Disclaimer: Newsies is the property of Disney and the song is the property of Stephen Sondheim.

What made it so right together is what made it all wrong. "We Do Not Belong Together" Sunday in the Park with George

"This ain't right."

Race sighed exasperatedly as he pulled his lips from Spot's neck. He'd been enjoying it so much, the feel of the other boy's surprisingly smooth (albeit dirty) skin as he ran his chapped lips along it. Why did Spot have to go and ruin that?

"Would you stop being such a pansy?" he said bitingly. "No one's looking at us."

The two were occupying an empty storage closet at the bar they frequented. Race would slip the bartender a small sum to let them back there, giving them their privacy. Any moans or groans or shouts of pleasure one might expect to hear during such sexually-fueled meetings were drowned out by the five-piece band the bar employed for entertainment.

It was almost their own little world. Sure, it was small and cramped and smelled like more than one person had taken a piss in there recently, but it was theirs.

Spot pushed Racetrack away and began buttoning up his shirt. His face and neck were almost as red as his suspenders. "Who cares if they ain't looking? Don't make it right!"

"Oh, Christ, not this again!" Race bemoaned.

"Just cause you don't care about getting your head beaten in don't mean I can't, Race. I'm the leader of the Brooklyn newsies! Fella's look up to me! What would they think if they knew that three nights a week I had sex with another boy?"

Race shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets as he leaned back against the door. "Judging by some of their demeanors, they may ask you to give them a go-round, too," he said, only half-joking. Last time he'd visited Spot in Brooklyn he was almost positive that three or four of the Brooklyn guys were giving him the one-over in the most leering of ways. Not that he blamed them; who wouldn't want to do him?

"Oh, you think that's funny, Higgins?"

"I think it's hilarious, Conlon. Almost as hilarious as you, the big, bad Brooklyn leader, whimpering like a little girl every time I so much as touch you."

His sardonic remark was rewarded with a quick pop to his jaw that sent him to the floor. Anyone else in Race's position would have jumped right back up and retaliated, or attempted to, at the very least. He, though, was very much accustomed to Spot's violent outbursts. He just pulled himself up to a sitting position and tenderly touched the side of his face. No doubt there'd be a bruise there by morning. Oh well; all the better to sell with, though he should come up with a good story for the other newsies.

"Temper, temper, Spotty," he said with a clicking of his tongue. "One of these days that'll get you in trouble."

"So will my hanging around with you. There's a lot of guys in Brooklyn who'd love to see me fall. Finding me in this position would give them the power to bring me down."

"What about if they found you in that position I had you in last Friday? You know, with you lying there on your stomach while I was perched there on top of you," Race reminded, giving a nice wiggling of his eyebrows for good measure.

Spot felt his face grow red again, not only from anger, but from recalling that particular moment of pleasure. But it was wrong; he wasn't supposed to feel that way. "You're an ass," he spat.

"I know. That's what makes us so perfect for each other. No one else would want us."

"Speak for yourself, Higgins," he replied as he leaned back against the closed door. "I've gotten my fair share of women and there are more clamoring for me."

Racetrack rolled his eyes. Spot was an attractive boy; almost a pretty boy, some might say (though never to his face). His looks got him admiring glances from girls here and there, but he wasn't quite the ladies' man he boasted to be. His short stature and scrawny build wasn't what most girls wanted; they preferred the muscular and often brainless men who worked below Spot. It infuriated him, Race knew. Not that Spot was interested in the women, but it was the principal of the matter; he had a reputation to uphold.

"I could replace you like that," Spot continued, snapping to emphasis his point.

"So why haven't you?"

The words hung in the air as the two boys sat silently in the closet. Race glanced over at his companion, waiting for an answer. Spot, though, had his eyes glued to the floor. His jaw was working up and down, a sure sign that he felt uncomfortable in his current situation.

Racetrack nudged him with his foot, but Spot just pulled away. "Guess you don't have an answer for that one, huh?"

"What makes you say we're perfect for each other?" The question was asked in a hushed tone.

"Like I said, no one else would put up with us. I'm an ass, like you so very well said, and you're short-tempered. We almost balance each other out, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think," Spot said. "And I don't think we're perfect for each other. We'd be horrible for each other."

"Why?" Race scoffed. "What, because neither of us is a girl? Is that it?"

"You know damn well it is and that I'm right!"

Now it was Racetrack's turn to get angry. "I know that you're a little pansy ass who's too chicken shit to see this thing out, even though you know that what we've got going is a good thing and that you'll probably never have anything so good in your life!" He shot to his feet, a snarl gracing his lips. "Funny that you're so worried about keeping up your appearance as a tough guy, but you don't even have the guts to stand up for something you obviously want!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Higgins. You weren't that great."

"Yet you kept coming back, huh? Wanted more and more, right?"

Spot turned away, arms akimbo. "You read too much into things. Just cause I like sex doesn't mean I like you. It'd be the same no matter who it was."

