Reposted: 4-12-08

Disclaimer: I have no delusions about owning or holding rights over Newsies; you shouldn't either. Don't sue.
Also, any pop culture references...guess what? Don't own those either. Actually...anything that you may have heard of and/or recognized in this story is owned by someone who isn't me.

Warning:Updates may (and probably will be) slow.
This contains SLASH, in other words same sex couples. If this doesn't appeal to you, you shouldn't be here. It also contains drug use, violence, sexual situations, and may contain a(n OC) death. This story is marked for mature readers only, please treat it as such.

Pairings: Will be switching around quite a bit. If you have any preferences please let me know. They probably won't end up together unless I already planned for it to happen, but I can put in a couple flings for you if you ask nice enough.

Summary of Chapter Seven:
- Swifty lost the bet at the bowl alley and told Masson he pictures him naked
- Spot admits that he knows Dutchy likes him
- Skittery and Itey get caught in the parking lot after having sex by the vice principal
- David tells Bumlets he's gay
- Spot and Racetrack cut school together
- David and Jack both declare that they aren't doing any of the French Project they're teamed up to work together on

Getting Back Together Again

After School Special...But Not Really
VIII

"It's a wonder you got here without being shot at," Spot remarked nonchalantly when he ran into his classmate in the parking lot of the run down hotel he lived in.

"It's nice to see you, too, Sean," Race replied sarcastically.

"What the hell do you want anyway? I thought the questions-and-answers portion was over with," Spot said, jumping right to the point.

"They are…I guess," Racetrack assured him. "No…this isn't about that…I was kind of wondering if I could hang out here for a bit…just for a few hours."

"What? Are we suddenly friends now?" Spot asked rudely. "Go home."

"I can't," Racetrack tried to convince him. "I really just need a break from my parents, you know? Well…I guess you probably don't since you don't have parents, but trust me, it happens sometimes. And my mom told me to go straight home after school so I can't go to Blink or Mush's house because those are the first places she would look. Can't I just stay here for a couple of hours?"

Hunter's head popped out from beneath one of the cars in the parking lot, making Race jump slightly and Spot roll his eyes.

"You've got parents who care about you; you should be thankful," Hunter lectured. "Jesus, I'd be happy to have even a relative that could stand me. And you? You've got parents that love you so much they become overprotective. I'd give my arm to have what you have. Send him home, boss," Hunter advised before disappearing under the car again.

"You can't stay here; I was just leaving and I don't trust my boys not to shoot you on sight," Spot explained. "If you feel you absolutely have to I suppose I can afford to have you tag along," he offered as a second thought.

Racetrack tried to force back his smile, but failed miserably. "Really? Thanks, Sean."

"It's 'Spot' here," Sean reminded him, "Call me 'Sean' one more time while you're in Brooklyn and I'll break your arm."

"Would you really go so far as to break my arm just because I slip up and call you by the wrong name?" Racetrack asked, not quite believing him.

"The first time, yeah," Spot assured, "But you should really think of that as a friendly reminder. If you do it a second time I'll break your neck instead."

"Oh," Racetrack gaped, "Uh…right…well I'll be careful."

"Yeah, that's what the last guy said," Hunter said, popping out from under the car and managing to make Racetrack jump slightly into the air for a second time. "You know where he is now?"

"Where?" Race asked, knowing that he'd probably regret it.

"I'm not sure exactly," Hunter shrugged, "In some canal or something…or was that the second-to-last guy? The last guy might be the one that we stashed in between the drywall in the new executive building that just went up. Wait…I'm still not thinking of the right guy. Wasn't the last guy the person that we chopped up and sold to the butcher shop a couple of blocks from here? No…we killed him because we thought there was a chance he would betray us. Okay…was it the guy who we pushed off a building to make it look like suicide? No…that wasn't it either. Maybe it was the guy who…"

"He's lying out of his ass," Spot interrupted, looking at Race. "You," he continued, turning to Hunter and stomping once on his lackey's face, "Stop giving out confidential information or you'll be the new 'last guy'."

"Great," Racetrack sighed, looking a bit more than a little freaked out, "I feel so much better being here now."

