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Fuck Racetrack Higgins.
Whenever he was around, Spot’s chest started to ache. When he smiled, Spot’s lips automatically wanted to smile back. And when he touched Spot, his heart beat way too fast for it to be legal.
Fuck Racetrack Higgins.
Fuck him and his smirk and his accent and his dancing. Fuck his dreams on their crate and his banter with Spot. Fuck his unfortunately genius brain and his tendency for winning bets and games.
Spot couldn’t handle it any more.
Jojo, his second, was an awful person and a worse friend. He kept smirking when Spot stared at Race and wiggling his eyebrows when they talked and teasing Spot about it non fucking stop.
And now he wanted to talk about it.
“Ya’s head ova’ heels,” they said simply.
It was a crisp late November night. Spot could feel goosebumps rising on his uncovered arms, but he was too stubborn to cover them. Jojo had brought a blanket. Motherfucker.
“No I ain’t!” he protested, a little too loudly. “We’s jus’ friends.”
“Nah, we’s jus’ friends. Ya don’ stare at me all the fuckin’ time or laugh when I make awful jokes.”
“So’s ya admit ya jokes are awful.”
Jojo pointed the cigarette at him. “Don’ change tha’ topics, Spot Conlon. I knows ya, and I knows however ya feels abou’ Racetrack, it ain’t how ya feels abou’ me or Patchie or Hotshot.”
“We’s…real good friends?” Spot tried weakly.
“Dontcha fuckin’ start. Shaddup.”
Spot just sighed.
“I betcha he’s tha’ same,” Jojo offered.
“Mmhm.” Spot flicked Jojo’s side.
“Ow!” He made an offended face and rubbed his ribs. “Tha’ hurted!”
“Ask if I give a fuck,” Spot grumbled.
“Wowie, someone’s in a mood.” Jojo rolled his eyes. “I’s serious. He stares at ya too.”
Spot didn’t flinch. He didn’t. And if he looked up, it was a natural continuation of the conversation. It wasn’t too fast at all.
“He does?”
Fuck.
“Ha!” Jojo crowed. “He admits it!”
“I ain’t admittin’ nothin’.” Spot shifted. “But if he does look at me, wha’...wha’ do tha’ mean?”
Jojo nudged him. “A’ight, I think I’s won. Ya got no tact. But anyway. Prolly means he likes ya.”
Fuck fuck fuck.
Spot gave up. “Whaddya thinks I should do?”
“Ya should tell ‘im!” Jojo grinned much too wide.
“I ain’t tellin’ him shit.”
“Fair,” Jojo conceded. “Ya barely even tells me anythin’.” They thought for a moment. “Then ya’s gotta get him ta’ tell yous.”
Spot gave a particular stare. Fortunately, Jojo could read him well enough to know that meant go on.
“Ya gotta woo ‘im!”
Spot shoved Jojo so hard he almost fell off the fire escape.
“Hell no.”
“I ain’t sayin’ ya gotta sing him sonnets or nothin’, although that’d be pretty funny- stop hittin’ me, Spot- I’s jus’ sayin’ ya could. I dunno. Flirt or somethin’?”
“This ain’t fuckin’ helpful.” Spot thought for a moment. “How’d Patches and ya get togetha’? And this ain’t-” he added quickly when he saw Jojo’s smile grow positively gleeful, “a request for no explicit fuckin’ details. My ears are delicate.”
“There ain’t no part of ya tha’s delicate,” Jojo scoffed. “But me and Patches…I dunno. Before, we was jus’ us, righ’? An’ then we was jus’ kinda sittin’ an’ he asks me if I feels like this is more tha’ a friendship, and I says yeah, cause it is. So then we’s jus’ us, but more, ya feel me?”
Spot did, unfortunately, feel him.
He didn’t feel like what he had with Race was wrong- he didn’t feel like it wasn’t enough, or desperate for more. He just felt like maybe, possibly, it would be nice to have more.
Really nice.
“See?” Jojo said softly. “Ya’s real in love, Spotty.”
“I knows.” It was quiet, barely words at all, but Spot was proud of himself for even getting them out. And based on the smile Jojo gave him, they were too.
“So’s ya gotta try, righ’? Least then you’ll know.”
“I guess,” he grumbled.
“How’s this gonna go?” Jojo flicked the stump of the cigarette away and nudged Spot. “Flowers? Choc’lates? Oooh, poems? Ya’s good at those.”
“Shaddup. None of the above.”
Jojo faked a pout. “Aww. But seriously. Ya’s good at all that giftin’ shit. Jus’ try that.”
“Like what?” Spot scoffed. He sang sarcastically, “On the first day of Christmas…”
Jojo snapped his fingers and jumped to their feet. “That’s ex-fucking-zactly what ya’s gonna do! Twelve days a’ Chris’mas, Spot, ya’s a genius.”
Spot stared up at him. “Ya can’ be serious.”
“Oooh, I is,” Jojo said, pacing. “Ya’s gotta do somethin’ poisnal. Like…like…”
“A marble?” Spot suggested, deadpan.
“Yes!” Jojo was practically hopping at this point. “He knows how much ya love shootin’ peoples! He’s gonna know how much it hurts ya ta’ give it up!”
“This is not goin’ how I wanna,” Spot said.
“Fuck you, too bad.” Jojo started pacing again. “Ya could do a pencil, a button, maybe a ring?”
“I ain’t fuckin’ proposin’.”
“Oh righ’. Maybe not the ring then. Uhh, socks? What does he like? Cards? Dice?”
Spot stared down at the glimmering lights of Brooklyn. “I dunno abou’ this, Jojo. I don’ wanna lose him.”
Jojo softened and sat back down. “I knows. And ya ain’t, yanno? He likes ya jus’ as much as ya like him. But ya ain’t gotta do this.”
“Do ya thinks I should?” Spot hated being so vulnerable, so helpless, but he couldn’t help it. After Racer, there was no one in the world he trusted as much as Jojo.
“I do,” Jojo said, soft but with conviction. “I really, really do.”
“I’s gonna hug ya now,” Spot said gruffly, “An’ we ain’t neva’ gonna mention it again, a’ight?”
“Sure,” Jojo replied.
Spot awkwardly wrapped his arms around Jojo’s torso and buried his face, just a little, into their shoulder. Jojo, just as awkward, patted his back.
“Ya ain’t gonna lose him,” he whispered. “And even if you do- which ain’t gonna ever fuckin’ happen- ya’s got me, an’ Patches, an’ even Viper and Hotshot, you hears me? We’ll soak ‘im for ya. Whateva’ ya wants.”
Spot didn’t answer. He just held Jojo a little tighter, and together, they breathed.