This one-shot is written for the 4th Circulation of the Newsies Pape Selling Competition. I used the Number Card task (character deals with abundance or scarcity or their life) and used the dialogue prompt "I never wanted this to happen."WC: 782

"I don't know what he's playin' at." Race muttered to himself as he walked home from Sheepshead.

On and off for the past week and a half, every time he went past the Brooklyn docks heading back to Manhattan, he was stopped by the king. He steered him out of the reach of the lamppost's glow.

Spot and he would talk. Spot would hint about something, but right as Racetrack got interested, Spot would change the subject.

After every evening, Race trudged back to the Lodging House, hands stuffed in his pockets and his mind whirling with questions he wouldn't dare ask.

No one had ever looked at him like that before.

Racetrack let his feet guide him while his brain focused on the more important matters. He entered the House without even a snarky remark to Snipe, who was eyeing the cigar that Race was twiddling between his fingers.

He sat on the bed and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. The cigar rested on his lips, unlit.

A deep sigh rattled through his chest, Racetrack closed his eyes.

Race then drifted into a sleep like the ocean, tossing and turning, and completely overwhelming.

He woke up with a start, the last moments of the dream slipping away, blurring with reality.

Racetrack sighed, closed his eyes to try to finish his dream. He dreamt he was on the docks, and Spot was there. Spot had his hand on the small of Race's back. He was rambling about something, Race couldn't make it out. But before anything made any sense, the morning punched him in the gut and pulled him up.

As he had given up trying to fall back asleep with the sun poking his face, he quickly stood up, and almost toppled back down. Purple spots erupted into Race's vision, and the world flipped sideways and his stomach did a few flips.

Snipeshooter noticed him swaying, but just laughed at him from his own bed.

Race shook his head in attempt to clear it. His thoughts mashed up and collided into one another, making no help.

With a deep breath, he stuffed his cold hands into his pockets and set off for Brooklyn.

His head was bowed slightly as the wind bore down on him. Racetrack's thoughts still churned as he slowly approached the docks. His breath quickened as he caught sight of the Nest, and it's resident.

He stopped cold about 10 feet from the base of the crates. "I don't know what you're playin' at." He called up.

Spot's gaze drifted down to land on the ragged Racetrack, outfit in a buffeted mess. One corner of his lips was pulled up in amusement. He flung one leg over the side of the Nest, and made his way down the rest of the way to land softly on the wooden docks.

"Now, I don't 'ave any idea what youse talking about." Spot put his hands in his own pockets.

Racetrack's hands clenched into tight fists and he had to fight the urge of punching Spot in the face. "Ah, please." He tried to keep calm. "You know what I mean, those nights you talked ta me like I was something special. Den you just stop! I need to know what you t'ink, I neva can tell." Race glared at Spot, he even held the stare that he was given.

Spot took a step closer to him and leaned in

"I never wanted this to happen." Spot softly whispered into Race's ear.

"Never wanted what?"

"This." Spot tapped his chest, and then rested his finger on Race's chest. "Something between us. It ain't a good image."

"But if it's love, who cares what dey think?" Race's voice was slowly growing. He didn't care what others thought of his actions.

"I didn't say anything about love." Spot drew away and his tone turned cold.

"It's what you meant, ain't it?" A tad of hope crept into his voice.

"No. Not this time." Spot took a quick glance at the empty dock, and then grabbed the back of Race's head and pulled him in. Their lips met for only an instant, but it felt like an hour.

When Racetrack opened his eyes again, Spot was halfway between him and the shore. He drew a rattling breath and wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve and waited until Spot to disappear before he headed back to Manhattan.

Racetrack continued to sell at Sheepshead, but stayed clear of the docks until the Strike had started. Only then had they started to talk again. But what it meant this time, no one knew.

Who knew life wasn't a picture show?

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, (I've never really written anything like this before)