Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies. Damn.
Author's Notes: Chapter three! Written during school again. I am not very happy with this chapter, but I figured something had to be posted so I could continue with it, or it would never get done. Again, thanks to everyone who is reading and commenting, you're awesome, please continue to do so. Oo, also, I hope you've caught on to the fact that "Benjamin" is indeed the personification of Spot's innocence, as well as his goodness- I tried to make that a little more clear in this chapter. No, Spot does not have multiple personalities lol, it's just an idea I'm trying out, it will probably continue throughout the story.
A little over a month since the late August heat had blessed the newsies with good business, autumn was beginning to show subtle signs of its coming. The days were still relatively warm, but the nights had a bite to them. The leaves were changing to pale browns and golds, soon to be deep reds and oranges in another week or so, and geese could be heard making their way south for the bitter winter ahead.
For Spot, the month had been agonizing. Racetrack hadn't been to Brooklyn since the day he had told him his real name. Race used to come to Brooklyn all the time, for one reason or another. Those visits had ceased; and Spot wasn't sure if this upset him because of the humiliation he felt at having told Race his secrets, or simply because he missed having the Manhattan boy around. He didn't know what to think, he didn't know where he and Race stood, but he knew he wasn't going to be the pitiful fool who went to Race first to figure these things out.
For Race, the month had been tiresome. He could function during the days now, and once again had no trouble selling his papes. But it was at night that he would get less than half the sleep he needed: lying awake and dreaming of Benjamin Conlon. He had created just under a million different stories to accompany that name. In some, Benjamin had grown up with a large Irish family of some eight brothers and sisters; in others, his father had left when he was just a boy and Benjamin and Mrs. Conlon had lived a hard life in the tougher part of Brooklyn. The stories always ended abruptly, however, right before the transition from Benjamin to Spot, and Race was never allowed to bear witness to the loss of innocence that made Spot the callous individual he was today.
It was a Sunday afternoonwhen Race finally decided, putting his fear (and probably his common sense) out of mind, to take the long walk to Brooklyn. He couldn't understand why it was so hard. A name is a name, right? Everyone has one, even Spot, so why had it caused this much discomfort between them? Racetrack lost count of how many times he'd tried to turn around to head back home and had to gather his courage all over again to continue on his way to Brooklyn. When he finally did arrive (in twice the amount of time the trip would normally have taken him), he found Spot sitting on the docks, one leg lazily swinging over the edge, a few inches above the gray water. Spot didn't notice him at first.
It suddenly occurred to Race that he didn't know whether to call him Spot or Benjamin …
"Uhm, Spot?" It seemed like the right choice after half a second's indecision.
Spot jumped at the sound, and then was up and walking away briskly before Race could say another word, waving his hands and shaking his head going "Oh no, we ain't gonna do dis – go home Race …"
Race was shocked for a minute, then realized that after all his internal conflict and lack of sleep, Spot was just walking away. "Wait, Spot, get back here, we'se need tah talk."
Spot didn't respond.
"'Dis ain't a joke, Spot. Ya went an' told me all about yaself, and all dis stuff ya ain't nevah told no one, and den all of a sudden ya won't talk tah me at all?"
Race was following Spot now, yet still Spot would neither speak nor turn around.
"Benjamin!" Race tried in desperation.
Spot stopped dead in his tracks, and so abruptly that Race ran right into him and tumbled to the ground. Looking up, Race grinned slightly - he couldn't help knowing that he'd gotten the better of Spot. "I thought dat'd get ya tah stop," he chuckled.
Spot thought it was a little less than funny.
He spun around, and with deadly speed grabbed Race by the scruff of the neck and shoved the Italian up against the nearest wall. The brick was warm from the bright afternoon sun, but still rock hard and already Race could feel the pain shooting through his back.
"What da hell are you'se doin' Spot!" he yelled: his toes dangling inches off the ground.
Spot looked more intimidating than Race had ever seen him. As a look he'd been practicing for years, it was quite effective.
