Chapter Text
Brooklyn had officially joined the newsie strike, saving the Manhattan newsies in their time of need with their slingshots and fists and cementing themselves in history as a valuable component of what would surely change their lives for the better. Now all they had to do was win.
They had gotten their picture in the pape, and they were set to have a rally tomorrow night. Things were looking up.
The Manhattan lodging house was quaint, yet oddly empty; nothing like the overcrowded rooms that Spot was used to. He would be staying here for the time being, leaving Hot Shot in charge back in Brooklyn with orders to be ready in case they were needed again. She could be trusted to keep things running without him, but she would be sending a runner each day to update him on their condition, if only to ease his worries.
He was sitting on the fire escape, looking out in the direction of the Brooklyn bridge. The stupidly tall buildings of Manhattan meant that he couldn’t quite see it from here, but just the thought of it made him feel slightly less homesick. As if Brooklyn itself knew he was longing for her sweet embrace.
The sound of the window opening drew him out of his dramatics. He didn’t have to turn to know that Racetrack had joined him on the landing, the other’s long legs sliding beside him and hanging off the ledge as he silently took a seat beside him.
“We wasn’t sure you was gonna show,” Race said tentatively. He pulled out a matchbox and pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it and taking a long puff.
Spot scoffed, not taking his eyes off the sky in front of him, “I gave Jackie-boy my word, didn’t I? Just needed him to prove this wouldn’t be a half-cocked plan before I risked my boys getting involved.”
“Well, we wasn’t messin' around.”
“I can see that,” Spot said, “but its my job to look out for my boys. Can’t be rushing into things.”
Race was silent for a moment, as if he was thinking over what Spot had said. After a moment he sighed, seemingly relenting on whatever bullheaded point he had come to make.
“You really did save our skin back there. ‘f it wasn’t for you we’d all be in the refuge for sure…”
It was true, Brooklyn’s support was the only reason the Manhattan boy’s hadn’t been beat to a pulp just hours prior. Spot had expected things to be ugly, but even he was surprised to see that Pulitzer had sent men with chains and bats to attack what was essentially just a rowdy group of kids—if he wasn’t convinced on the merit of the strike beforehand, witnessing that one sided battle would have definitely swayed him on the matter. It was a good thing he showed up when he did.
“Heard ya weren’t all so lucky,” Spot finally looked at Race, “Sorry ‘bout yer friend… wouldn’t wish the refuge on me worst enemy.”
Race was quiet for a moment, finally speaking in such a low murmur that Spot almost didn’t hear him, “I was suppose’ta keep ‘im safe.”
“Hey, hey, you can’t beat yourself up ova that,” Spot reassured, surprising even himself, “ain’t your responsibility alone.”
Instead of replying, Race just shook his head and changed the subject, “You ever been?”
“They gave me two weeks, bailed out after 4 days, Brooklyn couldn’t run without me keepin' things in check.” Spot explained, “you?”
“A month,” Race said, unwilling to say any more about the situation other than, “’s where I met Jack.”
Now that sounded familiar, and Spot had to hold back a laugh at the predictability of it. It really wasn’t a laughing matter. After all, the fact that any of them had spent time in such a horrid place was enough to make Spot’s blood boil. There was, however, some irony in the boy’s words.
“Make’s sense, I think Jackie-boy met everyone in the refuge.”
“Even the gov’nor” Race laughed.
And wasn’t that just downright fucking unbelievable. That lucky bastard had been given a golden goose of an escape plan, somehow being able to use the distraction that Governor Roosevelt had provided to escape that hellhole. Spot had nearly pissed himself with laughter when he read the story in the papes, sending his best runner to find out if it was the real deal.
To his amusement, it was in fact true, and Spot was once again impressed by the Cowboy and his particular skill in quick thinking. The boys revelled in the amazing headline the event brought, and it had ensured that there were more than enough funds to go around. The extra padding that it gave Brooklyn’s emergency fund was still evident now—in fact it was majority of the reason that they were able to stay afloat with the increased price of papes.
“Fuckin insane is what it is,” Spot allowed a smile, “and I thought I got a lucky break.”
Race looked over; an unreadable expression flashed over his face as he leaned against the railing. Spot raised an eyebrow at the strange look. It was unusual for others to stare at him so blatantly—often opting for nervous glances when they thought he wasn’t paying attention—and he didn’t really know how to reciprocate. He ultimately decided to go with his usual approach, and squinted his eyes into a scrutinizing glare; rationalizing that if Race was so cocky as to stare openly then he better be prepared for a taste of his own medicine.
They sat in silence once more, each unwilling to break first. The moon Illuminated the night air, and the light shinning out from the window to the lodging house allowed for Spot to properly examine his friend. Race was getting tall, and Spot rarely had the chance to be eye to eye with the Manhattan boy—not that he would get the chance had he himself been taller, Racetrack rarely stood still enough for anyone to catch a proper glimpse of him—and he took the opportunity to look at how his face had begun to fill out as he grew.
When he first met Race, the boy was pasty and way too thin, but now he had some muscle on him, and long days outside in the sun were evident in the tan lines across his face where his hair normally rested. Speaking of, his curls had lightened considerably since the start of summer—something Spot had noticed a week earlier when the boy was selling by sheepshead—but now he could see where the dark roots bloomed, creating a cascading pattern of darkening color with the layers of his hair.
There was something soft about the way Race relaxed against the bars, still refusing to break the staring contest that had come up between the two.
There was also the fact that his cigarette had long since gone out, yet the boy made no move to relight it. Instead, he let it hang out of the corner of his mouth, like Spot had seen him do so often with his signature cigar. It was moving back and forth slightly, the movement drawing Spots attention to his lips…
They were interrupted by a knock at the window, and one of the Manhattan newsies (Speck?) informed them that their old man had called for lights out.
Race looked away first in the end, a slight blush creeping over his cheeks as he looked towards the now empty window, “suppose you needs somewhere to sleep, huh?”
Spot recovered quicker, standing and brushing the dirt off his pants, “nah, Boots has offered me to share with ‘im for the time being.”
“Ooh the king of Brooklyn sharing?” Race laughed, taking the rejection in stride, “Woulda thought ya’d kick some poor kid outta his bunk entirely.”
“yeah, well you’s been wrong about me a lot today it seems. Maybe you shouldn’t make so many assumptions.”
Race scoffed and flipped him off, though the small smile that appeared on his face didn’t go unnoticed. With one last glance towards Brooklyn Spot turned and crawled through the window into the boarding house, walking quickly to Boots’ bunk.
He didn’t want to think about whatever just happened—which, if anyone asked, was nothing at all—and instead quietly joined Boots on the thin mattress. They hadn’t shared too often back when the younger boy was still living in Brooklyn, but there was still something familiar about the arrangement that it eased some of Spot’s longing for the borough. Boots was already asleep, no doubt exhausted from the events of the day, and after a while of his own quiet contemplation Spot drifted off as well.