Note:
F: This chapter is entirely and totally dedicated to Hilary.
B: Because she inspires us, encourages us, and generally is a great person.
F: Not only is she the damned most amazing author ever, but she's the damned greatest gal as well.
B: Enjoy the SpRace cake. ;)
Everything You've Done Wrong
I been hangin' on threads,
I been playin' it straight,
Now, I've just got to cut loose
Before it gets late.
So I'm going,
I'm going,
I'm gone.
-Bob Dylan, Going, Going, Gone
Chapter Seven: Finally, Your Touch
Race was sure he was in some sort of test. When his mother had told him that she and his father would be out with friends until ten o'clock, Race figured he'd have Isabella breathing down his neck, griping to him about his issues and problems and what a disgrace he was for the whole evening. But instead, Isabella was out doing research for a paper, Maria was at a friend's house (with regret, Race realized his favorite sister was avoiding him) and Sophia had a flute workshop.
He was being had, or tricked, or something, because why would he be left alone after what he'd done? Granted, the house was surrounded by their personal security, but still, his mother had told him he could ask over friends. He just didn't get the angle they were playing at.
But the house was awfully large and empty, and the dread of what was coming up only a day away now was making him crazy. He jumped at every tiny noise, no matter how loud he put up his music, and didn't exactly feel lonely, just... Isolated.
He'd already called the band members to apologize again and let them know that, despite all the odds against it, he was still allowed to play in the band--if they still wanted him. Much to his shock, they did. (He suspected David and Mush had something to do with that.) He'd also dropped by the hospital to visit Dutchy that morning, and they'd spent a long time sitting there in silence, then had both tried to apologize, both forgiven the other, and bonded over how much they hated the entire world but in particular hated cocaine cravings. At least, Race figured, there would be someone else around who understood. And that made it worth helping Dutchy out, even if...
Even if it meant his doing business with his dad.
He stared at the phone anxiously, wanting to call someone over just to get rid of the isolation, but not sure who. Mush was out with Blink, David was with Jack, Itey was visiting Dutchy in the hospital. That didn't leave a lot of people.
It mostly just left Spot.
He didn't want to call Spot mainly because he really wanted to call Spot. They'd... They'd bonded, kind of. Spot had told him things. Things that he obviously didn't tell anyone else. Spot had held his hand after dinner, Spot had kissed him. Race should have been mad, should have been preparing to make the ultimate rejection, but
Somehow, gay or not gay was not playing into this. Was it so wrong to want to be around one person so badly? For all Race knew, he and Spot had real potential at a purely platonic, close friendship.
That might involve Spot wanting him.
He'd just have to cross that bridge when he came to it, he decided. Because he was currently craving and with no one home, it would be so easy to get his hands on cocaine... Well, easier than with people home... And Spot, at least, wouldn't let him. He needed someone not to let him. In fact, if he phrased it like that, he could be fairly certain that Spot would come as quickly as humanly possible, given how he'd been so weirdly protective on Saturday. So really, it was a good plan.
Nervously, he dug out the scrap of paper that had Spot's and Jack's number scrawled on it and dialed; the phone rang three times before it was picked up.
"Hello?" The voice was female.
"Uh, hi? I'm looking for Spot--Sean."
"Just a minute." Then there was the muffled sound of someone yelling, a click, and Spot picked up.
"Yo."
"Hey."
"...hey?"
"It's me."
"Oh, Tony." Race made a face--really, how did Spot know..? oh well. Back at the wanting square. He was going to avoid that square and play it straight. Spot's voice made an odd kind of change when he said "Hey, what's...up?" Like Spot was trying to decide on the best way to greet him.
"Just wondering if you're doing anything."
"Masturbating." Old Spot was back.
"Funny."
"Because I'm serious."
"You know, I'm just going to hang up."
"No you're not." Pause. "...what do you want?" Spot's voice was laughing, kind of. As much as Spot's voice could laugh without sounding malicious.
"Um. This is going to sound weird."
"Then I'm probably going to laugh at you."
"Yeah, probably. It's just..." he trailed off.
"Now you're boring me."
"...Just, I'm home alone, and really bored, and having a craving, and wondering if you would just, I don't know, talk to me for awhile?"
There was a silence on the other end.
"Spot?"
"I can take Jack's van and be there in half an hour."
Race broke into a grin without meaning to. "Thanks, Spot. You remember where it is?"
"It's the giant, creepy mansion that looms over everything else in the neighborhood, right? I think I can find it."
Pause.
"Spot?"
"Yeah?"
"Uh... Nothing." Because he couldn't quite bring himself to say thank you.
"Whatever. See you, Midgito."
When Race hung up, he knew with impending doom it was going to be one of those time sequences that seemed like hours, but was really half of one at most. And the worst thing about these kind of sequences is nothing he did would satisfy him until the time he awaited had finally come. Of course, drums were always the best possible prospect, but then he wouldn't hear the doorbell.
Television was out. Race didn't like TV. Mainly because his favorite show was The Sopranos, which was sick once he thought about it.
So he sat and stared at the clock like a freaking dog.
When the bell rang, he sat there, letting Spot wait for a minute just so he'd feel less pathetic. Spot rolled his eyes when he opened the door, then smirked. "You're gonna cook for me, right? I haven't had dinner yet."
"You only like me so you can exploit my cooking talent."
"Yeah, pretty much."
"It doesn't have anything to do with my sexy Italian body?"
"Shut up, dickhead."
Race grinned and lead the way back to the kitchen. "What do you want?"
"What can you make?"
"You name it, I can make it."
Spot raised an eyebrow, impressed. "That sounds like a challenge there, Midget Boy."
"So challenge me."
Spot thought about it for a minute, then shrugged. "Or you could just make whatever's easiest."
Race liked winning. "Spaghetti it is."
"Spaghetti? Even I can cook that," Spot scoffed.
"You've never had the right kind of sauce. We've got this ancient family recipe that... It's like an orgasm." He smirked at Spot as he dug out a large pot and filled it with water, and wondered if this was flirting and why he was doing it. He knew he shouldn't flirt with Spot.
But it was so much fun.
