Disclaimer: I don't own the Newsies. As long as it's taken me to update, I figure you might have forgotten, so I thought I'd remind you.
Author's Notes: I am so sorry ittook me so long. I simply couldn't find inspiration. Even this chapter is not the greatest, but you really get a feel for what the rest of the story will be like, finally, from this chapter. I hope you haven't given up on me; I can't afford to lose any of my wonderful reviewers, lol. Anyhow, I realize that this chapter is a bit of a downer, but I can promise that the next one (whenever I get around to writing it) will be the exact opposite. I don't think I could bear to hurt Spot anymore. Also, I wrote this chapter a little different than my usual style. It's longer and there is alot of choppy action going on, going from one scene to another quickly, tell me if you don't like it, and I'll change it. So please read and review if you're still here – thanks for sticking with me.
"He ain't nevah around," Spike accused. The surrounding boys nodded.
"An' when he is around, his head's always somewhere else. Can't get a straight ansah outta him tah save ya life," another Brooklynite chimed in, while Mouse gave a nervous cough from the corner.
Outside, the sun was shinning, the clouds drifting lazily by. It was a nice day, to be sure. The Brooklyn boys were not selling, however. Spike had decided that enough was enough, and called together a meeting instead, to discuss their leaders' behavior of late.
"I dunno about da rest a' you'se guys, but I had enough, an' I don't intend tah be stickin' around tah take much more a dis."
Spot had gotten up good and early that morning, leaving before even the sun had risen. He was on his way to Manhattan in light of recent events.
Mouse was cowering in a corner, quite afraid to speak up, while the other boys slandered their chosen king. In his mind, a silent battle raged. He knew where Spot had been going all these nights; he knew why Spot couldn't think straight during the day. He had seen them together, only last night. He had watched Spot drag the other boy from the pub, watched the two of them talk in whispers, and watched as they had kissed there under the stars. Mouse had seen them with his own eyes.
He could speak up now, and tell the boys the truth – after all, they were like his brothers. Or he could keep it to himself, and protect Spot. He couldn't decide – he didn't want to lie to his fellow newsies, they had a right to know … but he knew that if they knew, it would be the end of Spot. No king of Brooklyn would be with another boy. It was unheard of.
"What do you think, Mouse?" Spike directed all attention to the youngest member of their group. Mouse began stuttering immediately – feeling like a thousand burning hot spotlights had suddenly turned towards him. His cheeks blushed accordingly.
"Well – I – I dunno, Spike … I mean, well Spot's a good – ya know, he ain't nevah, well, I mean – "
"Mouse!" Spike yelled, "What da hell are ya tryin' tah say?"
Mouse coughed and then said as quietly as he possibly could: "He goes tah Manhattan tah see a boy."
But Spike heard him. "What?" he hissed.
Mouse felt like he could cry. "Ya hoid me!" he yelled, and ran out of the room. He couldn't stand to be there while the others planned the downfall of the best leader Brooklyn had ever known.
"So Conlon's a queer …" Spike nodded maliciously. The other boys looked around at each other uncertainly. And in that room, on that sunny afternoon, Spot Conlon's fate was sealed...
The trek to Manhattan wasn't a fun one. It took, on average, about an hour.
On a good day, one could make it there in about 45 minutes, and even that was at a breakneck pace. That morning, Spot made it in no more than half an hour. The blood was pounding in his ears the whole way, his hands were shaking, and he was sweating like mad. But he knew what he needed to do. He knew now how he felt about Race, and he knew also that somewhere deep down, Race felt the same about him. He didn't know quite how he knew, but it was there, as natural as if he'd been born with it. This heated need to be close to the one person he felt he could trust.
Central Park. That's where Spot knew Race often sold, so that is where he waited until the sun came up.
Racetrack, meanwhile, was waking up to the worst hangover he'd had since the days of the strike. He felt like someone was drilling a three inch spike into his left temple. "Ah, shit," he mumbled as he rolled out of bed, resting his head on the cold wood of the floor. He couldn't seem to move. And worst of all, he seemed to have a vague memory of he and Spot in an alley last night … But no, that was ridiculous – why would Spot even be in Manhattan last night, and why would he … No, probably just an alcohol-induced dream. Albeit a good dream …
"Higgins, get ya ass up," Itey said sympathetically as he passed Race on the floor.
Racetrack rolled over and let out a moan. Gingerly, he got to his feet and approached the mirror. There, on his vest from last night … two muddy handprints…
"Heya Jack …"
Spot sat on a cold wooden bench, every once in a while getting up to pace nervously. The sky was streaked now with orange and purple. Birds chirped, and the church bell rang out the early morning hour. The beauty of it all was lost on Spot, however, who was far too nervous for anything to affect him much. Until Racetrack came trekking into his vision that is.
