A/N: Modern day Sprace. I'm just trying to get back into the swing of things after a too-long hiatus, thanks to my OTP (Sprace) and their persistent plot bunnies.
Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or Frito-Lay.
"Halibut."
"No way, you moron. Who the hell wants their potato chips to taste like fish?"
"I don't know, fucking British people?"
Racetrack rolled his eyes at his boyfriend. "You've got to appeal to the more sophisticated class. Something like... Cuban cigar, or clove cigarette."
Now Spot rolled his eyes. "Frito Lay would not pay you to force feed smoke to the innocent masses."
Racetrack sighed, kicking at some pebbles beneath their park bench. His brow furrowed as he thought.
"You know, it's all shit anyway," he said finally.
Spot glanced at him, taking in his dejected posture.
"What's shit?" he asked.
"The whole competition. It's not about what you like, your flavor, it's about what will sell."
Spot bit back about half a dozen sarcastic remarks, opting instead to lean in and peck Racetrack on the temple.
Race continued to stare at the ground, but a corner of his mouth turned up into a smile. He took his boyfriend's hand.