Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. Sadness. I do own Spike, and Mouse, and Maria however, and you will see them again.
Author's Notes: So now that I have got the rest of the story mapped out in my head, it'll be much easier to get them up on the site. I write them during school while I'm not paying attention and then come home and type them and voila. So that's exciting. Not much else to say. I actually like this chapter, which you know doesn't happen often. But please give me your feedback, as always. Thanks.
Spot had his own room. He was the King, and when you're King, you get your own room – it's just the way things work. It wasn't, however, necessarily the nicest room. It was usually dirty and dank smelling, like the river below. And there was a lose floorboard. This floorboard was right in the center of the room, and would squeak rather irritatingly every time it was stepped on.
Currently, the Brooklyn boys were downstairs trying to play a nice game of cards, while from above, intermixed with the sounds of the storm outside, they heard: step step step SQUEAK step step step step SQUEAK step step SQUEAK step step step step SQUEAK step step –
"God damnnit!" a rather hot tempered Brooklynite named Spike cursed. "If he don't stop pacin' – I swear I'se gonna kill him!"
The other boys snickered a little at Spike's outburst, but nodded in agreement. It was common knowledge that when there was something on Spot's mind, he would spend hours walking back and forth in his room, thinking and mumbling to himself. But he had been in there all day, and the other boys were starting to get a little concerned … as well as annoyed. "What da hell could it be dis time?" Spike rolled his eyes.
A slightly quieter Brooklynite, Mouse, said "Don't let it bothah ya, Spike. Just ignore it and soon ya won't even notice it no more." Spike nodded reluctantly through gritted teeth, and the boys resumed their game.
… Step step step SQUEAK step step step step SQUEAK step step SQUEAK step step step SQUEAK …
"When exactly ain't I gonna notice it, Mouse!" Spike yelled suddenly, and Mouse recoiled at the anger directed at him.
It was clear that the boys would have to find something else to do to distract themselves from the infuriating squeaking, because cards was not working ….
Spot hardly noticed the squeaking. He was far too deeply immersed in his own thoughts. He kept seeing Racetrack's face. And that scared the shit out of him.
"It ain't nuttin'," Spot would mutter. "He's just easy tah tawk to, dat's it, nuttin' more …"
But there it was again, every time Spot closed his eyes: the picture of Race smiling at him saying "Don' worry about it none, Spot" … God, that smile was driving him mad. The way the hair was tossed back, the way the cheeks were pale and soft, the way the eyes positively glowed.
There was a knock at the door. Spot cursed, but Maria entered anyway...
Now, most every girl in Brooklyn, nay, in all of New York wanted Spot. He was handsome and charming, and he was a king after all … the power tended to be enticing to females. Spot knew it, and he had always used it against them. The result effect being that Spot could get any girl he wanted. But Maria – she was another story. She was Spot's female counterpart. She was a dancer, and every newsie in the whole city knew of her – there wasn't a boy anywhere that wouldn't give their right arm to spend just one night with the Latina.
Spot had been infatuated with Maria for a while. He had actually expended some effort to win Maria over (this was foreign to Spot, who usually just let the girls come to him). They had seen each other for a good month, and then had mutually broken off the relationship. But Maria stuck around, for whenever either of the two was feeling a little lonely. She came by now and again for some late-night comfort, and Spot was always more than willing to oblige her …
Here she stood now, dark black hair cascading down her back, almond eyes hidden beneath long, dark,eyelashes.Yet at the moment, Spot had absolutely no desire to see his former lover. "What're you doin' here, Maria?"
Maria pouted her full lips. "Aw, Spot, baby, why don't you ever wanna love me anymore?"
"Just not tonight."
"Why not?" Maria cooed. She walked seductively over to where Spot was standing, careful to close the door behind her, and draped her hands over Spot's shoulders, pulling him close. "Isn't there anything I could do to make it better?"
Spot rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Maria – don't you'se undahstand da meanin' of da woid no?"
Maria began to plant teasing little kisses all around the place where Spot's neck became his shoulder, completely ignoring his disinterest.
Spot pushed her away and held her stiffly at arm's length. "I said no," he said firmly. "I ain't in da mood, got it?"
Maria looked quite hurt, but knew better than to argue with Spot when he gave her that look. "Fine!" she yelled, and gave Spot a little push before huffing her way down the stairs.
Spot rolled his eyes again and slammed the door behind her. He inwardly cursed himself. It was unusual for Spot to ever send any girl away. He generally didn't even have to be interested in the girl to sleep with her. It was just what he did – it was his image. So why had he turned Maria down? He couldn't quite figure it out. But something in his subconscious had wanted nothing to do with her. Nothing about her was appealing to him anymore. Great, he thought to himself, I'm already bored with the most gorgeous girl in all of New York City – where do I go from there?
He paced some more – much to the dismay of his boys downstairs - now with yet another mystery to discern. And then suddenly, the pacing stopped, and there was quiet. He had figured it out, even if he wasn't exactly happy with what he discovered. Why had he turned Maria down? Because her eyes didn't glow. Not like Racetrack's did.
"Fuck."
Not even bothering to grab a coat or his cap, Spot started down the stairs. On his way out he passed Maria sitting in Spike's lap (clearly not too hurt by Spot's rejection).
"Going somewhere baby?" she smiled at him tauntingly.
"Ovah tah Manhattan fah a while. Spike – you'se in charge, got dat?"