Race didn't notice that Spot was being totally silent until he set the stove to it's pre-boiling temperate and placed the pot carefully on top. When he did, he glanced at Spot with an odd-expression on his face, a mix of curiosity he supposed, and also hope.
He really wanted to catch Spot checking him out.
But Spot was giving his pajama pants odd looks.
"What?" Race asked.
"Those things have little pianos and trumpets on them."
Race blushed. Actually blushed; he knew because he didn't blush often, but when he did, he felt it rise up on his entire body.
Why hadn't he fucking changed?
"...my mom bought them for me."
"I figured." Spot smirked, trailing his eyes up, and Race was grateful he'd worn his tight fitting Led Zeppelin tee. "Nice shirt."
"You a fan?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
"Isn't everyone? Robert Plant is, like, sex personified."
"Uh, yeah." Somehow, Race didn't feel quite comfortable agreeing with that.
Spot chuckled. "Come on, even straight guys have to know he's hot."
"I guess."
"You guess?"
"I never thought about it."
"Liar."
"I'm a liar who's cooking for you."
Spot shrugged. "He is hot, though. Something about lead singers."
"You got a thing for Blink?"
Spot didn't quite say "Ha!" but it wasn't exactly a laugh. "He's a little too... Flamboyant... for me."
"Yeah? He doesn't seem like a flamer."
"He's not. But like I said, PDAs aren't my thing. And Blink likes shaking people up by making out with guys in public. I'd have to kill him in about two days flat I guess we're pretty good friends, though."
Race shrugged. "I think I'm flexible. But I don't make out with guys, so truthfully, I wouldn't know." Race glanced over at the stove, and his eyes went wide. "Per carita!" Race exclaimed, rushing towards the pot, and started glaring at the stove. "Stupid thing's been acting up..." Race made a high pitched imitation voice of his mother. "Oh dear, just put it on pre-temperature and it'll be fine!" He switched back to low. "Sono cazzate."
Spot was staring at him, but Race was too busy with switching the pot to the next stove to care much.
Finally, everything was under control and went for the making of the sauce, which was in one of the cookbooks stored in the 'Cookbook Drawer--Mama only!' Of course, Sophia and Race used it all the time. Both loved to cook more than they would admit.
"You don't make out with guys at parties." Spot's voice was oddly flat as he repeated the sentence.
"What?" Race demanded, shuffling through the drawer until he found the right one, then rummaging through the fridge to find the right ingredients.
"Nothing," Spot answered, and added, "You're a real dick."
"What?" Race stopped and turned around, and suddenly Spot looked really awkward, standing against the counter looking totally out of place in the ridiculously opulent house.
"Just don't fuck with my head, okay?" Spot snapped. "Because--screw it. Just screw it, and screw you, and screw your cravings. I should go."
Race was back to being confused. Here he was, actually being nice without even trying, and Spot was already mad at him. He'd probably done something stupid without even noticing it.
Spot hadn't moved, but Race took his wrist anyway, which made Spot wince, visibly. "Dude, what are you talking about? I didn't fucking do anything, we're actually getting along!"
Spot kept his cool face, leaning awkwardly against the counter, but for some reason, he didn't look angry. Race couldn't really decide what he looked like. Just... not angry.
"No, seriously," Race said. "What'd I do? I actually... like talking to you, okay? If I say something stupid, don't go." Then Race pulled his hand away, still oblivious to what the physical contact was really doing to Spot. "But don't be a bitch when I'm not being one."
"You're not a bitch. You're a fucking moron, Tony."
"Look, I get enough of that from my family; I don't need it from you. If I said something moronic, just tell me what the hell it was, okay?"
"Yeah." Spot glared at him for a second, then sighed, and his expression softened. "You know, you were really drunk at that first party."
"Yeah...?"
"You know, there's a reason they call me Spot. I tend to... leave... spots. When I get involved with someone." He cleared his throat. "Look, you were drunk, I thought you were gay, and figured I'd never see you again anyway. And you didn't say no or anything, so don't blame me!"
"Wait, what?" Race had a sinking feeling that he knew what Spot was talking about.
"Nothing."
"We..." He trailed off, and his hand went to where the hickeys had been. "That was you?!"
Spot nodded.
"Oh." He paused. "Wow. That's--shit!" Because the spaghetti was boiling over, and he had to dash back across the kitchen to take care of it.
If Race had been looking, he would have seen Spot smile, if only slightly, but with more affection than even Spot thought he was capable of. It only lasted a moment. If Spot were a pussy, which he was sure he wasn't, he would have known that it was because he thought Race's cooking was not only sexy, but suddenly very...
Cute.
"Aaaahh..." Race's sigh sounded very Italian as he got the cooking under control. "There we go..." Race turned off the boiler, and stood on his tiptoes to grab the colander and couldn't quite reach. Normally, he'd grab the stool. But he refused to stand on a stool in front of Spot.
He swore under his breath, and jumped a little, but still couldn't reach.
Spot started laughing, walked over, and grabbed it for him.
"Not one word, Spot."
"I don't think I need to say anything, Midgito."
Abruptly, they realized at the same moment that Spot was standing close behind Race, so close they were actually touching. Spot stepped back, Race stepped to the side, and drained the water out of the spaghetti.
"I... I don't mean to mess with your head, Spot," Race said quietly, as he went back to work on making the sauce, leaving the spaghetti in the colander in the sink.
"Yeah, I figured. Just--just tone down the flirting, okay? 'Cause I actually--" He stopped short.
"What?" Race asked. Spot said nothing. "Come on, it can't shock me anymore than finding out I've made out with you did."
Spot shrugged uneasily. "Because I actually kind of like you, and it's really fucking hard to remember you're straight sometimes, when you smirk at me like you want me to jump you."
Race had to admit--alright. That was more of a shock than realizing he'd made out with Spot. A lot more of a shock. Race had been liked by a fair amount of girls before, but this felt different. This felt like it mattered because He didn't understand it, but for some reason, it was kind of comforting to know that Spot liked him.
He set the sauce on the stove to boil, and gave Spot an empathetic look, even though Race was not an empathetic person. "Yeah...I'm sorry. But you know...you're pretty fucking hot, you know that, right?"