The Italian was clearly hurting from the night before. But Spot still thought he looked wonderful. His olive complexion was complimented by the soft light of dawn. His hair was slicked back as always, and his cap was just slightly askew. Spot shook himself lightly, mentally preparing himself. He knew Race didn't notice him, so it would be up to him to make the first move. And … "Uh, Heya Race."
The look on Race's face when he saw Spot there was unreadable. Spot thought he saw relief and maybe even pleasant surprise, but there was also a hint of "what the hell …" Which was fair, Spot thought to himself, as he had shown up in Manhattan before sunrise, and sat on a park bench for two hours. I prolly look like hell or worse, he thought suddenly.
Racetrack could only stare, so Spot continued. "What're ya doin', huh?"
Race raised his brows, "Well Spot, sometimes us newsies, we like tah get up at da break a' dawn an' spend all day breakin' our backs sellin' papes. But only sometimes, an' jus' fah fun."
Spot chuckled, knowing he probably should have expected that … "Well, ya feel like takin' a walk wid me?"
Race shrugged. He figured the day couldn't possibly get any stranger than it already was …
Back in Brooklyn, Spike sat alone out on the docks. He was waiting for Spot to get back from wherever he was. He'd been waiting for hours, and he'd wait as long as it took. After all, he'd waited all these long years just for an opportunity such as this presented itself. He could wait a few more hours. Then it would be his time …
The gulls cried over his thoughts, and the dirty water below him crashed. He had successfully convinced the other Brooklyn boys that something needed to be done, and he had been ready and willing to tell them what that something was. They had nodded and shaken their fists angrily. Abandonment was not taken lightly, and the boys were not going to make any exceptions, even for a king.
Spike grinned to himself. He himself would lead the revolution, and when it was over, he would take the golden tipped cane for himself, take it from Spot's cold, dead hand. It was only a matter of time now …
Spot and Race walked Central Park several times over. Spot pouring his heart out to Race, finally telling him the truth about his own strange behavior, about the night previous, about Benjamin, about theunconditional comfort that he felt in Racetrack's company. And Race listened intently, unsure of how to respond. Then, though it might quite possibly have been the hardest thing Spot ever had to do, he slowly brought his gaze to meet Race's. He was silent. And Race was silent. And the world that spun on around them ceased to exist. That little patch of grass where they stood, their strong bodies, fragile hearts, were floating, rotating somewhere out in space and time, apart from reality. Connected to no one. Nothing. Free and alone. But alone together.
...And then Racetrack chuckled. The Italian was skeptical by nature and untrusting by nurture, and he laughed at the thought of anyone loving him. Yet as soon as the grin broke upon his lips, he knew he was in trouble. Spot's face went from being soft and kind to hard and defensive. "Fahget it,"Spot said immediately. "Jus' go away." Just as quickly as it had all begun, it seemed to be over.
And then it hit Race that Spot was serious. It hit him like a hundred pound weight right at the pit of his stomach. Spot Conlon, the proudest boy he'd ever known, had just let down his guard to tell Race that he cared for him, trusted him, and wanted to have a relationship with him. "Wait, Spot, I-"
But Spot looked absolutely destroyed. "Race, I said go away."
Race reached out, but Spot glared and slapped Race so hard across the face that his own hand stung, and Race nearly lost his balance. Then there was more silence, and the two studied each others faces intently. The emotions that raged there were windows to their very hearts. Confusion. Anger. Hurt. Frustration. Uncertainty. Lust. Trust. Denial. Pain. Fear. Excitement. And want.
Spot had to end the look after only a few seconds. It tore him apart inside to even be near Race anymore. He'd taken a risk, one that he realized now hadn't been worth it. He'd gambled all or nothing, and he'd lost everything.
"Leave me alone. I don't wanna see ya no more."
Racetrack frowned. "Spot, please, can I jus-"
"God damnit Higgins – get da fuck away from me. I don't wanna evah see ya again, doncha get it!"
Race recoiled. "Fine," he near whispered, head hung, walking away.
And still Spot yelled after him. "Dat's right, jus' go! Ya best not evah come near me again, got dat? I'll kill ya, ya bum, I'll fucking kill ya!" And as Race retreated, the yelling became quieter and more for himself than for Racetrack to hear, "Nevah again, I don't nevah wanna see ya sorry face again …" And as soon as Race was far enough gone that he couldn't hear Spot at all, the Brooklynite collapsed onto the ground, and the screams became sobs. "Jus' go, jus' go, ya bum, it ain't fair … it jus' ain't fair."
And Spot, the king of Brooklyn, lay there, knees pulled to his chest, sobbing, utterly defeated. Spot learned that day that a broken heart could hurt worse than all the bruises in the world. Especially cause what he'd lost, he'd never really had. Spot had never really had anything. He was broken and alone.
