A/N: Ah, finals. How I hate you. How I hate myself for not studying for you more. Crap. Oh well, it's only first semester, right? I'll just keep telling myself that... Anyway, I thought perhaps some reviews would make me feel a little better, so here's the next chapter! Enjoy...

Spot sighed and readjusted his messenger bag as the train shook itself into motion. Today had been shitty and it wasn't going to get any better. Not only had he spent his entire day reading crummy, grammatically incorrect stories and dealing with an inept secretary, but his bag was stuffed full with what were undoubtedly more painfully bad manuscripts, he wouldn't be able to write anything himself, and his apartment was empty.

It had been empty for more than a week now, ever since… ever since The Fight. Ever since Spot had watched his comments strike home on Race's face and then watched Race's back walk out the door. Ever since he had come home to a half-empty closet and a ransacked CD collection. Ever since he had screwed his life over.

After that it had only been microwaved dinners, and long nights spent staring at his computer screen. He couldn't even bear to play any of the few CD's Race had left behind – any music brought back so many memories that it was physically painful.

Spot didn't know what was worse. Seeing things in the apartment that he and Race had bought together or seeing the spaces where they had been. Yossarian's dilemma had nothing on poor Spot's personal Catch-22.

And the worst thing was that it wasn't a Catch-22 at all. Spot knew the way out. All he had to do was find Race and apologize – even easier, he could just call and do it right then. His cell phone was out and his finger was poised over the keypad before the thought even finished itself.

But then he stopped, thought for a minute, and put the phone away. He couldn't do it. Couldn't take back all the hateful words he'd said. Couldn't admit he had been wrong. Couldn't confess that he needed Race. Because there was the horrible possibility that Race wouldn't care, had moved on, didn't need Spot like Spot needed him.

So Spot spent the rest of the ride home gazing morosely out at the black walls of the subway tunnel. His brain tormented him with images of Race kissing someone else, with the noise of Race's harshest laughter, with the scent of Race's aftershave.

When his stop finally arrived, Spot was off the train like a shot and climbing quickly towards the surface. It was all he could do not break out and sprint straight home. As it was, he barely kept himself at a pace that could be classified as a 'walk'.

But he stopped sharp after he turned the corner onto his street. Because there, standing on the corner was a short man with wavy dark hair and a dark pea coat. Even though the man was facing the other direction, Spot knew who it was.

Picking up his pace again, Spot hurried towards Racetrack, readying his apology as he went. He couldn't believe Race had come back – that he couldn't stand the separation either. And then Race turned, and Spot nearly cried.

Because it wasn't Race. It was a short Italian man, but he had a receding hairline and a handlebar mustache. Definitely not Race.

Furious with himself, Spot had to turn around and walk in the other direction until he got his temper under control. Of course Race wouldn't stand outside waiting for him. Of course Race wouldn't apologize. Of course Race wouldn't be the first to break. Spot would have to be the bigger man.

He smiled at that, because he knew that admitting he was wrong and that he needed Race was not being the bigger man. It was being weak and selfish. But if it meant an end to this hell, he would do it.

Digging his phone out of his pocket, Spot flipped it open and jabbed a finger at the '1' button. Race's cell number immediately dialed itself, and Spot bit at a nail while he impatiently waited for the voicemail to pick up – knowing Race would see his name on caller ID and let it ring.

Then there was a soft click and the voice that Spot had missed so desperately for a week and a half began to speak, detailing the familiar message about leaving name and number and such after the beep.

And Spot didn't know what to say. So he started at the beginning. "Hey. Er... you probably know why I'm calling. But in case you're being obscenely block-headed again, I'm calling to apologize for what happened the other night." He paused for a second to let himself into the building, and to gather his thoughts. "I didn't mean what I said about not needing you, about your trumpet being stupid, about being better off on my own. I was just saying it to piss you off – I guess I did a pretty good job of that, huh?"

He laughed quietly, and scrubbed a tired hand across his face "And you know I'm not good at this apology shit, but I'm trying, okay? So come home, I'll do a better job in person, I promise. I really am sorry, and I…" Spot trailed off, halfway up the steps.

There was trumpet music floating down the stairwell. He snapped his phone shut and began to run.

A/N: Yay! Happiness! Please review, I've been waiting to post this chapter FOREVER. It was the fourth one I wrote... haha.