Spot raised an eyebrow. "Tony."
"No, seriously. You're actually gorgeous." He was blushing again, he could feel it. "I don't even know what I'm doing, but hey, you're...my friend and we can talk and it's fun to hang around you."
"...thanks?"
"Yeah, and you're..." Race refrained from looking at Spot. He knew if he did, he'd 'look like he wanted to jump him'. "You're...shit, you're probably getting cocky now. Like the world needs more of a cocky you. Sauce is almost done."
"You're pretty damn cocky yourself sometimes, drummer boy."
"You kidding? I'm always cocky. And now I've got boys and girls wanting me. You just made me worse." He glanced over his shoulder and smirked, he couldn't help it, before removing the sauce from the heat. "It's done; grab anything you want to drink from the fridge."
Spot opened the fridge, and stared. "God damn, this place is well stocked." He grabbed a wine cooler, and then another one for Race, and saw Race was serving out two portions of spaghetti with sauce. "Blink wishes he was Robert Plant," he added, hoping to get back to a less awkward subject.
"No kidding. You know, you like the shirt, you should see some of the posters in my room." He managed not to blush as he realized he'd just invited a guy with a crush on him up to his room, but decided it was easiest to just ignore the comment.
Spot looked torn between saying something dirty, or also choosing to forget what had just happened between the two of them, which really, neither of them was forgetting any time soon. He chose on saying something innocent that sounded dirty, which could never lose. "Can I see your drumsticks, too?"
Race made a face. Spot grinned and took a small portion of spaghetti from his plate. He couldn't help but notice his serving was larger than he hoped. "I can't eat all this," he mumbled, and started to follow Race out of the kitchen.
"You fucking don't eat enough. And it's good for you."
"Okay, Mom."
"No, I'm serious, I bet I can count your ribs."
'I'd gladly take off my shirt' was what Spot was really thinking, but instead he shrugged. "It works for me."
"Just eat."
Spot didn't reply; he was busy marveling at just how many stairs he had to climb before they actually reached Race's bedroom. But it was so cute the way Race suddenly looked shy as he opened the door. Though Spot had to admit the room looked good; the furniture all coordinated with the paint on the walls and the rug and the bedspread, all shades of dark green and blues, with posters all matted against dark backgrounds that also matched the paint. Most of them were of classic rock bands, specifically of drummers, and a few of them were fucking autographed.
Spot suddenly found himself thinking it must be nice to have money, but didn't say it aloud. Instead he said, "Damn." And his eyes lit on the drumset, and he wasn't surprised. "Nice drums."
"Yeah, they're pretty good."
"I'm kind of afraid I'm going to spill sauce on something and your mother will have me shot."
"Then eat at the desk." Race settled on to his bed, and Spot sat at the desk chair and tried very hard not to think about the way Race was sprawled on the bed and how much he wanted to sprawl over Race.
He was so turned on he could hardly stand it.
With amusement though, he noted that Race had finished his food already, which didn't really surprise him. Wasn't it a stereotype that Italians ate like pigs? Or was that Greek?
Spot smirked. If he voiced half of what he thought, he'd piss people off twice as much as he usually did. Which was quite a feat.
Spot looked more around the room, his eyes closing in on a Buddy Rich poster. "You into jazz?"
"I'm into Buddy." Race's voice took on a dreamy tone as he set his plate onto the table beside the bed. "Jesus, what can't he do?"
"Fellatio?"
"Spot."
"Tony," Spot mimicked.
Spot swirled around in the desk chair, and took two more bites of spaghetti before realizing he was full already. "Fuck, I want this chair."
"We have like, four in the garage if you want one."
"Serious?" Spot raised an eyebrow. "What, does your dad take the chairs from the offices he builds?"
"We got it as part of a set, but they didn't match anyone else's room, so they've just been sitting there. I mean, it's better not to waste them, right?"
"God, you're fucking..." He trailed off. "Rich, you know that?"
"Yeah."
They were quiet for a minute.
"The sauce is really good."
"I know."
Spot glanced at the homework open on Race's desk, then looked away. He didn't understand it anyway, it was some kind of math he'd never seen before, clearly, because it consisted more of letters than it did of numbers.
"So, uh, what were you doing when I called?" Race asked.
Spot shrugged and poked at his spaghetti. "Nothing."
"Staring out a window? Daydreaming about me?"
"Dick." He paused. "I was writing."
"Oh, that's--you were what?"
"Shut the hell up."
"You write?"
"Yes. Shut up."
"Can I read some?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"I'll cook for you some more." Race practically fluttered his eyelashes.
Spot wanted to smack him. And then kiss him. He decided doing the latter wouldn't work out like he wanted it to. But he did smack Race.
"Ow!"
"Stop being a bitch."
"I'm not! I just wanna see you be good at something other than being an asshole."
Spot gave a death glare. "I'm not good at it, I just do it because it kills time." He swirled around in the chair some more. "Jesus, we don't all have goals, you know. I'm looking forward to doing fuck all with my life."
Race reached forward and stopped the chair with his hand. "Spot, come on. I played for you."
"That's different."
"Come on, it ain't gonna kill you."
Spot turned around slightly to face Race, and leaned down to look him more in the eye. They stared at each other for awhile, and finally Spot snorted.
"ONE thing."
Race grinned.
"I don't have anything with me, though, so you'll have to wait for Monday."
"Sure, Monday." Race's heart sank, and he added, "That's tomorrow."
"Yeah...?"
And Race remembered that the next day was not going to be a very good day for him at all. He suddenly wanted to explain that to Spot; he trusted Spot to keep his mouth shut, but... But it could get them both in serious trouble, if Spot knew anything he wasn't supposed to, or even if his father's employers suspected Spot knew anything.
"Yeah; I haven't finished my homework yet."
"Oh."
"Whatever, I'll copy David's tomorrow morning." He grinned. "So, my cooking's not good enough for you? Eat!"