"What? You assumed being in a gang was just like playing laser tag? You just have to touch them with some stupid light to make them go away?" Spot asked.

"Well…no…I just thought that I could try and pretend that you didn't…" Racetrack tried to explain, "And I never even dreamed that it would be shoved in my face like this."

"Yeah, yeah…boo woo…I kill people," Spot said uncaringly before adding, "…allegedly."

"Way to cover your tracks, Boss Man," Hunter commented before completely coming out from under the car he was once working on and stretching.

"Fine…you know what? I don't even care if you kill people…or allegedly kill people… I just want to know if you plan on killing anyone while I'm with you," Racetrack spoke up.

"Hypothetically-speaking if I was the type to kill people I probably would…but since I'm not there won't be any murder coming from me," Spot answered.

"Is there a way that I could just stay here?" Race asked.

"Alright," Spot shrugged, "You're done with the car, aren't you, Hunt?"

"Yes, sir," Hunter answered, snapping his heels together and saluting.

"Good," Spot answered while hopping onto his motorcycle, "Then make sure no one kills or tortures Race."

"What? I'm a babysitter now? Isn't that kind of demeaning?" Hunter asked, going right back into his slouching position.

"It's the only thing you're good for," Spot explained while fastening his helmet's straps together, "So just see it as 'I'm using you to the best of your abilities'."

"Thank you, sir," Hunter answered, looking touched as the motorcycled raced away.

"Suck up," Race muttered under his breath.

"Oh right," Hunter replied, catching it thanks to his excellent hearing, "As opposed to you who just beg to tag along with him. You're like a little girl with a crush. Well, let me make this very clear: the boss is as straight as a plank of wood, so don't get any ideas."

"Just what did I say that sounded like a little girl with a crush?" Race asked, looking appalled.

"'Oh, Spot, can't I just stay with you?'" Hunter imitated in a high-pitched voice.

"I said 'here', you jackass, and I only want to stay here to avoid my parents, not to be with Spot," Racetrack pointed out.

"Oh yeah," Hunter snorted, "and what a good excuse that was. I totally believed it."

"Hunter?" Slingshot asked, seemingly coming out of nowhere, "What are you doing? Torturing a new recruit?"

"No," Hunter replied indignantly, "…Torturing Spot's wanna-be boyfriend."

"I know you, don't I?" Slingshot asked, looking towards Racetrack and regarding him intently.

"You're that guy I ran into outside the racetrack," Race remembered, "You lost on Blue Colt too, right?"

"Right!" Slingshot said happily. "So what the fuck are you doing over here? Well…never mind…'Spot's wanna-be boyfriend' summed most of it up…I can decrypt Hunter's homophobic language, you see. So what are you still doing outside? Come in."

"I'm not homophobic," Hunter denied, "I just don't like fuckwits pining over the boss."

"Thanks," Racetrack replied to Slingshot, seemingly ignoring Hunter. "So how long do you think Spot will be?"

"Oh, I don't know," Slingshot shrugged nonchalantly as he led the way into the hotel all the gang members shared, "It really depends on what he's doing. I can't imagine him being too long…what with a guest and all…but at the same time he's never brought anyone home before so I could be mistaken."

"Alright, so I want to get this perfectly straight," Hunter interrupted, trailing after the two, "If you aren't the boss's wanna-be boyfriend what are you to him?"

"I don't know," Racetrack admitted, "I guess we're kind of friends…or acquaintances…or something."

"I'm afraid I'll have to count those answers as WRONG!" Hunter exclaimed happily. "The boss has allies and enemies…if you aren't either you don't even show up on his radar screen. Therefore, the very fact that you're here either means he thinks you're a threat or he thinks he can get something out of you. By the way…you better hope it's the latter because believe me when I say that most of the boss's enemies aren't around to cause him anxiety anymore…if you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid that's true," Slingshot backed up when Racetrack looked to him questioningly. "Spot doesn't invest any personal feelings on people; he sees them as tools and that's as far as any relationship with him goes."

"His parents really did a number on him," Hunter explained as they passed through a crowded, used-to-be lobby in order to go up a few flights of stairs.

