"I fucking hate this movie."

And things had been going well for all of five minutes.

"Dude, come on, it's a classic."

This had become a yearly tradition, one that Spot dreaded. Mean Girls, shitty pizza from that place only Tony liked, and sex that consisted of humming Birthday Sex in time with their….well you get the picture.

Of course this was the first year they were spending it in their own apartment without having to worry about parents walking in…or dogs…or little sisters. But Spot was convinced that just meant Race would be singing his song louder. Yay.

Honestly he didn't know how Race even still found it funny. They'd watched it every single fucking year since they were 11 years old when Race's older sister had left it on in her bedroom while she made out with her boyfriend out on the fire escape. She'd called it romantic, they'd called it disgusting. Race always refers to that as the 2nd best birthday of his life. The one he found his favorite movie and got to make his best friend watch it too. Spot can't really disagree. Doesn't mean he hates Mean Girls any less. Maybe just that he likes Race that much more.

The unspoken favorite was the year Race had turned 15. Race hadn't shut up the entire fucking day and by the time they'd gotten back to his apartment, Spot was ready to kill him. Jack and David had ditched them to go to homecoming. Well, Jack ditched to go to homecoming, David got dragged along with him. Skittery had some weird thing about going out on Saturday nights in the rain. Blink and Mush were going to a banger in the East Side as a part of their protest of the high school institution in general. Spot thought they were all stupid. Almost as fucking stupid as Mean Girls. Almost.

About half way through the movie Race had begun to deflate and the usually loquacious piece of shit visibly slumped. Spot wasn't really one for sentiments but he was alone with his best friend on his birthday because all their other friends had decided there were more important things to do.

"Alright, bitch, what's your problem."

"Shut up, Spot."

"No, you've been moping all day."

"Yeah, just leave it alone."

"No, what the fuck is wrong, Tony?"

"Stop."

"Tonyyyy…..what's da matter Tonyyyyy…."

"Seriously?"

"What's wrong?"

"No."

"Yes."

Racetrack had whirled around so fast Spot flinched back against himself. His beady Italian eyes narrowed in on the cool blue, making sure his words were sharp as daggers. "I said leave it alone."

"Race…come on man it's your—"

"Dude I don't want to talk about it." Spot's hand had instinctively reached out to grab a hold of Race's wrist, grasping tight to the too skinny teenager. When he tried to jerk away, Spot just gripped tighter as he pulled them both to their feet. Mean Girls droned on long forgotten in the background.

"Anthony," Spot growled his voice stripped of the usual, careless Brooklyn drawl.

Race made another futile attempt at escape only to be shoved hard against his closet door. Cold eyes continued to search his face for any sign of surrender. And Race did surrender. He gave up the fight and let his head fall to the shoulder of his best friend with the weight of the lies he'd been telling for years.

"Spot?" his breath tickled the sensitive skin of the other boy's fleshy ear as he exhaled nervously, his body shaking with the action.

"Yeah, Tony?"

"Do you remember that time back in the 7th grade your dad beat the shit out of your mom and you came running here with a bloody nose and swelling eye and my mom insisted we take you to the hospital?" He felt Spot tense at the memory and took that as validation despite the radio silence. "When I was mopping your blood off of my bedroom floor I realized something," he pulled his head away from Spot and gently removed the boy's hands from their vice, pushing him away slightly.

"What was that?" Spot finally asked, his patience wearing.

There was a thud as Race turned them, putting Spot roughly against the door, smirking darkly. The fear had left and all that remained was trademark Racetrack.

He grinned, "You're a total piece of shit."

Spot rolled his eyes. "Alright, fuck boy I'll remember not to stain your carpet again. My bad."

"That's not what I meant, Patrick."

"Don't fucking call me that."

"Whatever, Spotty."

"Are you gonna let me go?"

"No."

"I'll fucking end you."

"Try it, little birdy."

It was lips not fists that landed first and it was messy and frantic and neither one would give to the other and it was more like a fight than a first. But it was the first of many.

Now looking back Race would say he'd gotten stuck with Spot Conlon the first time he'd seen him weak. He'd say it was seeing there was a child beneath the callous.

Spot would say it was the only way he could get Race to shut up.

Which Race would promptly respond with how much Spot liked it when he got loud.

They were like that.

And so sitting in their brand new shitty apartment side by side for the 7th year since he'd turned 15 listening to Spot bitch about how the limit to how much he hated this movie did not exist, Race figured something out.

"Hey, Spot?"

"Yeah, Race?"

"Would you shut the fuck up."

"What?"

"We do this every fucking year. It's my birthday. I want to eat shitty fucking pizza and watch a shitty fucking movie and get shit faced with my not so shitty fucking boyfriend. I wanna get laid. I want to wake up and find you wearing my tee shirt and refusing to admit it's mine just because you don't want to admit you like something. I fucking want you to fucking stop making this about you for two seconds of your God damn life."

Silence. And then…

"I love you."

Race's birthday was a day of firsts.