Spot rolled his eyes. He ate up a few more forkfuls, obviously forcing it because he wanted to please Race (who, despite his previous oblivion, was starting to pick up on these things) and finally Race just shook his head and started fidgeting with the loose string on the bottom of his pajama bottoms, before giving Spot a shove on the knee with his foot.
"Don't force it, you'll puke."
Spot swallowed. "...it's not 'cause it's bad."
"I know."
Spot nodded. "Good. It's good, really good."
"I know." Race shrugged, and shifted over on his bed. Spot stared at him before standing up and taking a seat next to Race on the bed. He didn't know if that was what Race had meant; he decided he didn't care. "Why do you have such a small appetite anyway?"
"Well gee, you may not have noticed this, Midgito, but I'm not exactly a huge guy. Fast metabolism, is all."
"Dude, that just means you can eat lots and your body burns the fat quickly. It doesn't mean you're not hungry." He poked Spot between two ribs. "You're, like, anorexic or something. You sure you're okay?"
"Fine," Spot answered, annoyed. "Christ, are you trying to save the world, one screw up at a time? First you call Dutchy on his... His thing, and now you think I'm throwing up in the bathroom or something."
"No, to throw up you have to eat first. That's bulimia."
"I'm fine."
"Okay." Race paused. "You're sure?"
"Christ, I'm skinny, okay? The doctor says it's fine! Jesus, what do you want from me, some sob story about how I stopped eating 'cause my mom wouldn't cook for me as a kid?"
"Is that what happened?"
Spot was really quiet for a really long time.
"That's it, isn't it?"
"No, I'm just saying it for shits and giggles." Spot rolled his eyes, and subconsciously tugged down at his shirt, attempting to blanket his lack of weight. "Anyway, that's what the shrink told me a few years ago. Fuck me if I know why I told you, though."
"Because you like me?"
"Would you stop bringing that up?" Really, Spot didn't sound like he minded too much. "How about you? You're short."
Race pushed Spot's shoulder. "That's not a freaking problem."
"Sure it is!" Spot smirked. "Think of all the disabilities it causes; you can't reach things, people step on you--" Race pushed him again and Spot grabbed both of his wrists. "And, look, you can't even put up a good fight."
Spot shut up when Race maneuvered his arms slightly and ending up toppling Spot off the bed. Race burst out laughing.
"Fuck you, Higgins."
"Back at you, Conlon."
Spot wasn't quite as easily defeated as Race thought, though, because he sprang back on to the bed and bodily tackled Race, who was laughing too hard to fight back. He didn't catch his breath until Spot had him pinned down against the bedspread, dark hair almost blending into the navy blue pillows. Race gasped in a deep breath. "You caught me. So now what are you going to do with me?" he demanded.
"Well," Spot said, leaning down just a little too far into Race's comfort zone, enough that Race felt himself blushing again, "I remembered something else about the night you were so drunk."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Spot smirked. "You're ticklish." But as soon as he moved the arm that had been pinning down one of Race's to run a hand down Race's side--Race did begin laughing again, though he tried very hard not to--Race was free enough to slip out of Spot's grip, roll over, and the situation was reversed.
"Not that ticklish," he breathed, suddenly feeling almost shaky, but cocaine was the last thing in his mind. His brain seemed to be taken over with thoughts of Spot, and nothing else.
Race leaned back against the headboard, covering his stomach, still grinning, breathing a little heavily. Spot snorted and chuckled. "Pussy."
"I am not a pussy," Race shot back, but he didn't look mad. Just...still breathless. "You're the one who fell off the bed."
"Look at you! You're a fucking girl, ticklish, squealing."
"I wasn't squealing."
"Were so."
Race shook his head. "Figlio di puttana..."
Spot tensed slightly. "What's that mean?"
Race grinned, and leaned forward. "Son of a bitch."
Spot didn't looked offended; in fact he let a grin spread across his face. "Say it again."
"...Excuse me?"
"Oh, come on. Say it again." Spot sounded breathless too, though in a somewhat different manner.
"Uh." Race shrugged, then, "I can't believe you're inviting me to swear at you."
"You swear at me anyway, Midgito. But the Italian thing is--" He caught himself. Race didn't need to know just how much of a turn on the Italian language was.
But Race wasn't stupid. "Hot?" Race suggested, and continued with a breathless phrase in Italian.
"What's that mean?"
"Let's just say it would make you blush." Race grinned.
"Doubt it. I don't blush. Never."
"I bet I could make you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Race wasn't even thinking anymore, just reacting. He put a hand on Spot's thigh, slowly trailed it up his leg, and kept murmuring in Italian in Spot's ear. And while Spot didn't blush, he did start breathing a lot harder and moaning a little bit, and the moaning was just so damned erotic that Race couldn't help himself. It didn't matter that it was Spot, and Spot was a boy; he reacted on instinct.
He put his lips to Spot's and kissed.
Spot hesitated for less than a second only, before taking a sharp breath and kissing Race back, slipping his hand up the small of Race's back, causing him to arch slightly and moan, and then abruptly, Race pulled away.
He fell back on the bed, leaning against his hands with his knees up and legs slightly open, but Spot could tell from the slightly terrified look in Race's eyes that his suggestive posture was purely by accident.
None the less, Spot crept towards him, but didn't say anything.
They were both breathing very hard, and Race was blushing to the tips of his ears. He stared at Spot, Spot's mouth, his thin body, his hands, his...
When had this happened? He'd never remembered wanting one person so much, so badly. But it could affect everything. Last time he checked, he was straight. And he was brought up in one of the strictest Italian Catholic families in town; he couldn't be...
But tomorrow...tomorrow would be intense. Tomorrow, his life could completely change, nothing would be normal, he could be dead, even...
"Screw it," Race breathed, and grabbed the front of Spot's shirt, kissing him hard on the mouth, and pulling him down on top as he slid underneath of Spot's body, biting slightly at Spot's lower lip.
Spot inhaled sharply, startled, but he could tell Race had reached some sort of conclusion. He had no idea what it was or what had brought it about, or why Race would suddenly seemingly change his entire sexuality, but he wasn't going to argue. Because he was lying on Race's bed. On top of Race. Who had his tongue stuck down Spot's throat, his hands groping just under the bottom of Spot's shirt, and he seemed to be enjoying himself.