"What happened?" Racetrack asked, not all that positive that he should have been asking.

"Don't let him fool you," Slingshot broke in, "Hunter doesn't know anything about Spot's life before he entered the gang; no one does. In fact no one even seems to know when he joined up with the Brooklyn gang. Spot keeps personal matters as private as you can get them; no one knows anything about his life away from the gang."

"What? Are you saying you think his parents didn't do a number on him? I believe whole-heartedly that he's a good leader and everything, but I also believe that the only reason he is a good leader is because he's so fucked up in the head. Who else could do that to him if not his parents?" Hunter asked.

"I wasn't technically disagreeing with you, I was just pointing out the fact that it's all guesses and assumptions on your part," Slingshot explained, finally stopping on a floor and choosing to go into a room with a makeshift kitchen off to one side, an old couch shoved against one wall, and three bunk beds lined up in a row.

"This is our room," Hunter boasted. "We share it with Speed (the man in charge of transportation), Gadget (the man in charge of repairs), Bam (the man in charge of weaponry), and Stealth (the man in charge of overlooking the other gangs)."

"Isn't it a bit small for six people?" Racetrack asked after quickly doing the math in his head.

"Nah, this is big," Slingshot explained, "This hotel is packed full of gang members who would be out on the street without it so no one really complains all that much."

"So what made you decide to join a gang?" Racetrack asked, genuinely curious.

Hunter snorted at both the kid's stupidity and balls, "I wouldn't ask that question here; everyone's pasts are a little bit too shady for them to want to talk openly about it. Let's just say the Brooklyn gang and Spot are saviors to nearly everyone here."

"But," he said after a view moments of thought, "I don't really mind telling my story; it's pretty tame compared to the rest of the story's floating around. You see, my mom had an affair right before she married her husband; I'm the son of the guy she had the affair with. She planned on keeping it a secret, but unfortunately I looked nothing like my fake father or my mother and people jumped onto the truth pretty quickly. Once everything was out in the open my family decided that it'd be better to start from scratch and put me up for adoption. It was only a few weeks at the foster home before I got too bored and ran away. Shortly after that I found the Brooklyn gang, proved my loyalty to Spot, and boom, here I am."

"It was a slightly different story for me," Slingshot said, jumping in right after. "Both of my parents were killed on the road. My dad was driving home after drinking too much and crashed into an office building. They were both killed instantly and with no will made up the state took everything. Obviously not trusting the state with my life I decided to try and make it on my own. It was about two weeks into begging on the streets when I realized I was probably going to die. A day later I met Spot and even though he was a year my junior (and looked a lot younger than that), when he told me he'd take care of me if I followed his instructions I trusted him."

Now Racetrack wasn't raised in a plastic bubble; he was quite aware that these things happened and he wasn't really surprised by the unfortunate circumstances both guys had to go through. What absolutely shocked him, however, was the fact that these two (and probably many more) regarded Spot as a savior.

"So have you seen Masson yet?" Jack asked, hitting his ball with the croquet mallet much too hard and drastically missing his hoop.

"Kind of, but he didn't talk to me; he just looked at me strangely and then left me alone," Swifty said, hitting his ball through the next hoop perfectly and gaining himself an extra turn.

"You realize I never expected you to actually tell Masson you pictured him naked, right? I mean, I would have been fine if you had refused," Jack confessed, feeling a little guilty about the situation he put his friend in.

"Yeah, I never expected you to get a strike. …But it'll all blow over soon enough," Swifty shrugged.

"Wow…you're being surprisingly okay with all of this," Jack pointed out before beginning to take his turn.

Swifty shrugged again, "Ah well…I'm kind of over this whole 'popular' thing anyway; it's been getting a little old."

This time Jack missed his ball completely. "What are you talking about? You can't actually be making a conscious decision about dropping out of the popular clique. You realize no one has ever done that before, right?"

"I don't know, I'm just getting tired of the whole thing," Swifty confessed, leaning against his mallet.

"What about it is tiring? I don't understand," Jack replied, "We're your friends; you can't just decide to quit."