"Don't you'se evah - evah - call me dat name again. I ain't Benjamin no more: I ain't been Benjamin fah years, and I ain't nevah gonna be Benjamin again!"
"Lemme down Spot!" Race yelled. But Spot kept right on in his fury; Race had never seen him this angry before.
"I dunno why I'se told you'se all dat stuff - I nevah should have. I wasn't meself dat day. Jus' fahget da whole thing, alright? It don't mean nuttin'," he growled.
Race couldn't think of what to say. He wouldn't go home now, not after he'd lost an entire month of sleep thinking of Spot and Benjamin ... "Fine fine, jus' lemme go Spot," he said.
Spot's face went from fury to confusion, rested for a moment at skepticism, then fell completely. He then let go of Race, who fell also.
This was it, Race realized then, it was now or never ... he got to his feet slowly and dusted himself off, doing his best to look defeated. He waited only seconds for Spot to adopt the smug look of success, before throwing the punch. Even as Race's fist connected with Spot's jaw, the Manhattan boy knew he was as good as dead. Spot retaliated almost immediately. Even as Race somehow, miraculously, wrestled Spot to the ground, he had no idea how this was going to solve his problems. Spot kicked and yelled, but Race had had the element of surprise, and was soon holding Spot's wrists in place on the ground, straddling the Brooklynite so that he could not move. And even as Race looked down into Spot's face, he wasn't sure of his next move. For the next move, in fact, was Spot's.
"Higgins!" he growled incredulously, "Ya gonna be sorry fah dis - what are you'se doin'?"
"I jus' wanna know why you'se told me ya name like ya did. I wanna know who Benjamin is - an' yer makin' it real damn hard fah me," Race answered honestly.
Spot relaxed under Racetrack's grip, and his face became less tense. Race's eyes were doing that thing again. They were becoming soft and inviting, and Spot realized with a jolt that he actually hadn't minded when Race had called him Benjamin. Spot wanted to explain this and everything else to Race, but his pride was screaming that doing so would be being weak, and giving in. Kings weren't weak: kings didn't need brown-eyed Italian boys to talk to to make them feel better. Kings didn't. Maybe Spot did.
"Alright, alright!" Spot rolled his eyes, "I give." He was a little concerned that he'd never seen Racetrack be serious about anything in his whole life, yet here he was: genuine concern in his voice and worry in his eyes. In fact, Spot almost felt proud that he and he alone had this effect on his friend. He smiled inwardly: it was another boost to his already over-inflated ego.
"Ya swear?" Race asked, wary of having the same trick pulled on him that he'd pulled on Spot only moments ago.
"A 'course I swear, ya bum, now get offa me or I'll kill ya!"
Race didn't need to be told twice.
Both boys sat up on their knees, panting a little from their fight. Neither knew exactly what to say. Finally Spot started grinning. Race grabbed a handfull of dirt and threw it at him: "What's so funny!" he demanded.
"I'se really got tah ya, huh?" he asked proudly.
Race laughed along with Spot, but felt slightly ashamed. "Ah, don't flattah yaself ..."
They sat in another uncomfortable silence before Race asked, "So you'se wanna head tah Tibby's or something?" he was just glad that they were speaking again.
Spot shook his head, "Nah, if we'se gonna talk, we ain't gonna do it wid a bunch a' uddah people around ..."
Spot seemed uncomfortable, so Race humored him. "Alright, Spot, so where do you'se wanna go?"
Spot thought for a moment, and the effort screwed up his whole face. "Let's jus' take a walk." Though the idea was his own, Spot sounded rather uncomfortable with it, as if he'd never done so before.
But Race was more than happy with the idea. He nodded. Then slightly awkwardly, the two began their trek through the streets of New York: an event which would become commonplace for them in the months to come. Walking through Central Park an hour or so later, the leaves looked gorgeous in the golden setting of the sun. Spot watched them in awe, quite aware that he hadn't taken the time to notice such things in months. The light breeze ruffled both boys' hair, and even after the sun had gone down and the rest of the world had tucked themselves in bed, Spot and Racetrack wandered the streets, together. This togetherness would also become commonplace quite soon.