Spot figured that the worse that could happen was that Race would freak out and never talk to him again. Which would suck, but on the other hand, for all he knew, Race's dad would change his mind and ensure that they'd never see each other again. He certainly wasn't going to miss what could be his only chance to actually be physical with someone he had a genuine crush on.
It had been so long since he'd even had a real crush. And longer since the crush had been interested in him at all, even in just making out. Though even that was an overstatement; he'd never had a crush respond the way Race was responding.
He decided not to think about it, to just enjoy it. And enjoying it wasn't hard.
Spot, with a ferocity that matched even his actual personality and way of life, thrust his tongue into Race's mouth, and dug his nails slightly into Race's shoulders, pushing his pelvis against the boy underneath him. Race groaned into Spot's mouth, loudly, and Spot responded by tilting his head to the side and starting to nip down Race's neck before sucking at the hollow between Race's neck and shoulder.
Race hissed out some Italian under his breath, and soon Spot was kissing him uncontrollably on his mouth again, and pulling up Race's shirt with frenzied, expert hands, touching his skin, kissing him more passionately.
It was unspoken, but even when they were kissing it seemed like a competition. A competition of who could wear the other out the fastest.
Race didn't plan on losing.
He worked out quickly just how much the Italian affected Spot and began to murmur it every time Spot moved his mouth away from Race's, and it certainly encouraged Spot to do other things with his mouth than kiss. Or at least, than kiss Race's. Race managed to writhe the rest of the way out of his t-shirt and Spot began to experiment with his mouth and fingers; kissing, touching, tickling, anything that could get a reaction.
Within a few minutes, Race was spending too much time panting and moaning to speak coherently in any language, but he was determined to reduce Spot to the same state, and his perfectly trimmed fingernails were the right length to scratch Spot's back sharply; not painfully, but enough to contrast his lips at Spot's neck.
Spot replied, though it didn't sound like English; Race doubted it was any language at all. It did sound like Spot was enjoying himself, though. And Race was more surprised by how happy that made him than by what they were doing at all.
Spot, suddenly overcome with an annoying pressure of emotion, pulled away slightly, sitting up, realizing that his leg's were spread and Race's middle was in between them...
He'd had his fair share of make-outs, and even two one night stands, but Spot had never wanted to still talk, or look or...or do anything that involved actual emotion in the process. But he panted and stared down at Race, in his ridiculous piano, trumpet pajama bottoms, his lips red and slightly puffy, and his surprisingly well-built chest.
"What?" Race breathed out. "What, what is it?"
Spot leaned down more, pressing his palm on Race's chest, trailing his eyes over Race and his features. "Fuck, you have like...hot cheekbones..." Spot mumbled, trailing his thumb down the side of Race's face. Race closed his eyes and shuddered in a breath.
Spot would never let on how vulnerable he was just then. Spot never spoke about his emotions, or how he felt, and suddenly with Race, he wanted to tell him everything, hear everything, kiss him whenever he wanted...
He wanted to say something, anything to show how much this actually meant to him.
But he didn't.
Race threw him a strange, almost scared look, then smiled and kissed his chest lightly, and didn't move for a minute. He seemed content to just be there, lying between Spot's legs, staring up into what he decided were the most gorgeous eyes he'd ever seen.
The silence seemed to kill the intensity that had been built up, but not the feelings. Spot shimmied down the bed until he and Race were again face to face, and awkwardly he put his arms around Race's shoulders and they began to kiss again. This time it was soft and slow and sweet, not a challenge or a game, just... Affectionate.
Mutually affectionate.
Race wasn't blushing anymore and he had no idea where the rush of affection came from, but didn't care. And Spot seemed worried, and tense, and he didn't want that. He wanted Spot to calm down, so he began to gently run his fingers down Spot's back, and stopped kissing long enough to murmur, "Hey. It's okay."
Spot smiled and pulled Race closer. And they stayed that way until the door slammed shut downstairs and a female voice called, "TONY, you had damn well better be HOME!"
*
Isabella Higgins was harsh, cynical and very, very intelligent. She was attractive, in a tight lipped way, but it was hard to tell if she could ever actually pull off the Higgins's good looks when she always looked as if she was about to murder someone.
Right now, she most likely was. She'd planned to kill Racetrack earlier, but Sophia and Maria had talked her into getting some research for a paper done and leaving Tony alone to stew in his self pity before actually making him feel worse.
Isabella did not do well with postponing her lectures; if she held them in, they got worse.
Angrily, she turned her key in the lock and let herself into her huge 'home' (university was a haven that she never really wanted to leave) and immediately went to the kitchen--where else would a teenage boy be when he was home alone?
Nothing doing. However, there was a strainer with some spaghetti, and a few pots lying around.
"Slob," she said in brisk Italian before deciding that he was probably eating upstairs--which he wasn't allowed to do--in his room.
She was halfway up the second flight of stairs when she realized that something was odd; Tony never just sat around in his room quietly. He either listened to music loudly enough to get lectured by their parents at least twice a week, or was playing drums even more loudly. So the fact that the she could tell he was in his room--a sliver of light escaped out from under the door into the dark hallway--but there was no real noise was suspicious.
She realized that if he had somehow gotten his hands on more drugs, she might actually kill him. It wasn't until she was nearly at the door to his room that she began to hear noises: quiet groans, slightly louder gasps, Tony mumbling words in Italian that he certainly shouldn't have known (let alone used) and bedsprings.
So he had a girl with him. Good; a little humiliation would probably serve him right, and teach whichever girl was currently attempting to date him that dating any member of the Higgins family required a lot more commitment than a teenager should ever be willing to give.
Ready with a scathing remark, she slid the door open.
She could barely see her brother; the comforter was too fluffy and he was trapped underneath someone else. She didn't recognize the other someone, but she did pick out the most important fact: said someone was male. He was male, and clearly doing things to her little brother that were... Were not things that Race should have done with girls, let alone boys. He was lying between the boy's legs, for God's sake.
She started to interrupt them, then stopped. Humiliating him would be one thing, but this was entirely different. She shut the door gently and crept back downstairs.