"Right," Swifty snorted. "You're my friend, Jack," he corrected, "Everyone else wouldn't be too upset to not talk to me anymore. They don't really value my witty conversations to begin with. The only reason I'm allowed to breath the same air as them is because I'm a good runner."

"So what's your plan? Quit track just so people won't have an excuse to talk to you? Why the hell would you do that if you love track?" Jack asked, entirely confused about the whole situation.

"But that's just it," Swifty pointed out, "I don't love track. It's getting old and…boring…and if I want to get any better at school I have to quit in order to have more time to study. Then of course, if I quit track I won't have anything to talk to anyone else about, since the only thing the rest of the sport freaks and I have in common is the fact that I run track. In other words, I'd rather just cut the string and sever my ties instead of quitting track and then struggling for days or even weeks to find other common ground with people I don't even like very much."

"Oh," Jack answered, not really knowing what to say.

"Eloquent," Swifty mock complimented before finally taking his turn.

"Why'd you pick croquet to play anyway?" Jack asked, consciously changing to a more light-hearted subject. "You hate croquet."

"Well yeah, but I rock at it," Swifty explained. "Plus," he added, not dropping his indifferent attitude, "My grandfather taught me how to play and today is the anniversary of the day he died."

"Well…so much for my goal to lighten up the tone of our conversation," Jack mumbled, mostly talking to himself but making sure that Swifty could hear.

"Oh," Swifty replied, "Is that what you were trying to do? Here, let me try: did you get assigned your French project partner yet?"

"Yeah, I got paired with David," Jack said with some irritation in his voice as he managed to practically hit his ball parallel to the hoop.

"Isn't that a good thing? It'll be a little awkward at first, I'm sure, but you can probably get him to do all the work pretty easily," Swifty shrugged before getting ready to take his turn.

"That's the whole thing!" Jack exclaimed, "He's refused to do any of the project."

"Are you sure? That doesn't sound like David. Well…not that I would exactly know from first hand experience anymore, but… It doesn't seem like something he would do," Swifty commented, not truly believing his friend.

"Don't ask me," Jack commanded, taking his turn and failing to come even close to his hoop again. "I told him I wouldn't do the project, then he got all pissy and said that he wasn't doing it either."

"Well, duh," Swifty rolled his eyes as everything seemed to click into place, "Of course he's going to get angry if you say you aren't going to help him before anything else even happens. Go apologize and ask him if you could do it together, as originally planned."

"You actually believe I'd do something like that? David's going to cave like the good little boy he is," Jack said confidently.

"You better hope so," Swifty replied, "Because with a zero on that project there's no way you can pass the semester."

"Worry about yourself," Jack demanded. "After all, you're the one with the new kid as his partner."

"I can't believe you got caught having sex in the school parking lot," Dutchy exclaimed.

"I can honestly tell you it ruined the atmosphere," Skittery replied.

"Of course," Itey agreed, "The vice principal isn't the most attractive person around."

"Well," Bumlets replied, "I certainly wouldn't ever want to see his face during sex…or after…or before…or at all really."

They were in Skittery's den, doing what they normally did after school: anything but homework. Skittery and Itey were leaning into each other on the love seat while Dutchy and Bumlets each covered one side of the couch, sitting a cushion apart. They were waiting until Skittery's parents got home, at which time they would leave and find somewhere else to hang out.

"So I got this great idea," Dutchy broke in, looking pleased with himself.

"I bet ten dollars it isn't," Skittery replied.

"I'll add a ten to his bet," Itey backed up, nodding over to Skittery.

"I'm in for ten; Dutchy's ideas reek so much flies won't go near them," Bumlets said.

"They suck more than a whore," Itey tried out.

"Sorry," Skittery said when everyone looked over at him, expecting him to add on to the insults, "I'm not any good at clever insults. I liked the whore comment though; that was a nice touch, babe."

"Thanks," Itey beamed before starting to make out with Skitts.

"It's not a stupid idea," Dutchy declared indignantly even though he was pretty positive no one was listening at this point.

"Fine, I give in," Bumlets declared, "I'm probably going to regret asking this but… What's your great idea?"

