Disclaimer: I've tried and tried, but the newsies just don't belong to me. Also, the song used at the end is called the Freshman by Verve Pipe.

Author's Note: So this is the very last chapter. I cried the entire time I was writing it, I will miss this story so much. I tried my hardest to make it memorable, and please don't hate me for the ending. My muse told me this was the way it had to be, so it couldn't be helped. I sincerely hope you enjoy it - I know I've enjoyed writing it and getting your feedback on it. Anyhow, if you finish this and you like my style, feel free to check out some of my other stories - I've got at least five or six other newsies one-shots. Also, I'll probably be starting another chapter story for newsies soon, so watch for my name. Again, thank you so much to anyone who's been reading faithfully and reviewing, you will never know how much you've meant to me. So I guess that's all I can say. Please leave me a few nice words (or nasty ones, lol, whichever you'd prefer) after you finish this. I would greatly appreciate it. Thank you so much.

Days passed for the Manhattan newsies in a state of almost euphoric bliss. After that first night, Spot insisted he couldn't take Jacks bunk any longer, so he got his own set up next to Race. More often than not, however, the boys would wake up to find Spot and Race sharing a bed, regardless of where they had originally lain down to sleep.

It was strange at first, for the Manhattan boys to see Spot Conlon living among them. Spot was a legend, not just any old newsie who drank and smoked and sold with them. But Spot was trying his hardest to blend in – something he'd never done before. He accepted Jack as the leader in Manhattan and treated him as such. He recognized that he was no longer the King. Not of Brooklyn, not anywhere. He would fade into history, and one day people would say: "Spot Conlon, the greatest leader Brooklyn ever had, and the most famous newsie in all of New York. I wonder whatever happened to him …"

Christmas was approaching, and the red and green that shone from every street corner could not fail to bring a smile to everyone's faces. Snow sparkled like diamonds from the sky, children's faces were all scarlet with cold inside their hoods, bells tinkled silver from every shop door, and always there lingered the faintest hint of a carol on the air.

Race and Spot sold together as often as they could. Race told Spot it was because he loved spending time with him, but it was mostly that he didn't want to let Spot out of his sight. Jack had warned him in private of what Mickey had said. That there were still those out there who had been won over whole heartedly by Spike's cause, and would want Spot dead. This worried Race more than he could say, and he hardly let Spot alone for more than a few minutes at a time, if that.

Spot spent the week or so after his coming to Manhattan realizing that there was no way he could stay. He loved Jack and the boys like brothers. They had always been there for him, and had passed this most recent test of friendship with flying colors. But Spot could not simply live his life trying to adapt to their way of life. He didn't belong in Manhattan - that much was clear. He didn't know if he even belonged in New York any longer. He didn't know anything. He was as lost as he'd been those first few weeks alone on the streets of the city, trying to make it as a young newsie. With one small difference: he had Racetrack in his life now …

A thought had come to him days ago, and wouldn't seem to leave him alone. What if he were to ask Race to leave somewhere with him? It didn't matter where. They could go away and start a new life. Maybe Spot would get a real job; they could even get a real place. No more a-penny-a-pape nonsense. They could get factory jobs, or work in a restaurant somewhere, maybe a convenience store. The days would be long, sure, and the bills would be nearly unbearable, but Racetrack would be there with him, day in and day out. And the nights would be theirs, just as they always had been.

Thinking all of this over made Spot nervous. But he couldn't see another way. So he planned it all out in his head. It would be his Christmas present to Race. Spot would take him to Central Park Christmas Eve and propose his idea. There would be snow and lights, it would be perfect. Spot had never been much of a romantic, but that didn't matter. Something in Race's smile, or perhaps it was the touch of his hand, made Spot want to be everything he had never been before.

"Look like ya doin' some serious thinkin' dere, Conlon," Jack called from across the common room.

Spot chuckled and threw a piece of trash off the ground at him. Their conversation was easy and fun, just two good friends sharing a rare moment of peace. "Jus' thinkin' about how ridiculous ya look in dat bandanah a' yours."

Jack glanced at the red bandana around his neck, straightened it and grinned proudly. "Ya jus' jealous."

Spot rolled his eyes. "So what do ya Manhattan boys do fah Christmas, huh?"