Race and a boy. Race was gay. Well. The pressure of being in the closet and wanting to date someone their father would have hated, even if he'd been a girl... She suddenly had a fairly good idea how it was possible he'd messed up so badly as soon as there was cocaine nearby. Maybe her father was right, and the university was giving her liberal brainwashing classes. But she certainly wasn't going to make Race's life any worse than it already had to feel to him.
It took a moment for the truth to actually sink in, and when it did, Isabella found herself feeling a lot more sorry for her baby brother than she wanted to. If cocaine wasn't bad enough, then he had to go and get their father even more raving than he already was, and he was...
It was weird to think of.
Her brother was gay.
The need to kill him was waning, but the thought of some teenage guy pushing little Anthony into the covers was enough to send Isabella's mother bear instinct into a rampage--one she had to control quickly or she'd head right back in there to claw the guy's eyes out.
Isabella was a very protective young woman.
But with a bout of affection she would never be able to be rid of, no matter how hard she tried, Isabella let herself back out onto the porch, and waited a few minutes before re-entering the house.
Ten times louder than before.
"TONY, you had damn well better be HOME!"
There. That oughtta get that...that person off of her little brother in the knick of time. She'd give them two minutes tops. And that meant all guilty expressions erased, clothes in proper places, and bed properly made.
There was almost a thirty second pause before his voice echoed back, "I'm in my room!"
Good. She waited another minute or so before loudly walking up the stairs to his room; she didn't want to risk anything that would give them a hint that she knew what was going on. Race clearly wasn't ready to come out of the closet yet, and she wouldn't force it on him. That would probably leave him even more screwed up... and he'd tell her eventually, anyway. Either that, or do something remarkably stupid like get caught by their father.
It occurred to her, as she pushed open the door to his room, that knowing Race, that was more likely. But at least for now, she wouldn't worry about it.
"Tony, shouldn't you be doing homewor--oh." She stopped and regarded the young man who was now sitting on Race's desk chair. Yeah, she could see why Race found him attractive, if he'd been a few years older... She stopped that train of thought abruptly. "I didn't realize you had a friend over, Fante."
"He invites himself over," Race answered quickly, and Isabella had to hand it to him, he looked almost guiltless--despite his hair. Which was hilariously tousled. She made a note to mention that. "You know; kind of followed me home. Like a dog."
"Fuck you, Midgito." The boy grinned, and gave Race's leg a kick. A flirtatious kick that Isabella successfully pretended not to understand.
"I'm Isabella." She extended her hand. "You are?"
The boy looked slightly startled that someone wanted to shake hands with him, and Isabella could already tell that their father must have hated this boy anyway--he was wearing a t-shirt that said 'Fuck you'.
"Sean," he replied. "Some people call me 'Spot'."
"Spot?"
"Ask Tony."
"Fuck you!" Race was laughing, and Isabella was sickened at the amount of flirting going on in front of her--they must have thought she was an idiot.
She'd have to mention to her darling brother later that she wasn't totally blind, and neither was their father, and he really ought to stop being so obvious. But... She supposed it wouldn't have been obvious if she hadn't already known.
"Tony, watch your language," she answered, and Spot crossed back to the doorway to shake her hand. He seemed a little intimidated by how firm her handshake was, though. It was one of the many things that ran in their family.
Race ducked his head in response to the scolding, but was still grinning. So whatever he and Spot had done, it had left him in a good mood. That was, she supposed, reassuring. He wasn't being pressured or forced, or...
She resisted the urge to kick Spot's ass out of the house for touching her baby brother, even if it had been consensual. That was more her father's style.
Her style was more a fixed stare; not a malicious one, but one that definitely made the person who received it feel like he'd done something terribly wrong. And she wouldn't even have to specify what; he could wonder.
She was impressed when Spot didn't flinch under her gaze, though eventually Race got to his feet. "You're going to yell at me for eating in my room, aren't you?" he asked.
"And for not washing your dishes," she added.
Race gave Spot a simpery, fake smile. "Izzy likes to mother me. Because no one will ever marry her and give her children."
Spot snorted as Isabella gave Race's head a sharp smack. Apparently, he was still a sixteen year old moron. No matter how hard the boy's past, no matter how much he had going on, he still managed a way to tell his sister that she was ugly.
"Nah, she ain't bad," Spot answered, but said it more to Race's face with a sly smile than he did to Isabella. She refrained from being flattered since 'Spot' was only saying it to flirt with and tease her baby brother.
Well, two--or, she supposed, three--could play at that game.
"Why, thank you," she simpered back. She laughed and sat down on the bed between them, put a hand on Spot's knee. He didn't actually wince away, but he definitely had a look on his face like he suspected she had cooties. She wanted to laugh because it was so obvious to her now, but she couldn't let them know she knew.
"Uh, welcome," Spot said, and Race started laughing.
"Stop hitting on my friends, Izzy! You yell at me when I hit on yours."
She smacked him again and moved her hand away from Spot.
Spot shrugged however, and stood up to grab his dirty, not-empty plate. "Well, you know, chicks hit on me all the time." He turned to face Isabella. "I mean, look at me." Race and Isabella stared, oddly, but Spot seemed to take it as a way to keep talking. "I mean I'm..." He grinned at Race. "Pretty fucking hot. I mean, seriously, I'm actually gorgeous. Eh, Tony?"
Race looked like he was choking on something, and Isabella couldn't help it; she started to laugh, and whapped her brother on the arm again for good measure. "Well, answer him," she giggled.
Race glowered at Spot, and answered, "Sure. I don't really look at guys or anything, but I guess."
"Right. Now go take care of your dishes," she ordered. "And then you should probably finish your homework." The implicit order was that Spot should get out.
"It'll get done," Race promised.
"I don't mean copy Michael's, Tony," she answered.
"Oh, come on. Don't you trust me?" he asked. He clearly wasn't thinking.
"I trusted you until you got home yesterday morning, Anthony," she snapped. "Go."
Spot started to respond on Race's behalf, but Race put a hand on his shoulder. It was a sibling thing; he didn't need to worry about it.