"We design a series of tests to determine if Sean's gay or not," Dutchy announced proudly.

"Now that is stupid," Bumlets replied, seeming shocked by how stupid the idea was.

"Seriously, how stupid can your stupid level drop before you die because you forget how to breathe?" Skittery asked, breaking away from Itey's mouth to do so.

"How many gallons of paint do you have to sniff in order to be as stupid as Dutchy?" Itey piped up.

"They don't make enough," Skittery replied. "How many times do you have to pound your head into the wall to be as idiotic as Dutchy?"

"Until there's a substantial dent," Bumlets answered. "How moronic do you have to be to lose a debate to Dutchy?"

"Impossible," Skittery called out happily. "How brainless do you have to be to-"

"I get it; it's a stupid idea," Dutchy interrupted, "I got it, okay? Can you guys all shut up now?"

"So you won't do it then?" Bumlets asked to make sure.

"Of course I'm doing it. It's a fantastic idea; everyone's just been smoking too much pot to realize it," Dutchy replied.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure," Skittery quietly said to Itey, "But am I correct in saying 'That was one of the most ironic things I have ever heard in my entire life'?"

"Seems to adequately describe the situation; yes," Itey answered in a proud tone

David was (against his better judgment) hanging out with Specs as if nothing had ever happened. Of course at this point in time he was ready to tell Specs the truth (largely thanks to Bumlets) so it wasn't exactly the same. Unfortunately another side of David still kept trying to talk himself out of it, and with Specs being Specs it would be very easy to let that side win.

"So no homework today, eh? I have to say that you have no idea how much of a relief that is," Specs said, breaking the awkward silence, "I mean it's weird and slightly creepy that you aren't doing yours, but I can't say I'm disappointed."

They were sitting on Specs' bedroom floor, listening to some pop music radio station, and concentrating on the tenseness in the air.

…The last of which was not a very good idea…especially for David.

"So I had coffee with Dutchy a few days ago…you can guess how awkward that conversation was," Specs confessed, not really sure why there was tension but feeling it nonetheless.

"I'm gay," David admitted, trying to force indifference into his voice but managing to squeak anyway.

Specs was quiet for a minute. "Hm…yeah…right…of course you are," he laughed, "Oh, and did I tell you? My grandmother came to town to tell me that I was King of France."

"Seriously," David reinforced with some difficulty, "I am."

"Right, right, and I'm the King of France," Specs continued in a patronizing tone.

"Specs," David said in a stronger voice, "I am."

Specs combed a hand through his hair, "Sorry man, I can't believe that. Sexually frustration? Definitely. Bi-curious? Perhaps. Gay? No way in hell. You're my best friend; I think I would know if you were a fag…er…gay…rainbow-twirler…you know…whatever it is that those people are calling themselves these days."

"Specs," David repeated angrily, tackling his friend to the floor and straddling him. "I am gay. Want to have me prove it?" he asked, bending his face closer to his friend's.

"Oh my god!" Specs exclaimed in a panic, "I knew it! You do have a crush on me!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" David asked, getting up and rubbing his right temple in an attempt to ward off an incoming headache. "Why is it that I'm either not gay at all or I have a crush on you?"

"I'm a sexy guy, Dave," Specs explained with ill-hidden arrogance. "It's only natural for people to want me."

"Oh yeah," David said, rolling his eyes and deciding he had enough. "All the gay boys want your ass," he declared before leaving.

"Don't go in there, you moron!" Blink shouted at the television screen.

"Blink, they can't here you," Mush reminded his friend again with amusement evident in his voice.

"I know," Blink admitted, burying himself into his friend's chest, "but that doesn't stop the fact that she shouldn't go in there; it's a horror movie rule that the one who goes looking for a dead body will end up dead themselves."

Mush laughed, "You don't ever watch horror movies; how would you know?"

"Oh, I know," Blink ensured with confidence.

Mush was atop his bed while Blink was half on the bed and half on Mush. They were both watching a horror movie they had somehow stumbled upon.

"I didn't think you even liked horror movies," Mush pointed out, smiling at Blink in amusement.

