spot squeezed his hand, making Race’s heart hurt. Spot’s arm around his shoulders gave him a calm sense of security he felt he didn’t deserve. Race sat up, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

The need to cry had been replaced with a feeling of numbness.

“I need to go back to Manhattan.” Race said.

“I’ll walk you.” Spot said, standing, but not letting go of Race’s hand.

“You don’t have to.”

“Let me. I want to.” Spot said.

“Sean, you—”

“Please.” Spot said.

Race stood and squeezed Spot’s hand.

“Okay.” Race said.

Spot squeezed back.

The walk back was quiet. Neither of them spoke. Spot didn’t let go of Race’s hand, even though the streetlamps were on. Race kept his face forward, refusing to look at Spot. He could feel Spot looking at him, and it hurt.

“I’m sorry.” Race said as the lodging came into view.

“It’s okay.” Spot said.

“It’s really not. There is no excuse, it’s not okay.” Race said.

“Race—”

“I’m so, so sorry.” Race said.

“I forgive you.” Spot said after a moment.

Race turned to him. He was standing tall next to Race, looking right at him. His face was calm, a soft smile on his lips. Spot touched Race’s face, rubbing his cheek softly. Race somehow managed a half smile, feeling slightly better at the idea of Spot not being mad at him.

“Alright.” Race whispered.

Spot brushed his cheek again, smiling. “Go. I’ll see you the next time you need us.”

“Thank you.” Race said.

Spot turned and began walking back. Race watched him go, and after a moment, Spot turned. He gave a little wave before he disappeared down an alleyway.

Race turned to the lodging, sighing as he walked in. The newsies were sitting in the main room, mostly quiet. Albert and Elmer were standing in the corner. JoJo and Mush were crowded around the heater, the other younger newsies just in front of them.

They fell silent as he walked in.

“Hello gents.” Race said.

“Race, where were you?” Elmer said nervously. Race felt a pang at the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Talking with Conlon. He’s with us the next time we need him.” Race said.

“Really?” Albert said excitedly.

“Yep. Gave me his word.” Race said.

The newsies seemed to relax.

“Is his word good?” JoJo asked.

“The best.” Race said without hesitation.

Day of the printing
“Here they come!” Race shouted as he ran into the basement of the printer’s. The Manhattan newsies followed closely behind him, running down to the press. Jack shook each man’s hand as he walked past him.

Race watched as Spot entered the basement, meeting his eyes. Spot smiled a soft smile, descending the stairs and shaking hands with Kelly. Race smiled, feeling his chest swell.

They printed the bulletin, and each newsie ran out to deliver them. Race ran down the middle of the street with Albert and Elmer, throwing the bulletins in the air and whooping. For the first time since this all started, he felt a sense of pride and joy he hadn’t felt since Spot had kissed him for the first time.

He ducked into the alleyway where he always met Spot, shaking Albert and Elmer off. He leaned against the wall, staring up at the night sky. The adrenaline was surging, his heart pounding.

“Race?” Spot’s voice echoed down the alleyway.

Race turned and smiled as Spot walked towards him. “Can I—”

Spot cut him off by cupping his face and crashing their lips together. Spot’s thumbs brushed across Race’s cheekbones, the pads of his fingers squeezing under his ears. Race wrapped his arms around Spot’s back, flattening his palms against it and pulling him close.

Spot deepened the kiss, moving his arms to wrap around Race’s neck. Race smiled into Spot’s mouth, feeling that swell of joy. Spot pulled away, smiling at Race. Spot pushed his face into Race’s shoulder, moving his arms to hug him around his chest. Race laughed lightly, squeezing him and rocking them around on the balls of his feet.

“This is gonna be great.” Spot said.

“You really think so?” Race asked.

“Yes.” Spot said.

Day of the Meeting
Spot had walked into Pulitzer’s office with Davey and Jack about an hour ago. He was standing with Albert and Elmer right by the front, waving back at the people in the office when they approached the window.

Race had locked eyes with Spot when he saw him in the window, and Spot had smiled. It filled Race’s chest with pride, and he smiled back.

“Spot’s smiling.” Elmer said.

“Yeah, maybe it’s going well.” Race said.

“Yeah, maybe.” Elmer said.

Race looked at him, and Elmer smirked. Race socked him in the arm and tried not to blush. Elmer bumped his shoulder, smiling at him. They locked eyes for a moment and Elmer stared at him, a knowing glint in his eyes. Race leaned towards Elmer.

“How’s Albert?” Race whispered.

Elmer elbowed Race in the ribs. “I could ask you the same about Spot.”

Race definitely blushed this time, and he looked up at the window where Spot once stood. He cocked his head and waited.

Moments later, the governor walked out, followed closely by Jack and Davey, and then Spot. Spot searched the crowd for a moment before finding Race, smiling at him. He kept walking, however, and went to rejoin his Brooklyn boys at the edge of the crowd. Race tried not to wince as he realized that most of the kids were shorter than him, save for Ducky and another kid.

Jack and Davey walked over to where Race and the others were standing, huge smiles on their faces.

The governor came out, and the newsies erupted into cheers. Brooklyn with Bronx who mingled with Queens and Manhattan. Race looked around, his chest swelling with pride.

A tentative hand touched his waist lightly. Electricity shot through him and Race turned to see Spot standing next to him. There was a huge smile on his face and Race smiled too.

Race bumped Spot’s shoulder and Spot bumped him back. Hidden in the crowd, Spot took Race’s hand and squeezed it twice.

Race knew everything would be okay.