"Izzy. You know I'm sorry about that. You know--"
"I know," she interrupted. "Now go do the dishes." Isabella gave Race one more stern look, and then smiled politely at Spot. "It was nice meeting you, Sean."
Spot gave a nod of his head, then spoke before Race could stop him. "He's sorry, you know."
She was amused, and slightly touched that perhaps Race and this other boy actually cared about each other, but that wasn't enough to soften up Isabella's reply. "I've heard that one before." Then she walked out of the room. There. That was her speech. It wasn't long, but it had been done. For some reason, she didn't quite want to yell at Race anymore.
Well, not tonight, anyhow.
She stopped walking, suddenly curious on what the two boys were doing now that she was gone. She started to grow protective again; Spot did seem awfully rough around the edges. She hesitated for a second, and could hear voices talking softly, and strained to hear what they were saying.
"Don't worry, man. It'll be okay."
"Yeah. Yeah, I just feel like shit right now, okay?"
"She didn't mean to--"
"Of course she meant to make me feel like this, Spot. I deserve to--"
"Stop it, idiot. Don't talk like that."
She smiled to herself and walked downstairs. Maybe Tony didn't have bad taste, after all.
*
B: It's about goddamn time.
F: Hah. It's so true. We've been bad. We keep people hanging.
B: But honestly, by this point if they didn't snog, we were going to go crazy. Stupid hormones.
F: We used to be such nice girls. Now it's like "how about instead of talking, they have sex?"
B: She's not joking. I've read the upcoming chapters. (You know. And wrote parts of them.)
F: It's kind of an understanding. I say "sex" and she says "I'm sure glad you said so."
B: But aaaaanyway. Back to this chapter. -cough- Yes. The fluff was much needed because... Hey, it's been a heavy few chapters, and we needed to lighten up.
F: I'm addicted to fluff. Get me a program.
B: No program for you! Go write me smut now! ... um... I mean... -blush-
F: See the conditions I have to work under??! It's glorious.
B: You love it. Anyway; we've started to catch up on sleep and schoolwork, at least a little (I'm only behind in three classes now!) so... Hopefully we'll experience no further healthy problems. Thanks for the kind wishes.
F: We love you all. Bunches.
B: We really, really really do. Enough that we're doing shoutouts for you at... 2 AM. Because you guys all rule THAT much.
F: Granted, we write at 2am nearly every night...
B: Hardly the point, though. Shush, you!
F: Shushing But Izzy rocks out world, and...
*drumroll supplied by drummerboy!Race*
100 REVIEWS!!!
B: WOOOOOOO!! Thank you, everyone!!
This chapter was celebrated with nothing but five crackers. And that was just Funkie, 'cause we're both fasting. Happy holidays, anyone who's celebrating! L'shanah tovah!
Shoutouts
Shinigami Nanoda
F: The Godfather really has nothing to do with this except for the Italian, mafia father gorgeous Al Pacino/Racetrack thing.
B: ...I've never even seen it. ::hides under a table::
F: Me neither!
B: Oh, okay then.
F: Chicadee, speaking of updating..."Hello pot? This is kettle."
YOU SHOULD DO IT.
B: But you get an instant update anyway. Because we were about to post it when we got your review.
F: How much do we rock?
-----------------------
This much.
B: So true. Bwaha.
Kristan
F: Spot is yummy. SO yummy it's dangerous, and even yummer in this chapter.
B: We've been writing lots and lots, promise. It's just the editing that takes forever.
F: We're bad editors.
B: But we'll try very hard to be good.
Nakaia Aidan-Sun
F: You are great.
B: You really are.
F: Your waiting ceases....NOW.
Stage
B: We know our readers are very smart and we're proud of our fanbase. (We can't really believe we have a fanbase...) But yes. Mafia!Race will be something else entirely...
F: Mafia!Race has twistage, really. And Jack ain't so bad...but he does get worse.
B: Mwahahahahahahaha. -cough-
F: B, you're officially banned from the evil laughter club. Stage, you can have her spot.
B: -pout-
F: -pets-
Obsessed wit' Aaron Lohr
F: ::faints--overdose of love::
B: Mr. Higgins actually kind of rules. He's fun to write.
F: We have some sort of weird affection for Mr. Higgins.
B: For all of Race's insane family, really. And they just get worse as the story goes on...
F: And cuter.
Gothica (#1)
B: E-coke? Us? Nevvvvvvver.
F: Yeah, those unnatural breaks? I'm the queen of them. You should see me at school, I'm a dorkus. This story needs to be my life, I would be so much hotter.
B: Also, the nickname Racetrack didn't come from Mush and David, it came from Daddy Higgins. It's all explained about a hundred pages from now.
F: But really, it just gets more confusing. The name is cleared up. That's about it.
B: What she said. -cough- Ignore me. As for how we can do it to him... He just suffers so beautifully.
F: Your quotage makes me smile. Really. I'm smiling right now.
B: Me, too. You're nice. You rule.
F: You rule so much you have no idea.
B: So take our word for it. You = Rule.
F: Equation!!
Hilary
B: First; glad to see you're rebuilding because.... Arrrrg, were we ever angry on your behalf.
F: We ranted. Holy shit, did we ever rant.
B: In all caps, even.
F: With swears.
B: Which was why we had to dedicate the chapter to you. We were planning to at some point anyway, and then not being able to be actually helpful... Well, happy snoggage, anyway.
F: This snoggage, hopefully, will heal you as much as it can.
B: Second; teenage drama? Ohhhh, so much of it coming up...
F: I LOVE angst.
B: Me too. And it's so much fun to write.
F: We inflict pain.
B: On fictional characters, mostly. Ehrm... Ahem. Yes.
F: ::inches away::
B: Bwahahahahaha.
F: Write me smut and I'll forget your pure evil.
B: Fair enough.
F: We understand each other.
B: That, and we like smut.
F: SO much. ::grin::
Thistle
B: We really are attempting to get chapters out as quickly as we can; editing is a pain, though, so it takes awhile despite having written ahead.
