Disclaimer: Disney's boys wouldn't do this.

A/N: This chapter is a reworked and much expanded version of the Spavid scene I wrote last summer and the idea that was the tinder for the true inspirational spark. Please note that although updates on this have been whip-crack fast so far, there will be some lag time between this chapter and the concluding three. Lastly, I heartily appreciate the reads and reviews -- thanks for walking this wire with me.


Chapter 3 -- Use and Force

Spot Conlon bit down until David protested with a sharp, low cry then dragged his mouth from shoulder to exposed neck and sucked hard. There was never any kissing when they did this. That was their unspoken arrangement. Spot was no fairy. He didn't kiss boys.

In fact, he didn't normally pull this kind of thing at all. Just when the opportunity presented itself. He'd been pretty damned surprised that first time, even though -- thinking back on it -- he shouldn't have been. Spoiling for a fight always got him half hard, and Spot could practically taste David's unspent frustration that day.

Spot let David take him down and stay on top just long enough to drop his guard. Then he forced his body weight upward and rolled them, bodies clashing and the friction stirring heat and blood. Beneath him, David struggled upward between gasps for breath, but Spot pressed a hand to his chest and held him firmly against the cold, gritty floor. He might be skinnier, but years spent on the streets and around the docks assured that he wasn't weaker.

It was obvious David had grown up soft -- and that didn't bother Spot any, he didn't begrudge him that -- but like Spot, Jack had been on the streets, too. Only Jack had learned to survive on a lie and smile and a whole lot of running instead of by his fists (the difference between Manhattan and Brooklyn, Spot figured) but that didn't always cut it. If it weren't for Spot, Jack would've been taken out by that first round of thugs with chains. Dead meat is what he'd be.

At his waist, Spot felt David's fingers fumble with the button on his trousers. Spot didn't do him the favor of helping him. Instead he tested the strength of David's concentration and conviction by sliding his hands beneath David's layered shirts and running them up his abdomen to his chest, the grit of sand under his palm the whole way. He dragged a coarse thumb over David's nipple, and David bucked and moaned, his fingers giving up on the trouser button and moving instead to Spot's shirt. He yanked until the hem came untucked then latched a hand onto Spot's hip and not-so-gently suggested the force and speed of Spot's groin against his.

Want burned across him, but Spot didn't utter a single noise of pleasure or otherwise. Instead he grabbed at the hand on his hip, wrenched it a few inches over, and pressed it firmly between his own legs. David began to work him silently, eyes wide and intense but unafraid. They both wanted the same thing, and Spot never wasted time wondering whether David was there because he wanted it from Spot or if he just wanted it. Spot didn't much care, but he wasn't a fool either. Jacky-boy never could see what was right in front of him -- never did know how to make use of his resources.

In a way, it was the same with Greene. Maybe that's what was so insulting about Jack's "job offers." Jack couldn't see beyond the moment, or himself, enough to get a sense of the whole picture. If he could, he'd know Spot had a job, of sorts, and big plans for advancement -- neither of which had anything to do with herding newsies anymore, but Spot wasn't even sure David had noticed that. Spot's territory hadn't changed so much as expanded, though David hadn't yet questioned the shanties and warehouses along the wharf Spot led him to once the weather turned too cold to meet under the pier.

David let go of Spot to unfasten his own pants, and Spot did the same. The onset of winter and need for expediency and secrecy meant they didn't bother stripping off boots or shirts anymore. The cold sting of the air at the first seconds his skin was exposed only increased Spot's arousal and made him all the more eager.

They came together and David let out a ragged moan. Spot's free hand flew to cover David's mouth -- the warehouse was empty, but they were tucked in a corner and sound was bound to echo -- but instead David bit at the crook of his thumb. Spot let him for a minute, until David adjusted to Spot's rhythm -- at that point he needed his hand to steady himself as his head got light and instinct took over.

Minutes later, Spot shifted over and stared up at the thick boards of the ceiling. Panting, David collapsed across from him. Though Spot measured his breaths to slow his heart, one last dart of ecstasy shot through him and he kicked his heel down hard in response. He listened for yardmen coming back from their dinner break, but heard no voices or rumble of activity. So much the better. He stole a glance at David -- other than tugging his pants back in place, he hadn't moved.

Spot sat up, shoving his shirt into his trousers. He always made sure he was first to recover, first to leave. "Jacky-boy know what kind of business you got in Brooklyn?" He hadn't asked when David showed up this time, he realized. They hadn't said much of anything. Spot had just nodded as usual, told Brick he would be back, and strolled away slow with David at his side. But he decided not to forget again. It was dangerous to assume -- even if that was the way it played out every time. Better to keep business first and keep the other guy asking for it.

David laid still, one hand against his chest, the other clutching at emptiness against the floor. "I only come here when he sends me."

"Yeah." Spot narrowed his eyes. David hadn't quite answered the question, but Spot preferred it that way. After all, David didn't get his reputation as a mouth just for knowing what to say -- Spot counted on David exactly because he knew what not to say.

Spot studied David through surreptitious glances as David reassembled himself. He usually took off before David finished retying his bootlaces or straightening his cuffs or whatever it was he did, but this time Spot stayed, taking a seat on the crate they'd just finished with. A flash of blue met Spot's stare from under David's curly forelock, then he looked up fully with a furrowed brow as he finished latching his belt. "What?"

Fishing for a cigarette, Spot shrugged. He found a half-crushed stub in his coat pocket and poked it between his lips to search for a match. Things was, Spot'd always seen the use of an upstanding guy with smart mouth and sharp brains -- and had it factored out that he'd be needing one soon -- but knew he couldn't force David Jacobs to do any damn thing. Overtly, anyway. And not if he was still clinging to Kelly.

Spot flipped the match aflame and touched it to his cigarette, then shook it out as he asked, "He offered you a job yet?"

"Greene?" David checked his pocket watch.

Spot let smoke roll on his tongue to suck the flavor before blowing it out. "Jack. He's starting his own team, so I hear."

David frowned. "Yeah, he is. But no, he hasn't."

Spot watched as David patted down his coat pockets in search of his hat and gloves. He biffed ash off the cherry of his cigarette. "You think it's really gonna work, this team scheme of Greene's? Keep people in the fight through winter?"

"I think Greene's a capitalist first and a reformer second, or third. Or seventh."

"So Jack's a dupe?" Spot couldn't help his raised eyebrow.

David scowled. "I'm going."

Face set with consternation, David brushed past. Neither of them offered the other the customary spit shake. Spot tracked David as he crossed to the side door they'd come in and let it smack closed behind him, feeling sure that every time David walked home from Brooklyn he had further to go.


For a slightly more detailed version, visit the Refuge: click on "authors" and then "cymbalism."