Jack shrugged. "What we do every othah day I suppose. No sellin' though. We sleep in, go tah Tibby's fah lunch. Exchange some presents sometimes. Last year Mrs. Jacobs had Les, Sarah, an' Dave bring ovah some eggnog an' Christmas cookies. We mixed some whiskey in da eggnog … Davey was sick all ovah da place, an' even Les wasn't walkin' straight." Jack smiled fondly at the memory.

"Ya fahgot da part where ya got Dave jus' drunk enough tah get in his pants," Spot teased.

Jack laughed, but his face turned a deep shade of maroon, making Spot laugh out even louder. "Don't you even tawk about me an' Davey," Jack said, "when you an' Race can't keep ya hands off each othah."

Spot shook his head, smiling.

"It was one a' me best Christmases …" Jack conceded thoughtfully, with a grin on his face which betrayed rather obviously he and David's activities that night…

Just then a chuckle from near the doorway brought the two back to reality. Race sauntered over and stood behind Spot's chair, placing his hands on the boys' shoulders and leaning down to give a kiss.

Jack let out a groan, "Ah, c'mon, ya makin' me sick." But he smiled warmly at the pair. He was glad that they could be so comfortable here. He was glad he was in command of boys who were open minded and kind hearted, who could take Spot and Race's relationship – as well as his own relationship with David – in stride. It was a rare thing indeed. And he felt such pride at being a part of this little haven of intimacy and understanding that he thought he might burst. He couldn't know how short-lived it all would be.

That night Jack heard once again through the grapevine that there were a close-knit group of Brooklyn newsies who were hunting for Spot and who, when they found him, were planning to eliminate him.

He informed Race of the developments, and urged Race to be even more careful with Spot. Neither one wanted to tell Spot that he was being pursued - they knew the Brooklynite too well. And so they were well aware that if Spot found out, it would just anger him, and not only would he not be more careful, he'd probably end up doing something stupid like trying to find them and take them on himself. It was a risk neither was willing to take.

So Race simply nodded when Jack told him and trudged his way up to the bunkroom where Spot was lounging with a few other boys.

"Ya fahget who ya dealin' with, Blink," he was saying, betting a few more coins in the card game they were engaged in.

Race lingered in the door frame a second or two, just watching. It only took Spot a moment to notice him, however – it scared Race sometimes how Spot could just sense his pretense. "C'mon, sit down," Spot said grinning, "I'm about tah win a week's woith a Blink's earnin's."

Race chuckled and joined the boys. He caught a glimpse of Spot's cards and knew inwardly that Spot was being truthful – Blink didn't stand a chance this hand.

The three played cards until nearly midnight, when finally Blink, stifling a yawn, threw down his cards. "Dat's a night fah me, boys, I'm gonna have tah sell over a hundred papes a' day fah a month tah get back half da money I lost tahnight!"

Spot grinned apologetically, and waved at Blink as he trudged off tah his bunk and sleep.

Race yawned as well, and took Spot's hand. "We should get some sleep too, ya know. Tamarrah's Christmas Eve. Den we get Christmas off, huh? Let's get some rest."

Spot nodded – the mention of Christmas Eve bringing butterflies to his stomach. "Shoah," he mumbled, and followed Race to his bunk.

Taking down his suspenders and stripping off his shirt, Spot surprised Race by climbing into the same bed as him. Race grinned. "What's dis?"

Spot grabbed Race by the shoulders and pulled the boy down on top of him. "Ya Christmas present tah me," he retorted.

Race's face lit up as he pulled the blanket over their heads and disappeared in a sea of bed sheets, giggling happily...

Christmas Eve dawned bright for the newsies, with that chill promise of a beautiful day in the air. Jack and the others were up with the sun, selling their papes with smiles, knowing that tomorrow would be one of the rare days they ever got a break. Not a soul was anything other than ecstatic that day. And in the evening, Jack and a few other boys, including Spot and Race, headed to Tibby's for drinks.

The atmosphere was all around cheerful. At one point, Jack pulled Spot aside to tell him just how happy he was to see Spot happy. That he enjoyed having Spot in Manhattan, and he was welcome as long as he wished to stay. But there was a glint there in Jack's not-quite-sober stare which told Spot that the Manhattan leader knew he wouldn't be staying much longer at all.

Spot embraced Jack, clapping him on the back. "I want tah thank ya, Jacky boy. I ain't nevah had anybody take me in like dis, show me dis kind a' hospitality. Ya da best friend anyone could ask fah. I want ya tah know dat."

