1One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Epilogue two: Slash

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

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Banners filled out in the breeze, whipping as the smell of new dirt wafted through the air. Clean seats glittered in the morning sun, new paint stood out in sharp contrast to the tendrils and ribbon that decorated the entire stadium.

The Sheepshead racetrack was in its utmost glory, refurbished and redone, it looked brand-new, as it had once been under Arthur Higgins' care. For weeks the doors had been closed to everyone, and now, after so long, the first race was about to start.

In the boxes set high above the ground many wealthy men sat, smoking expensive cigars and speaking in high numbers as the horses were led to the gates and set inside. The common people literally flooded the seats, some of them even trying to mash their way in to sit on the floor, for they could only go so far down.

The last three rows to the railings were reserved.

For the newsies.

Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, it didn't matter. They were all there, all within the same boundaries, sitting next to one another, joking and laughing. Only one boy was missing, and that was the one boy who should have been there the most- The leader of Brooklyn himself.

Missing with a minute to go before the gates opened.

Jack leaned over the rail, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He gave a sharp whistle and Ace's head popped up on the far end. "Where's Spot?!"

"I dunno!" The other cried, a cap pulled on low so that the sun stayed out of his eyes. "His men are all here!"

Cowboy frowned, eyes searching for a flash of red hair. However, after scanning at least half the newsies he remembered that Red no longer HAD red hair and was forced to start again. Eventually he found him, and with a wave of his hand he motioned him over.

The elder leaned on the rail, strands of his ebony hair falling into his eyes. "I don't know where he is, either." He answered to the unspoken question. "He said he'd be here, and thats all I know."

"Yeah, but as for being late, this is-"

The gates slammed open on the buzzer, drowning out any and all conversation among the newsboys. Many of them had never seen a horse race before, and this one had them all glued to their seats, leaning forward with mouth's open.

A small stallion immediately sprinted to the front, so graceful in his movements that it seemed he was running on air rather than dirt. His coat was a flash of sepia, his mane slightly lighter in color. The other horses didn't even seem to give it a challenge.

The rider bent low over his neck, almost seeming to whisper to him as the gloved hands turned him this way and that with ease. They moved as one, like it was meant to be. No longer was there rider and ridden. There was just the thrill, the rush.

In no time at all he had crossed the finish line, pulling up at the winner's circle amidst cheering and whistling. The rider sat up tall and proud, pulling his cap off and laughing with complete and utter joy.

"RACE!!!" Mush cried, starting up a chant in which all of the newsies joined in. No discriminating between territories, no rivalries, just brotherhood, as it had been once long ago during the strike.

Race dismounted, stroking the stallion's neck lovingly. He couldn't have been happier than at that moment, standing around his friends after the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. He owned the track, he had won the opening race, it was just...wow.

But the smile died as he looked around.

He had expected him to be here, had been told he would be here. But there was no cinnamon-hair in sight, no sparkling silver-blue eyes anywhere to be found. Red, seeing his obvious pain, softly placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry too much about it." He tried to sound chipper and failed. He was going to kill Spot for doing this. Especially when he knew how much it meant to Racetrack. "Spot...Spot's sometimes...he probably had a very good reason for missing-"

"Who said I missed it?"

Race spun on his heel, eyes sparkling when he caught sight of the Brooklyn leader. Spot was standing just a few feet away, his hair combed back neatly and a smile on his face. A true smile, not a smirk, not a sneer, but a smile that lit up his eyes and made them glitter.

"Hey Race." He said softly, "Nice ridin dere."

The elder didn't even remember moving, but he had to have, because he had grabbed Spot, pulling him down by his shirt-collar. It wasn't a soft kiss by any means, but firm, his desire and love for the other slipping through once and for all.

After nearly a lifetime Race pulled back, the crowd around them deathly silent. Realizing exactly where they were, the Manhattan newsie averted his gaze and cleared his throat, a soft blush on his face.

He had just kissed Spot Conlon.

Speaking of Spot, he seemed to be stuck to the ground on which he stood. His eyes were wide, mouth still parted slightly as a finger tip ran over his own lips like he couldn't believe what Race had done.

Not that Race really believed it either.

"Im...Im sorry..." He stammered, taking a step backwards. "Im sorry...I didn't...mean..."

Spot's hand shot out, wrapping around the other's shirt and pulling him forward so hard he staggered and fell into his arms. "If you ever say you didn't mean dat again...den...Den I'd have to soak ya, Race."

"Wha-" He started, but was cut off as his head was tilted back, and this time...He wasn't the one who had started it. He melted into the feeling, his hands just resting lightly against the slightly taller youth's chest.

Spot Conlon was kissing him.

And it felt amazing.

"Ahem." The sound of a throat clearing forced them apart, each of their faces scarlet red. The co-owner of the track, a very nice man by the name of Mr. Morreti was smiling at them with a knowing look as he informed Race that he had to ride up to the podium to get his trophy.

Running a hand through his hair, the newsie tried to look everywhere but at Spot as he mounted his stallion once again. But that seemed to be completely impossible because no matter in which direction he turned his face in, his eyes kept betraying him.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Race turned Stardust a little and held out a hand. "Spot?"

Letting Race help him up was possibly the most degrading thing the leader could do, but when one was very afraid of horses, getting help to mount one would probably be best. In no time at all, and with very few embarrassing moments, Spot was sitting just behind the other, his hands braced lightly around his waist.

"Are you sure bout this?"

Race wasn't talking about the ride.

"Yes, Race. A million times, yes."

Race smiled softly as he turned them toward the crowd, toward his trophy, and toward the future.

One answer, one story, one path for them to walk.

Together.

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Aaaaaaaannnnnnndddddd here it is- the slash ending. Again, for those of you guys who liked the slashy side of things. So, how was it? Did it end like you thought it would?

Tell me on a review. Those things keep me going. I swear.