I do not own Newsies (surprise, surprise) therefore I do not own any of the Newsies characters. To the best of my knowledge they are owned by Disney.

I am making no money from this story (another big surprise).

Humor, Fluff, Language, Mild Slash.

Summary: Racetrack invites Spot to dinner and convinces him to try strawberries for the first time. (This is a one-shot that grew into three chapters.)

A/N: Beta credit to pennylayne who graciously pulled an all-nighter to beta this story.

Strawberry Day

Chapter one

Since he was a little boy, Racetrack Higgins looked forward to spring.

There were many wonderful things about the season that made him happy. First of all, he would not have to sleep wearing every stitch of clothing he owned. One tiny wood stove to heat the entire bunk room and washroom was hardly sufficient. Sleeping in his hat and coat had become tiresome somewhere around mid-February. Few things in life felt better to Racetrack than that first day he could step out of the lodging house in his shirt sleeves and vest. The sun surrounding his body while the warm air washed over skin made him feel like he was breathing for the first time since November.

Then there were the races at Sheepshead. Racetrack kept himself busy through the winter by playing cards and shooting dice, but it was the thrill of the horse race that made the blood pulse fervently through his veins. The aroma of cigar smoke and horse manure smelled sweeter than the finest roses to Racetrack Higgins.

There were definitely many things that Racetrack liked about spring, but what he looked forward to the most were the strawberries.

Racetrack longed for the taste of the mid-season berry. But the fruit he desired were not just any strawberries. They were not the early season fruit that was pulpy and reddish green, and not the late season berries that were almost black and too soft to chew.

The strawberries that Racetrack Higgins craved were plump, and ripe, and deep scarlet red. Their heady aroma and firm texture was a lusty combination. The fact that these particular strawberries were short-lived made them even more desirable.
He developed his love for strawberries before he became Racetrack Higgins. It was back when he still had a family, and a real home, and answered to his given name . . . Anthony.

Mrs. Higgins was a light-hearted woman who loved holidays. She was the kind of person who lived to cook, decorate, and celebrate the events of each season. All of the Higgins' loved strawberries, so she created a special holiday just for her family. She called it Strawberry Day.

After Sundays mass, Anthony and his family would go back home and delight in a breakfast of pancakes and strawberries.

Later, Mr. Higgins would take Anthony and his sister for a long walk in the park while his wife prepared a special Sunday dinner. When they returned, the meal was ready, and the table would be decorated in a beautiful cloth edged in strawberries that Mrs. Higgins had embroidered herself.

The highlight of the day was when Mrs. Higgins served the dessert. It was her special vanilla pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream.

Though his family was gone, Racetrack still looked forward to that one Sunday each spring when the strawberries were at their peak. The fruit still tasted as wonderful as it did when he was a child, but he missed having his family to celebrate the occasion.

Racetrack decided that this year would be different. He would not be spending the day alone. He would celebrate the holiday with his best friend, the King of Brooklyn, himself . . . Spot Conlon.

Race had everything planned weeks in advance. He had saved his money in anticipation of the day. Each morning he would stop at the fruit stands and check the progress of the ripening fruit.

When the fruit was at its peak, he sent word to Spot to be ready on Sunday. Race was going to treat him to the finest dinner in New York.

The two arranged to meet in Brooklyn at noon. Any earlier and it would interfere with selling the Sunday edition. Though Racetrack planned to take the day off from selling, Spot could not afford such a luxury.

Race had arranged everything. There was a small restaurant called Hoffman's not far from the park. Mrs. Hoffman was a sweet woman who baked a delicious vanilla pound cake. It was not as good as his mother's, but it would do in a pinch.
After telling Mrs. Hoffman about his mother and their special holiday, Mrs. Hoffman gladly agreed to bake her special cake for Racetrack and his guest.

Race selected the fruit himself, and delivered it to Mrs. Hoffman on Saturday evening.

When Sunday morning came, Racetrack awoke early and headed off to mass just as he had done with his family years before. Along the way, he stopped at the flower peddler and bought a red carnation to wear in his lapel. After mass, he started on his walk across the bridge to Brooklyn.

The sun was warm, and there was a beautiful breeze that swirled round him as he traveled. The air smelled clean and fresh. Even the water off Sheepshead Bay smelled different. The familiar smell of seaweed and old fish gave way to the sent of the tall marsh grasses and fresh ocean air.

When Racetrack arrived, Spot was ready as planned. He was wearing his good blue shirt (one of the only two shirts he owned), and his coat and hat had been whisked clean. As always he was sporting his gold tipped cane, which had been meticulously polished for the occasion.

As they walked, Spot pressed Racetrack for the reason he was being treated to dinner.

"Okay, Higgins. Come clean. What's with the dinner invite? I know it ain't your birthday, and it sure as hell ain't mine. So unless someone moved Christmas, or you were a big winner at the track . . . neither of which is likely, then there ain't no reason that I know of to celebrate."

At the risk of sounding too sentimental, Race told Spot the story of Strawberry Day. "Next to Christmas and birthdays Strawberry Day was a big deal in my family. Seein' as I ain't got no family to speak of, I figured that I could suffer through a meal with you."

"That's as good a reason as any to celebrate," Spot said reassuringly. "I suppose that I could force down a meal with you just so long as you don't eat with your fingers or nothin'," he laughed.

"Don't you look forward to the taste of strawberries in the spring?" Race asked.

"I can't say that I do," Spot replied. "I ain't never had a strawberry."

Race stopped dead in his tracks. "Whadda they teach you guys over in Brooklyn, anyway? I can't believe you've never tasted a fresh spring strawberry."

"Well maybe you girls over in Manhattan are rich enough to throw your money away, but I seen them things in the market just last week. They're ten cents a quart. Ten cents! That's the difference between eatin' and goin' hungry for a night. Not to mention that they look kinda nasty with all them red bumps with those dark green spots all over 'em. They look like they'd choke ya before they ever hit your stomach."

"Ah, you don't know what you're missing, Conlon. And besides. They don't look nasty at all. After you take the leaves off'a them and cut them in half, they look like little pink and red hearts."

This time Spot stopped in his tracks. "Little pink and red hearts?" he laughed. "You're this excited over something that looks like little pink hearts? Whadda you gone soft or somethin'? Are you treatin' me to supper or takin' me out on a date?"

Racetrack felt his stomach tighten as his face flushed crimson. "It'll be a cold day in Hell when I have to resort to the likes of you for a date, Conlon. Maybe I should have invited one of the many good lookin' Manhattan girls I know to celebrate with instead'a you!"

"It'll be all right just so long as you don't try to hold my hand or read me any of that sissy poetry you Manhattan guys go for."

"I wouldn't be callin' anybody a sissy of I was you, Conlon. Not with a mug like yours!"

"I didn't call you a sissy. I said that you like to read sissy poetry. And what the hell is wrong with my face!"

"There's nothin' wrong with it. It's just a little girly-lookin' is all."

"Who are you callin' a girl, half pint!"

"I didn't call you a girl. I said you had a face like a girl."

Spot's eyebrows wrinkled and his steely eyes narrowed. "I don't look like a girl!" he shouted as he waved the walking stick in Racetrack's face. "And I'll soak you or anyone else who says that I do!"

"Whatever you say, tough guy," Race replied as he patted Spot on the back. "Now let's get going before we miss dinner altogether."

End Chapter One

A/N pennylyane pulled an all-nighter to beta this story. She's great and so are her stories. Please check them out. Strong Men Crumble (easily one of the best Newsies stories I've come across) and Lean on Me are two of my personal favs. They are well worth reading.