F: Hey, would ya rather we just edited and nothing else? Oh oh, and you get a review cookie. ::hands over cookie.::
B: We're also pretty proud of our darlin' coke addicted mafia-ized Race... he's growing up so fast these days.
F: Someone had to be a cruel hoe. We decided Jack got the honors because everyone forgives him sooner or later.
B: And Race's dad is going to get much, much cooler as the story goes on. He kind of rocks.
F: Italians rock. Period.
Rumor
F: Your specifics make me supa glad.
B: Actually, somehow, both of the reviews for the last chapters showed up. But I'm glad my Coke addiction is legendary. Mmm... carbonation....
F: I like your Spot addiction. I have a theory that addictions are a healthy part of life that everyone needs. Look where Race's got him: LAID. Well, almost.
B: ...I'm not sure Race's was really healthy, but basically, yeah. Healthy addictions are good things. They give you a conversation piece.
F: Hi, I'm Sue, I'm addicted to Salsa!
Bill: What a coincidence, I'm addicted to nachos.
B: Um, something like that.
F: I just wish.
B: Perhaps, since we adore you so much, we could give you a bit of a discount on some of those action figures...
F: If you promise to treat them nice and polish EVERY day.
Legaladrielith
B: -singing- Since when did you become me muddah... -cough- Sorry, I'll stop that now.
F: Nyaha! Yes, work in Newsies song and dance EVERY DAY.
Also, homework? Bah.
B: Homework is VASTLY overrated.
F: What a world it would be if we didn't have any at all.
B: A good world. Stupid professors.
Wand
F: We got someone's eyes watery!!
B: Thank you for the kind words; I'm glad the story is turning out so well.
F: As am I. So much.
B: We plan to rest up tomorrow morning. Yay for three day weekends!
F: -throws confetti-
Shade (who we love and adore)
F: You wanna talk about long chapters? Do you really?
B: Long chapters? AHAHAHAHAHAH. This was NOTHING.
F: So much to learn...
B: Hopefully soon, really.
F: If we get this freaking chapter up.
B: However, I'm very very glad you like Sloan. Because Sloan rules.
F: DUH.
B: Well, yeah, duh. But it had to be said. —gives you a hit-
F: We are the coolest dealers EVER and you are the hottest addict EVER.
B: We love you to death, dearie.
F: You know we do.
Copper Bandit
B: Mmm, pretty, angsty Spot...
F: I love your review. "Tension; intrigue..." sounds like a movie trailer.
B: It makes us feel all professional and cool.
F: If this was a movie, I would watch it every day. CB, you are invited, and you can have the popcorn bowl with the cat pictures on it.
Gothica (#2)
B: Hee. Spontaneously combusting crickets.
F: AH HA. Your stern mother stare, for some reason, in my head, looks exactly like my aunt in San Francisco. She's small and cute.
B: For me, it's more my suitemate, who always rolls her eyes when I accidentally stay up until 4 AM writing with Funkie.
F: I'm a bad influence!! -smiles-
B: She's terrible, really. But let's see here... Yes. Mafia!Race, because how could we resist?
F: It's in the back of everyone's mind. The dirty part. With handcuffs.
B: Mmmm, Race + handcuffs... Spot optional, clothes definitely not present... -cough- -blush- Um, what? Where was I? Right, Mafia!Race. Is a sexy little bitch. Yes.
F: I love smut!
B: I know you do, hon. And yes. Humility!Race is also a sweetie.
F: You know the funny thing, the other day, I was thinking that B and I should make a movie or play out of this...
B: So since you volunteered anyway... -grin-
F: I say we all do it dude! Then we could have the best acceptance speech at the Oscars EVER.
B: Oh my god, we so WOULD. That would rule.
F: Can I ogle all the stars?
B: Of course. We all can. It'll be FUN.
F: ROAD TRIP.
B: Woooooo!
Cards
F: Woah. Caps.
B: It is actually pretty bad, though. Pooooooor Racie poo.
F: Bad in a hot, angsty way. All goes well now, see? Fluff fixage.
B: Fluff fixes all. For a chapter or two, anyway.
F: You love it, Cardsy.
Shadowlands
B: -revives you-
F: It's okay. Join the fainting club.
B: Or in Race's case, the "passed out cold" club.
F: and the joke is, when he awoke his...
B: Exactly.
Seraph the Second
F: Sleep? Never. Ever. Not even kidding.
B: Sleep is for the weak. Even though in some states you can be declared legally insane if you go 72 hours without it.
F: Dude, we're so insane.
B: Alas. That's kind of sad for us. ...Oh, and Spot's backstory isn't even close to fully revealed yet. We dribble it out in bits and pieces. Because we're evil.
F: Spot is one messed up puppy.
B: As for the delivery... Well, you'll see. ;)
Kellyanne
F: ::gasp:: You still have your lungs right??
B: Do we need to rush you to the hospital???
F: Do we have to get Docter!Specs to examine you??
B: Funkie, don't encourage people to go to the hospital
F: Sorry. I forgot, pain is not a good thing. Unless inflicted upon pretty, slash Newsies.
B: Mmmm, angst. But there's some fluff for ya; now feel better, hon!
Artemis-chan
F: Race sure does need his hit. As much as I need some freaking food...
B: Aaaah, fasting. But Race hasn't quite come to terms with Itey and Sophia yet... Hee.
F: He'll ALWAYS be protective. My brother? Yeah, never gets over my boys.
B: Ditto for my older sister. Oh, and we promise not to die. ;)
F: Pinkie swear.
Shot Hunter
F: Yay! Snogging!Muses! ::claps::
B: I gotta say, snogging!muses are always fun...
F: Your fic is lovely m'dear.
B: I think I forgot to review the last chapter of Friday. -smacks forehead- But I promise, it was read.
F: I think I reviewed...if not I will.
B: And yay for Mafia!Race indeed. He's supahfun to write.
Lee
F: Someone didn't see it coming!!!
B: Mush is such a sweetie when it comes to Race. He's the bestest best friend ever.
F: Mush is just so PERFECT.
B: I hope you liked the fluff, we had so much fun writing it.
F: More than you know. Oh, and the tirimisu? She sure did love it!
B: SURE did. Yummmmmmmmm.