Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies

Author's Notes: Just a very, very short something I wrote while not paying attention in Sociology this afternoon.It's a little taste of something I am thinking of making into an actual story, with chapters and everything. So far all I've written are one-shots, so it would be a challenge for me, but if you think it has potential let me know. Also, constructive criticism is not only appreciated, it is begged for, so please,please, give me some feedback on this, deal? Thanks alot.

The docks of Brooklyn always calmed Spot – something about the dark water and his own solitude lulled him into a false sense of security. The lapping of the waves on warped wooden docks caused him to lean his head back and listen to the night; and the murky scent and heavy air allowed him to close his eyes and become enveloped in the feeling of the summer night.

He couldn't believe what he'd done that afternoon. He and Race had been swimming: the day had been humid and both boys had been eager for a break. Spot and Race had always been friends, always shared a mutual respect and liking for one another, though they'd never exactly been best friends. Thinking back, however, if he'd had to admit it, Race had always been one of Spot's favorites. He appreciated the way the smart ass could always cheer him up …

Spot grinned.

But today … today had been way out of line. Spot could hardly believe he'd been so stupid. He, who had won all of Brooklyn through his cunning and sheer determination … Sure, Spot had been upset; and sure, Race happened to be an easy guy to talk to. But he had lost himself …

They'd been only a few feet away from each other, treading water, out of breath. And Spot had poured his heart out to the Italian boy. He didn't know why, but he'd opened his mouth and all of a sudden the confessions came pouring out. And then it felt too good to stop. All the secrets of a lifetime … Spot spoke of his family, his guilt, his loves, his fears … and Racetrack had listened. Then Spot had said:

"Ya know Race, not a single one a' you'se guys knows me name. How can ya' all pretend tah be such good friends wid me, an' ya don't even know me name?"

Race just shrugged – well, as best as he could shrug, expending all his energy on staying above water.

"Racetrack," Spot had said solemnly, "I want you'se tah know me name."

Race gaped. No one, I mean no one, knew Spot's real name. He simply was "Spot" Conlon – he had no past before Brooklyn.

Racetrack couldn't think of anything to say. But Spot was certain: Racetrack's eyes were acting like a drug, making Spot weak, intoxicating him into being comfortable enough to spill his innermost thoughts. Moreover, Spot found himself wanting those big brown pools to know him. He longed for Racetrack to know all of his secrets, every last one of them … and to tell Spot that it was okay. Okay to have secrets to begin with, and okay to sometimes tell people those secrets; okay to cry at night, but also okay to laugh in the daylight; okay to fight when it was called for, and even okay to love …

"It's Benjamin."

Race wanted to cover his ears, and pretend maybe he hadn't heard it. Everything had just changed. It felt like the world, and not only his stomach, had just turned over.

"I'se not Spot Conlon, Race, I'se Benjamin Conlon."

Benjamin … Race thought, his head spinning.

"SPOT!" Jack called from the dock, waving the boy over.

Spot cursed under his breath, offered Racetrack one last pleading glance, and swam away.

And though Spot could not have known this, Race had followed him with his eyes thinking, "Benjamin … it suits him."