Jack smiled and Spot smiled, and they shared a moment, there in that dingy pub, with all kinds of commotion going on around them. Laughing boys, poker games, spilt beers, smoke. It was the image of a newsies life. And with his friends all around and Racetrack at the table with Specs, expertly utilizing the poker face only he could read, Spot felt that he had never been so happy in his life. Now, there was only one last thing left to complete his ecstasy.

Spot smiled one last time at Jack, they spit shook, and then he headed over to where Race was sitting. He wrapped his arms around Race from behind and whispered in his ear.

Race felt the warm breath in his ear before any words actually registered. When he realized Spot had asked him if he wanted to take a walk, he smiled. "I'll be back, Specs, den I'll really show ya how tah play dis game …"

Specs rolled his eyes, and Spot gave a little nibble on Race's earlobe in thanks. The two bundled up quickly in whatever scarves and gloves they could find and set out. Spot took Race's hand and began dragging him along. "Where're we goin', Spot? We can't be gone long …"

But Spot was grinning from ear to ear, his heart pounding somewhere near the back of his throat. "I got somethin' I need tah tawk tah ya about," he explained, "An' it can't wait."

Race rolled his eyes, but he too could not seem to shake the stupid smirk he wore. Neither could have possibly noticed that they were being followed.

Finally they arrived in Central Park. All around, the trees were draped in ropes of colorful lights. The stars which shone from the heavens could not have been more breathtaking. The snow crunched underfoot, and the wind rushed at their faces, leaving their cheeks rosy with pleasure. Somewhere in the distance they could discern a few strains of Silent Night.

Spot had Racetrack sit down on a bench and proceeded to kneel before him.

Race's breath caught in his chest, and he became incapable of speech. Both boys saw, for just a moment, themselves as of six months ago. Racetrack a carefree spirit, with nothing to care about except where he would get the money for dinner that night, and with no one to tell him it was okay, he didn't always have to be the clown. And Spot, just a mess with no one at all to care for him, always on his guard, always untrusting, always lost.

"Spot," Race whispered, "What are you doing?"

Again, Spot was seized with a sense of sickening anxiety. "I love ya, Race," he said quietly.

Race looked at Spot, kneeling in the snow, gazing up at Race with those beautiful sea green eyes. "I know dat," he smiled, "I love you too …"

"I loved ya since dat foist day we tawked in August. Probably even befoah dat, but I was too thick tah notice …" Spot said and chuckled.

Race smiled. From the bushes there came the slightest rustling sound, but neither cared enough to give any notice…

"But I can't stay heah," Spot continued. Race nodded silently. The wind seemed to pick up.

Spot broke his gaze for the first time, letting it fall instead at Race's feet. "I can't stay," he repeated. "But I gotta be honest with ya." He met Race's eyes once more and said, "I wouldn't last a day anywhere without ya."

Race smiled. As unemotional as he so often was, he could now feel the tiny beginnings of tears warming his eyes.

Silent Night was reaching its climax, and Spot reached up and took Race's hand. A tear spilled over and nearly froze on Racetrack's cheek. Spot chuckled, "I love ya, Race," he said again, and Race could tell Spot was having a hard time getting out exactly what it was he wanted to say.

Racetrack reached down and, with his free hand, brought Spot's face to meet his own in the gentlest kiss they'd ever shared. Spot could taste the salt of Race's tears on his lips.

Spot smiled warmly, filled with a new determination. He clenched both of Race's hands in his own and opened his mouth to ask the boy he so cared for to run away with him, to spend the rest of his life with him, to love him until they both drew their last breath.

But the only noise that could be heard was the sound of a gunshot and Spot's sharp intake of breath. He lurched forward, falling into Race's lap. Race thought he screamed Spot's name, but he couldn't be sure. He fell off the bench onto the snow, now clutching Spot's broken body.

Looking towards the trees, Race saw several boys dashing out of sight. The one holding the gun, he would later find out, was Red, Spike's cousin. But none of that mattered just now.

"Spot?" Race whispered, tears flowing suddenly. "Benjamin …?"

Spot looked up, feeling himself become drenched with the blood now flowing from his wound. His eyes were slightly out of focus and were glazing over, but he had no trouble at all finding Race's eyes. Those caring brown eyes that had saved him from himself. They were crying now, and Spot's heart broke.