"Then you may as well replace me with a broomstick! It'll have the same effect, right?"

At that, Spot lunged at him, knocking them both to the ground. It was a scuffle with plenty of blindly thrown punches, hair pulls, and kicking as each tried to get the upper hand. Race managed to shove Spot off of him and roll over on top. He tried to get a hold on Spot's flailing arms to pin them down, but one of them struck him across the face, stunning momentarily. Spot took advantage of Race's disorientation and shoved him back as he sat up.

But Race wasn't down for long. He jumped back up and encircled his arms around Spot's waist, pulling him back. Together, they hit the wall, Racetrack first and Spot in front of him, still struggling to escape Race's grasp. "Get your paws off me!"

He tightened his grip. "Not 'til you calm the fuck down!"

"I'll calm down when you let me go!"

From there ensued another few minutes of struggling and shouting, but slowly they both began to lose steam. Soon, they were both panting and sweating as Race leaned back against the door and Spot leaned back against Race. Though his grip had loosened considerably, Spot made no attempts to escape him now. Race gently moved his hands to the other boy's hips and rested his chin atop his shoulder. His warm breath brushed against Spot's skin, arousing him not matter how hard he tried to squelch it.

This wasn't how it was supposed to work.

"I'm going to walk out that door," Spot told Racetrack matter-of-factly. "I'll walk out and then we'll return to the way things used to be."

"You mean us giving each other looks and imagining what it would be like to have sex without ever actually doing anything?"

"I mean us just being newsies and occasional poker buddies and nothing more to each other. I'll go back to the Brooklyn lodging house and you can head back to Manhattan. Then we'll forget about this, about us and everything we did."

"I don't want to forget about it."

"Too bad. Once I walk through that door, that's it. I'm not looking back."

"What are you really so afraid of, Spot?"

"I ain't afraid of nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Conlon. I've played poker with you enough times to know your tell. Something's got you freaked and it's only fair that I know."

Spot closed his eyes. In a moment of weakness, he allowed his body to lean back against Race's. Their cheeks were pressed together, their breathing nearly becoming one. Spot loved it but hated it. Why did love have to be so complicated? Why couldn't he be attracted to the ones he was supposed to be attracted to?

"It could never work, Race. This whole thing, us meeting up here for a quick screw…it'll have to end eventually. Why not end it now before anyone gets hurt?"

Racetrack was silent for a moment. "So that's what you're afraid of, huh? The tough leader can't take a little heartbreak. Never thought that'd be your weakness."

"It's not a weakness," Spot protested, though he sounded uncertain. "I don't want to bother with something I know won't stick." He gently began pulling Race's hands from his hips. "Let's just leave things be."

"Dammit, Spot!" Racetrack wasn't about to let this thing go without a fight. "I told you, we're perfect for each other! Are you gonna deny that?"

"No," Spot said with a shake of his head, "you're right about that. We really are perfect for each other. But maybe that's the problem."

"How could that be a problem?" Race bellowed in a harsher tone than he'd intended.

"I don't know! Don't expect me to explain this crap! But being perfect for each other isn't everything! And it just can't work for us! It can't and it won't!" He shoved his hands into his pocket, head ducked down. "That's just something we have to accept."

"Who says we have to accept it?"

"Me…everyone. It's just one of those facts of life."

"Only if you let it be."

"No," Spot disagreed, "it'll be that way no matter what. Better get used to it, Higgins. Might get yourself into some trouble if you don't."

He reached out and turned the doorknob, expecting Racetrack to call out, to stop him from leaving. But he remained silent. Spot pushed the door open, blinking a bit as the bright light poured in. The bar was still hopping with action and the music and chatter streamed in.

Spot almost regretted what he knew he had to do. "I know it's gonna be awkward for a while between us…maybe it's always gonna be. I won't blame you if you avoid me."

"You're really gonna do this," Race said, slightly incredulously. "You're just gonna walk away from this, pretend like it never happened?" Spot said nothing. Race snorted. "Well fine. Fucking fine! I wouldn't want to be with some pansy anyway! So go! Just fucking go already!"

"I will!" Spot snarled in reply. "The last thing I need in my life is some ass like you!" He stormed out, making a point to slam the door loudly behind him.

Race didn't try to run after him; he didn't even say anything. He leaned back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, pulling his knees up with his feet planted firmly on the floor. If this was a ploy by Spot to make Racetrack run after him, he was wasting his time. Race had far too much pride to run after anyone, least of all a skinny little punk like Spot.

Unfortunately, Spot also had his pride and he wasn't about to go back, not after that impassionate speech he'd just given. He just kept walking, not even aware of his surroundings. Not once did he look back.

Maybe that was the problem. They were a little too perfect for each other, right down to their damned pride.

Up Next: How difficult to be so near and still so far from the one you love. Think you know the song?