Disclaimer: I still don't own the Newsies, but I'm working on it, lol.

Author's Note: I just couldn't wait to get this chapter up. It's been in my head for so long, and I think it came out just as I would have liked it to. That's all I have to say really, I'll let you read it and decide for yourself – and I will try and get the next chapter up as soon as possible as I kind of end this one with a cliffhanger.

The moon shone bright that night Spot Conlon walked home alone. The clouds were wispy thin and could not protecthim from the glass-sharp shine of the full moon. The walk took Spot hours, as he had to keep stopping to catch his breath. He'd been sobbing so hard since leaving Manhattan that his lungs ached, his eyes burned, and his nose was numb.

Just as he was passing through the Bronx, his body gave up on him. His legs gave out beneath him, and Spot landed hard on hands and knees – the concrete immediately drawing blood. Spot stared at the hard ground beneath him, and realizations of the night flew through his head. The realization of his love confession, the realization of Race's rejection, the realization of the foolishness of it all. He'd thrown caution to the wind, and unlike his father all those years ago, it had not ended well for him. He'd been banking on a miracle – instead, fate dealt him a disaster. Fate decided to destroy him. Feeling his stomach heave, Spot closed his eyes so he would not have to watch himself vomit all over the cement. Bile and tears and blood made their way to the sewers in gross streams of Spot's own personal misery.

How could he have known that day he said to Race "It's Benjamin," that it would lead to all of this? Fate, he thought to himself. He hadn't meant to tell Racetrack his secrets; he hadn't meant to feel so safe when he'd looked into those eyes; he hadn't meant to kiss the boy in the pouring rain. He hadn't meant to fall in love. But one thing led to another, and fate, it seemed, had dragged him by the wrists to places he'd never dared go before. And where was he now? Well, the king of Brooklyn was vomiting and crying and bleeding all alone on the cold, cruel streets of New York…

When finally he reached his home on the docks, it was just a few hours from dawn, and Spot could hear the sounds of his boys sleeping soundly. They didn't know he was home. It was the longest night Spot had ever endured, and it wasn't over yet... Spot could not know that in their sleep, his once loyal followers dreamt of his murder. Even in sleep, they were no longer Spot's friends.

Through the musty pre-dawn air, Spot dragged himself up the stairs to his bed. He thought he heard a creaking on the stairs even after he himself had reached the top, but he dismissed the noise as the throbbing of his head. What he needed now was not to worry, but to sleep.

Settling himself under his cold sheets, Spot closed his eyes tight against the world. His pain was unspeakable. Sleep took over in minutes however, taking Spot to that brilliant place of dreams and ignorance; most importantly, that place devoid of anything earthly. No Brooklyn docks haunted his mind; he saw no rain or Tibby's or tears; and certainly no brown eyes. Brown eyes were the worst.

After less than an hour of sleep, in that middle ground between dream and waking, Spot heard the groan of his own door opening ever so slowly. He ignored it, not able to turn his head for sheer, nearly tangible, exhaustion. Still half asleep, Spot chose to ignore also the creeping footsteps, tiptoeing their way to his bedside. Only when the sounds assumed a voice did Spot finally make any move at all.

"…Spot?"

The voice was soft and careful. And it belonged to no Brooklynite. The owner of the soft voice was from Manhattan. A beautiful, brown-eyed, boy from Manhattan. The same that Spot had fallen in love with. And as the voice broke over Spot's ears, the ache he'd felt all night ebbed ever so slightly, despite the way Spot's brain screamed that this was not a good situation to be in. His heart couldn't help itself – Spot was relieved to see Racetrack. In his presence, Spot's heart was not so hard, his mind not so filled with thoughts of power and pain, his very person was bettered by the company of that insignificant other.

Spot summoned the energy to sit up in his bed, leaning his back against the headboard, returning Race's gaze through bloodshot eyes.

Racetrack stood uncomfortably a few feet from the bed. His eyes were not swollen from crying as Spot's were – instead they were traced with concern and remorse. His hands were fumbling nervously behind his back, and his whole body was shaking with apprehension. Yet Spot could only stare back at him through horribly empty eyes.

Without warning, Race marched to Spot's bed and sat down crosslegged facing the Brooklynite, their faces about a foot apart. The two boys sat in silence for at least fifteen minutes more, just gazing at each other. What else could they do?

Just when Spot thought he couldn't take the silence anymore – that again his body would simply break down and he would fall back out of consciousness – Racetrack grasped the front of his shirt, pulling him in close, pausing for only a minute, an inch away, to see the shocked look on Spot's face.

In the kiss, Spot sensed the same searching in Racetrack as he himself had felt only the night previous at Tibby's. And sure enough, when they parted, the same look of resolve was in the brown eyes Spot so adored. "Benjamin," Race corrected himself.

There was a minute where no one quite knew what to say, sitting so close, both so vulnerable. Then Spot chuckled to himself, secretly thanking fate, and leaning his forehead against Race as he said, "Took ya dis long, did it? Jackass."

And where Spot thought Racetrack would smile and all would be well, instead the Italian began to cry, and Spot couldn't think what to do. Race threw himself at Spot, wrapping his arms so tight around the other's neck that Spot could scarcely move. "I'm sorry," Race whimpered.

Spot shook his head, "Race, 'dere ain't nothin' tah be sorry fah – whatcha tawkin' about?"

"I'm so sorry," Race continued, his face buried in that place between Spot's neck and his shoulder. "I didn't nevah mean tah hoit ya … nevah … sorry, I'm sorry …"

Spot sat bewildered, soothingly rubbing Racetrack's back.

Race backed off a few inches, gazing into Spot's eyes with such distress that Spot's own brows creased in worry. Race's heart ached with the pain he'd caused the boy he so cared for – the boy he hadn't been able to get out of his thoughts in months. He was realizing now that all those sleepless nights should have tipped him off; had he paid more attention, he might have recognized that what he'd been feeling was love.

Race brought his finger up to meet Spot's face, tracing slowly eachtrail of a tear, each line of worry; meeting each freckle, each wrinkle; bringing his lips to kiss each lip, each cheek. All the while whispering "I'm sorry … so sorry …"

Spot, likewise, began exploring all the little details of Race. He kept his hands roaming over shoulders, arms, chest - his lips following moments later to any place he thought he'd like to explore with them.

Within moments, clothing was being shed, and the fever of skin on skin made both boys hot with anticipation. They discovered one another that night, leading with eager hands and greedy mouths. Still with Race gasping in between passion and tears "I'm sorry … sorry …"

While the autumn moonlight streamed through dirty glass windowpanes, two boys found themselves overcome with emotion, enwrapped in one another, feeling love for the very first time. And to the surprise of both, their actions did not feel in the least bit awkward or wrong – they seemed perfect. Like the last piece of the puzzle were falling into place, sealing up that empty place in their hearts with something lukewarm and hopeful.

"I'm sorry … so sorry …"

"I love you …"