"Race," he choked out. Memories were flooding Spot's brain; he was becoming disoriented. But in all the muddle, he remembered why he had brought Race here in the first place…

Race could only watch helplessly as Spot mumbled on: "Da name's Benjamin … Race … I wanted ya tah know. Me muddah … Brooklyn … love you"

Race's fingers were sticky with Spot's blood. He knew there was no way that Spot was going to make it, and so he did not call for help, did not even try and move Spot from their place crouched in the snow. He would not waste the last minutes they had together. The music had stopped several minutes ago.

"Shhh," Race whispered, his voice faltering. "Shhh, Spot. It's gonna be alright. I love you …" Race let out a broken sob. "Oh God … I love you …"

Spot reached up a bloody finger and wiped Race's eyes. "I wanted tah ask ya …" he whispered, desperate to get out what he'd meant to tell Race in the beginning. "If you'd come with me …"

Race sobbed harder, rocking Spot back and forth.

Spot tried to shake Race with what was left of his strength. "Race …" he pleaded for an answer, "Race …"

Racetrack nodded his head. He could hardly see through his tears. "A' course," he whispered, "A' course, I'd go with ya anywhere …"

The wind whipped through the trees, and fat snow flakes began to fall. Race was well aware that Spot was nearly incoherent now, but he could have sworn that he saw Spot smile at the soft flakes falling all around them. "I love you …" Race managed to choke out just once more.

"I love you," Spot parroted, letting out what Racetrack knew was his last breath. And with this last breath, he implored Racetrack one last time: "Come with me …"

Then he was gone. Race noticed that the sound of the wind and snow now seemed empty and meaningless with Spot silent beside him. He continued to hold the body until he was nearly frozen through. Sobbing and sobbing, the blood soaking the virgin snow…

By the time Jack found Race, dawn had all but broke upon the city. Race was so cold he couldn't feel any part of his body – he was shaking and his eyes were bloodshot. Spot's body was frozen through – his lips were blue and his limbs were stiff with the cold.

Jack couldn't stop himself vomiting all over the snow upon finding them there, all drenched in Spot's blood. It took three other boys to tear Racetrack away from Spot's body, and just as many to help carry him back to the Lodging house.

In the weeks to come, Race spoke little, if at all. He gave up selling, and spent days and nights just wandering the streets, lost. He had thought often of jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. After all, hadn't Spot asked him to come along? Race knew, somewhere deep in himself, that this wasn't what Spot had been asking, but the thought was just so tempting sometimes …

He played over and over in his head the stages of their love, and Spot's face haunted his dreams for months. But nothing, nothing, was like the pain he felt whenever he thought Spot's name to himself. Benjamin. He decided almost immediately that he would not tell a soul. Spot had not told anyone. And so Race would continue to keep the secret, until the day he died. That was the one part of Spot that was his alone, and he would cherish it forever.

For the truth of the matter was, as Racetrack discovered late one night, he and Spot had shared something that was unique, special – something that almost didn't exist on the cruel streets of New York City.

They had loved each other. Nothing would change that, nothing ever could. They had loved each other with such a passion as most people will never know in an entire lifetime of searching for it. Whether it had been fate (as Spot's own father would have believed) or pure dumb luck (as Race himself was more prone to say) or a divine combination of the two, Spot and Race had found each other, and they had loved each other.

And even though Racetrack's own heart had been torn out torn out the night Spot died, he realized that it was worth it. Even though they would never get to grow old together, it was worth it. Even though Race was alone now and contemplating daily jumping from the Brooklyn Bridge to end his suffering, it was worth it.

It was worth it because they had loved, at least for a little while. And that time that he had had with Spot would be etched into his memory until he drew his very last breath. At which time, if fate deemed it so, he would find Spot again. And their love would not be tainted by anything so tragically human as prejudice, intolerance, or hate. It would be just what they'd always dreamt it to be, as dreamers all lovers are. Pure, passionate, eternal.

We tried to wash our hands of all the mess,

We never talk of our lacking relationships.

And how we're guilt-stricken sobbing

With our heads on the floor.

We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip.

We'd say hey, can't be held responsible,

He was touching his face.

Won't be held responsible,

He fell in love in the first place …

For the life of me, I cannot remember

What made us think that we were wise and we'd never compromise.

For the life of me, I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins,

We were merely freshmen …