Disclaimer: I don't own the Newsies. You know this. Why do I bother?

Author's Notes: I'm sorry this took so long! Midterms and all that fun stuff. Anyhow, I hope you haven't lost interest – I plan to continue this story all the way through, just bear with me lol. I like this chapter, I hope you do as well. As always, review, please please please! It helps me so much, it really does. Oh, and Merry Christmas!

The rain was coming down in sheets. It pounded on the roof of Tibby's, and spilled over the gutters in a dirty waterfall that Race found somehow tantalizing. He stood there with Spot under an overhang, both trying their best to pretend that this wasn't the most uncomfortable situation either of them had ever been in. All of a sudden, a shiver flew down Race's spine – he was soaked up to the knees, and like Spot, his clothes were quite soggy. "Spot," he asked hesitantly, "it's freezin' – what're ya doin' here?"

Spot stood there, unspeaking, and Race silently noted how awful he looked. And yet … how wonderful.Yet Spot was still torn inside. His stomach was doing somersaults standing here with Racetrack, and the speech he'd been working on the whole wayover now sounded stupid. But that feeling he'd gotten on that blazing August day when he'd first shared with Race his secrets – he got that feeling now whenever he and Race were together. And it was getting worse … or was it better? Whatever the case, it was this very feeling, that made him sure what he was doing was right. This feeling, the one making his palms sweat, and his heart pound up in his throat. Yet could he really be falling for Racetrack Higgins? The thought was absurd … But that feeling, he couldn't get rid of it … It was crazy, Race was a nobody, Spot was a king … Oh, but his eyes, those big, brown, caring eyes …

"Spot?"

Spot's eyes shot back up, and his mind raced back to the present. Suddenly there was Racetrack, standing only inches away, and God, did he look good

"Why'd ya do it Race?" Spot demanded, but the crack in his voice gave away his anxiety.

Race smiled a little, drunk and confused. "Do what?" He raised his hands, palms up, to show his bewilderment.

Spot sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Ya can't just make dis easy, can ya Higgins?" he asked, exasperated. But Race saw that a slight blush was creeping its way to Spot's cheeks.

Finally Spot closed his eyes for a second, mentally preparing himself. He then looked directly at Race. "Make it so's I can't stop thinkin' about ya."

Race shook his head, clearly unaware of what was going on. "I didn't do nuttin' Spot – are you okay?"

Just my luck dat the bastard'd be drunk ...Spot thought to himself. He made fists and yelled, "Ahh! No, I ain't okay!"

Race took a step back, while Spot pointed an accusing finger in his direction. "All I'se can do is think about ya – and ya eyes, dey're what's doin' it!" This certainly wasn't going the way Spot had planned. Maybe yelling didn't exactly convey "I care about you." Looking at Race's confused face, Spot shook his head. Okay, new plan.

"Race, what I'se tryin' tah say is dat, well, bein' around ya, it makes me … well …it makes me ..." Spot's blush was deeper than ever now, he couldn't even look Racetrack in the face.

Race laughed. "Jesus Spot, jus' say whatevah it is, ya makin' such a big deal outta it."

Spot clenched his teeth in a futile attempt to make his urge to punch Race subside. "Makes me wanna kiss ya, ya dimwitted sonuva bitch!"

Race stood, quite dumbfounded for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what Spot had said under all the cursing. Finally his intoxicated brain registered this one thought: So dis is why Spot's been actin' so funny … huh, I guess it sorta makes sense now …

After his revelation however, he looked back to Spot. The Brooklynite was staring at him with an intense, almost terrified fervor. Droplets of rain were sliding their way down Spot's pale face and over his parted lips, between which short breaths of warm air were visible in the chill.

Racetrack looked shocked, afraid, and utterly confused all at the same moment. But Spot would not give in. He had come here to get something accomplished, and by all means, he would do so. It was that part of him that he got from his mother. He was determined. You see, Spot Conlon always got what he wanted, even if he had to force his hand.

And at that particular moment, what he wanted was Racetrack Higgins.

Without giving himself time to lose his nerve, Spot reached out and grabbed Race by the collar. "Damn," he mumbled, and closed his eyes as tight as he could. Then, in a jerky, nervous-type movement, Spot threw the drunken Italian against the wall, and pressed their lips together.

All around them, the rain poured as hard as ever. The sounds of the city pounded in their ears. The air was freezing cold. And they were still just two poor orphans inthe midst of a lifelong battle against the world. Yet, for just a moment, Anthony Racetrack Higgins and Benjamin Spot Conlon, were in heaven. Their stomachs still ached from hunger, and at the back of their minds, thoughts of how they'd pay rent that night still lingered. Yet, for just a moment, the two boys tasted freedom and innocence.

The cruel world still spun around them. Yet, for just a moment, they knew happiness.

For Spot, the kiss meant a magnificent release of all the tension and uncertainty he'd allowed to build up inside himself. For Race, the kiss was just a soft, warm something that came unexpected, but not all together unwelcome.

And both were too busy to notice the ragged-looking figure around the corner let out an inaudible gasp and sprint its way down the street back to Brooklyn.

Silently, and just as quickly as he'd begun it, Spot ended the kiss. Race waited for Spot to say something, anything … but Brooklyn's king only stared at his shoes. Finally, he looked up to meet Race's gaze. Yet still he didn't speak – he only stared intently, as if fitting pieces into a puzzle. Race was finally about to say something, when Spot nodded, quite suddenly, grinned warmly (to himself, not to Race), and turned and ran. He left Racetrack standing there under the dirty roof – his shoes wet and muddy, and with damp handprints on his vest where Spot had grabbed him and pulled him close. Gingerly, the Italian ran a few fingers over his lips. They were still tingling from Spot's touch.

And then the rain was silent. The whole city was silent. All that Race could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears. Are hearts supposed to beat that fast? Damn …

Racetrack stumbled back into Tibby's: still wet, still cold, still drunk … but there was something very different. Race knew, he could feel it, he was changed – maybe when he'd sobered up he'd be able to figure it out …

A few boys looked up when Race reentered, but he didn't notice. He just took his seat, and put his head down. He chuckled when he realized he'd be spending another night lying in bed and staring at the ceiling…

A/N: See the nice purple review button. Yeah, you should press it. If you managed to suffer through this much of my writing the least you can do is give me a little feedback …