Author: Pinch (Linly Follis)
Rating: R for blood, angst, slash..ect.
Summary: Spot needs Racetrack. Spot needs Race to need him. ::warning:: slash. (Odd pairing I guess) thoughts of death involved, violence, rage. Surprise guest also included.
Disclaimer: I dont own these characters. I dont own Race or Spot... Sadly, I dont own the Newsies. I do own the story and the thoughts it took to make this. Dont steal, do i have to go into detail about the toothbrush again? I mean c'mon. Seriously, its mine, you dont take it, we're ok. You take it..and well.. I mean you've read how i react to things being taken.. Or atleast you will in this story. You wanna mess with that? heh. Just be smart. Think for yourself. Dont steal my story.
Need
Spot's cane fell to the street as heavily as his heart dropped into his stomach. He watched with clenched fist of rage when the two passed his dark alley. A shield of darkness had fallen over him as he stepped back slowly following their movements with a hardened gaze. Jealousy shot through his body like lightning, striking every nerve beneath his skin. This could not be happening. This would not be happening. As they cleared his path of vision Spot neared the exit of the alley, calloused fingers gripping the bricks of the building to his left. Dragging his finger nails against the rigid surface he could feel the blood sliding over his skin.
Dark Brown eyes, no hint of yellow, no specs of green. As brown as they come. Deep dark brown.
It must have neared midnight when he stepped his last step over the bridge back home. A quick glance into the water, a flash of a memory in his mind. Racetrack Higgins, legs crossed at the ankles, seated on the wooden planked docks of Brooklyn. He would lean back against the round post that Spot so often perched himself upon. Fingers laced on top of his stomach, his thumbs tapping a beat against themselves. A small smirk passing his lips turned into a full grin revealing a few crooked teeth. Spot shook his head of the thought pressing on in the damp night air.
Why are you laughing? Dis ain't funny gahdamnit. Stop smilin' at me.
A late factory worker exited the apartment building in a rush, stuffing his pocket with a small wad of cash. Spot couldn't help but notice the resemblance to another Italian who had crossed his path. Everyone with dark hair, short bitten nails, and those eyes reminded him of Racetrack. Everyone held a quality that Racetrack could provide Spot. Good and bad, everyone reminded him of the boy. Most of his thoughts were linked to him, most of his time consumed by him, a good deal of his money spent on him. Fingering the cigar shoved down in his pocket, his bloodstained fingers traced the paper cuff and then the tip. Racetrack would have placed his lips here. His lips that once kissed Spots. Wrapping his hand around the object he pressed his thumb against the top half. The split cigar rained tobacco into his pocket, mixing with the sticky dark red substance that had half dried upon his fingertips.
I saw you. I saw you with him.
The brick warehouse that had burned so badly lay before him. Spot noticed a few stirring motions inside the windows and dodged the way of eyes peering his direction. As his fist met the wall he felt the warm trickle of blood once more down his hand. His fist throbbed as the sickening crack of bone meeting brick echoed in his ears. Tension surrounded him as he dizzily seated himself on the ground. Rubbing the stream of blood from his hand he felt the tiny particles of the cigar being mixed into his skin with dirt and other things. Closing his eyes Spot imagined now that the cigar was a part of him. Racetrack would need him as badly as the nicotine he needed everyday.
I know your not scared of me like the uddahs. What's to be scared of when you're all I live for?
Thoughts of blood fell upon his trance, only to plant a scene in his mind. Brown eyes, pleading with fear as he held the knife beneath his ear. Slowly pulling the blade against the dark skin below his chin. Red blood soaking the light collar of his shirt as it poured down in a racing flood to get to his chest and cover his skin. Pleading of innocence, cries of pain, the knowing look of guilt. He could hear the trembling apology. It was not enough. The limp slumping of his body as the last breath left, a gaping hole in his neck, and blood covered hands were the last thoughts as hot tears poured down Spot's face. There was but one decision in his mind, Mush had to go. He needed Racetrack more than he needed air. He needed Racetrack to need him. With Mush gone, Race would return, needing him to understand and comfort. Spot would soon hold him as he mourned the death of his newest lover in the arms of his first.