Chapter Text
Currently, Racetrack was walking across the Brooklyn bridge for the third time that week. Of course, this wasn't the third time he'd crossed that bridge at all. Spot Conlon was one of his best friends, much to the dismay of the other Manhattan newsboys, mostly Jack. Jack was just disappointed, but he didn't care much, as long as Racer was happy.
Anywho, Race was heading to Sheepshead to sell today, and hopefully to meet up with Spot again if he so chooses.
Racetrack honestly couldn't name a single thing wrong with Spot, which was the very opposite of everybody else. His brownish skin was beautiful to him, and scars from past street fights didn't turn him away as it should've. Spot also thinks it should turn him away, but Race didn't care—It's not like he's never been in fights himself, anyway.
All this thinking had made his face heat up for some reason, and his distracted walking ended up with him face first into a pole.
"Fuck!"
He smacked his hand to his eye, frustrated at himself, only to hear a laugh from about two yards away.
"Jesus, Higgins. Can't ya see where ya goin'?"
Race's face didn't exactly light up—but he wasn't disappointed to see him.
"Shaddup, Spot—Don't act like you ain't ever done that before, gimme a break."
Spot gives him a smug look. "I don't gotta act."
Spot probably thinks he's an idiot, he's looking at his face real intently, probably at a bruise that's certainly forming under his eye. Probably.
Race feels his face heat up for some reason, and he lightly shoves Spot's shoulder, which is not something many people could get away with, with Spot—Maybe Hotshot or a new newsboy who wasn't familiar with his reputation.
Spot keeps that easy smirk up and follows Racetrack to the Sheepshead track, looking down at the horses.
"'Ve ya bet on any yet?"
"Nah, I just got here, woke up late."
"Yeah, sure. What was ya dreamin' about, gambling?" Spot teases before looking away in thought, seemingly forgetting Race is even there.
"...Spottie?"
Spot looks up "I thought I told ya not to call me that,"
"We both know you don't actually care—Plus, you call me Toni all the time,"
"...Whatever,"
"So...who're ya thinkin' about?"
"'Scuse me?"
"Oh come on, youse was blushin'! Who was it? C'mon, you can tell me, Spottie," He gives him a shit eating grin that makes Spot want to deck him in the mouth, but alas.
"You don't know whatchya talkin' about, Racer." Spot looks away pointedly.
"Oh, sure I do! I'm great with relationships, Y'know."
"Yeah sure, if that's so true, then where's ya girl?"
"Oh—I uh...well gosh Spot, you haven't heard by now?"
"Heard what?"
"I, uh...nothin'."
Racetrack was willing to take his secret to the grave if Spot didn't know. He was a queer, most everyone in Manhattan knew, but he supposes it hasn't travelled to Brooklyn, even though he was friends with their king.
It took a while for the Manhattan boys to stop their weird looks and teasing whenever he was even around another man. (which was hard to avoid, considering near everyone he knows is male) But eventually Jack shut it down, once it was revealed that him and Davey were sweethearts, which strengthened his and Racer's bond.
Race starts worrying. "What if Spot doesn't want to talk to him if he knew he messed with fellas?" "What if he soaks Race, or worse?" It was dangerous to be queer, and he's already lucky that none of the other newsies talked about it in public around the wrong people—The last thing he needed was Spot hurting him over it.
The atmosphere had changed to a suspicious and somewhat-worried Spot looking at Race, lost in thought.
"Toni, what's up?"
"Nothing. I'm alright,"
"Oh give me a break, you got all weird and quiet. What'd I say?"
Race's heart broke a bit, he didn't want Spot thinking it was anything he did wrong. He never would've wanted that. Why was Race worrying so much about how Spot felt? It didn't make sense.
"Ya didn't say anythin' okay? Just drop it."
Spot doesn't look satisfied with his answer—but he didn't want to argue with Race, so he let it go.
Race shuffles his hands around, fidgeting with nervousness.
"I, uh...better get to sellin'."
"Me too,"
A few hours later, Spot is still frustrated, and now walking up to his room in the lodging house; Hotshot is walking by and happens to notice Spot's clenched jaw, so he walked up behind him and knocked on his door.
"Who is it?" Spot didn't have patience for some random kid right now
"Hotshot."
"Door's open."
Hotshot walks in, and quietly closes the door behind him. "What's up?"
"What're you talkin' about?"
"Oh come on Spot, you look like you just lost all your savings in a fire." Spot rolls his eyes.
"Nothin'. Me and Racer kinda got in a fight.
"What happened?"
Hotshot sits down on the bed next to him, at a distance of course, he didn't want to aggravate him any more.
"Well, Racer started teasin' me and askin' if I had a girl, so I asked him if he had one, and he shut down, like he was hidin' somethin' from me. I don't get it."
"Well no kiddin' Spot. Haven't ya heard?"
"Heard what?"
Hotshot gets a little nervous, surprised that Spot hadn't received this news yet, with how close him and Racetrack were.
"Well, uh...'M not sure if youse should be hearin' it from me, but...He's a queer. He likes fellas, y'know?"
That's definitely not what Spot was expecting. He was expecting to hear some news about a tragic breakup Race went through that he hadn't told Spot about, not...that.
He felt a little betrayed. How could Race not tell him something so important about himself? At the same time, he didn't want to be mad at Racetrack. He was a good friend, and he didn't want to ruin a good year of friendship over something so trivial. Plus, the admission gives him a weird stir of hope in his chest, one of which that Spot didn't know the reason of it being there in the first place.
"Oh...Damn."
"Yeah...That okay with you?" Hotshot looks nervous, unable to read Spot's expression.
"Yeah, it's fine. None'a my business."