And without even waiting for an answer, he was out the door into the pouring rain.
In Manhattan, the boys were enjoying a night just sitting around the Lodging House. The storm had kept them in most of the night, but Race was in no mood to just sit inside. He wanted to go out and paint the town. So they'd opened a few bottles of liquor they'd been saving to oblige him. Now the Italian was slightly buzzed, but still hell bent on getting out.
"C'mon guys," he whined. "Let's go do somethin'."
Mush laughed, "What're you in such a good mood for?"
Race grinned, "I dunno, Mushee, I just can't stay in tahnight."
Suddenly a shoe flew from out of nowhere and caught Racetrack square on the side of the head. Race tumbled off the table he'd been standing on, right to the floor. Several of the boys nearly died laughing, but Race stood right back up, fists raised, yelling, "Alright, who did it! I'll soak ya!"
This caused the boys to laugh even harder. Then Blink stood with his hands raised in mock surrender: "I can't tell no lies, Race, it was me," he snickered and winked to the others.
"Ya can't tell lies?" Race laughed, "Blink, I'se nevah hoid ya tell da truth a day in ya life!"
Blink laughed and gave Race a playful shove, Race retaliated with a good natured slap on the back. Soon the two were wrestling on the ground.
Jack came to interrupt. "Hey, you two," he laughed, "I can't have ya wakin' up da youngah boys wid ya flirtin'."
Several "ooo's" and "awww's" escaped the surrounding crowd. Blink shook his head and made a gagging gesture, and left Race for Mush, who was sitting all by himself with a hurt look on his face.
Race rolled over onto his side and rubbed the patch of ground next to him seductively, "If you'se wanted tah join us, Jack, all ya had tah do was say so," he batted his eyelashes jokingly.
Jack made a face of disgust and shook his head, but Race sprung from the floor andcontinuedin his previous mission:"Let's go tah Tibby's or somethin' Jack – it's such a nice night, I can't stay home, c'mon, let's go," he pleaded.
Jack shook his head and sighed, "Aw, Race, we'se all jus' wanna stay home tahnight."
But Race was in far too good a mood. He and Spot were back on good terms, better terms than they'd ever been on, even. He was surrounded by friends, and he was the center of attention, which was just the way he liked it. This was his time.
Race pouted his lips, and slyly took both Jack's hands and began twirling him around. Jack was too shocked to protest, while Race sang "La da dee, dum dum dee, la da, dum dum, dee dum dum …" a simple tune for them to dance to. Then he faked a woman's high pitched voice, "Ya nevah take me out no more Jack – I wanna go dancin'!"
The other boys were rolling by this point. Seeing their leader, the fearless Jack Kelly being swept off his feet by Race (a good six inches shorter than Jack was) was too good to be true. Jack just rolled his eyes and played along. The laughing seemed to give Race even more energy. He continued spiritedly, mocking. "I feel like I'm in a cage, Jack, I need more of a life den dis – stayin' home all day, cookin' ya meals and cleanin' ya doity undahwear-"
There was uproar. Even Jack, who was used to Race's drunken joking, couldn't contain his laughter. He almost fell over, eyes watering, sides aching, laughing so hard. Drunk Race kept right on dancing with himself.
Jack put one hand up in defeat (the other was still clutching his aching gut). "Ya win," he gasped, "Ya promise me ya won't evah say anuddah woid about me undahwear an' I'll take ya anywhere ya want!"
Race smiled, laughing just as hard as the rest of them. He gave a little mock bow, and from somewhere in the crowd came, "Dat's one fine woman ya got yaself, Cowboy!
Nearly an hour later a small group of close-knit Manhattaners were sitting around in Tibby's, smoking and talking as old friends do.
Racetrack was glowing – the life of the party. He told stories that kept the others on the edge of their seats;delivered jokes that made the others cry tears of mirth; and was the all around definition of fun. The last couple weeks, the othershad been worried about Racetrack – he hadn't been acting like himself, but now, they knew, it had just been a phase. This was the Racetrack they knew and loved.
Currently the Italian was in the middle of some type of jig on a tabletop, when the door to the pub flew open. Those sitting near the door were sprayed with rainwater from the storm outside. A collective gasp came from all corners of the room at once.
Spot's hair was dripping wet and his clothes were clinging tightly to his shivering form. Race stopped his dance at once, and at the sight of Spot there, tall and dark in the moonlight, his breath caught in his chest. He felt the heat rise to his face and subconsciously scolded himself for it. No one spoke.
Finally, when it was clear that Spot was not going to say anything, Jack stood up, "Spot," he asked, "What're you doin' here?" Simple, but to the point.
Spot shook his head to shake the excess rain from his hair, and began walking towards Race. "Jacky boy, I need tah tawk tah Race fah a minute. Ya won't mind if I borrow him, will ya?"
Race smiled a little. Spot was here to see him …
The other boys whispered uncomfortably. What could possibly be so important that Spot would walk all the way from Brooklyn, late at night, in the middle of a storm?
Race jumped down from the table, quite aware of the uneasy atmosphere of the pub. "Heya fellahs, no worries, I'll be back. Try not tah miss metoo much."
Race tried not to notice the wide smile that spread over Spot's face when he'd spoke.
And without another word, the two boys walked out of Tibby's, leaving the others stunned and quite confused. Something was clearly going on, and it was a secret.