"I don't, but one every once in awhile is needed," Blink replied with authority.

"How do you figure?"

"It works on steeling your resolve and lessens your need to vomit," Blink lectured, "And a good scare every once in awhile is kind of fun."

"The gore's a little too much for me," Mush admitted, "I don't like to see all that blood."

"Well yeah, but that's what horror movies teach you; how to turn your back and feel nothing with blood and guts all around you," Blink explained.

"But if I ever found myself in a situation that was anything like a horror movie I'd rather act like a normal person than some twisted convict or something," Mush replied.

"I guess that's true," Blink admitted, "But you'd look really cool playing it all nonchalant and stuff."

"I suppose," Mush relented a bit. "But at the same time you'd have to be at least halfway crazy to pull it off."

Blink chuckled, now ignoring the movie in favor of his friend, "I can't imagine you being even a little crazy; you're way too level headed."

"Thanks," Mush replied with a smile before turning back to the movie and ending the conversation.

"Wait, did that girl die already? Rewind; I completely missed it," Blink ordered.

"Hey Hunter, Slingshot, and person-I-don't-know," greeted someone, walking into the room and throwing what looked like a cell phone on the bottom bunk Racetrack was currently sitting on.

"Hey Bam, this is Racetrack and vice versa," Slingshot introduced.

"Yo. Bam, head of weaponry, nineteen years old, roommate of Slingshot's and Hunter's, and person whose bed you are currently sitting on," Bam greeted happily.

"Oh sorry," Racetrack said, standing up. "I'm Racetrack, a friend of Spot's."

Bam blinked once before saying, "But Spot doesn't have friends."

"Yeah, really he meant to say that he goes to the same school as Spot and developed a crush on him," Hunter rephrased for Racetrack.

"That makes a little more sense then," Bam replied, "Spot is kind of pretty like a girl."

"You of all people shouldn't be comparing me to a girl, Beautiful," Spot smirked from the doorway.

"Cut it out with the 'beautiful' crap, 'kay Boss? As if it's not hard enough being taken seriously without everyone thinking we're some kind of gay lovers or something," Bam replied, looking irritated as Hunter didn't go out of his way to hide his chuckles.

"Stop telling people you've never met before that I look like a girl and maybe I will," Spot bargained.

"So how was your trip?" Slingshot asked, eager to get down to business.

"Enlightening," Spot answered, "but nothing too bad. Make sure to remind me to congratulate Stealth for the tip off. Also, get Gadget to see if he can squeeze out a couple more miles per hour on my bike."

"On it, sir," Slingshot replied before leaving the room.

"What about my congratulations?" Hunter spoke up, "I watched the kid like a pro."

"I have to say I am surprised he isn't dead," Spot admitted. "But watching a kid your own age is more of a show of competence rather than a challenge," he added before walking out the door. "You coming, Anthony?" he asked over his shoulder.

"It's Racetrack," Race reminded him before quickly catching up to him. "So how much did you hear while you were at the door? Because I don't really have a crush on you, that's just what Hunter said. I know you might not believe me, but-"

"Calm down," Spot ordered, "Hunter thinks the stray dog that sometimes comes around here for food has a crush on me; I don't really take anything he says seriously anymore."

"So why did you have to go out?" Racetrack asked with curiosity.

"I just had to remind a few gang members from Queens where the Brooklyn territory line begins," Spot explained nonchalantly. "I did it more because I wanted a good fight than because the situation called for it."

"Wow, you don't look like you just fought," Racetrack tried to compliment.

"It wasn't the good fight I was looking for," Spot shrugged.

"So where are we going now? Are you leaving again?" Racetrack asked as they reached the first floor of the apartment and started walking outside.

"It's you who's going," Spot replied, "And you better be grateful. I have everything set up so you won't get in trouble with your dearest mother."

"How's that?" Racetrack asked, not all that confident that whatever plan Spot had come up with would work.

"I called her and asked if I could have your help with my Current Events homework," Spot explained, "She's expecting you in forty minutes, but it's okay if you're a bit late."

"And how did you manage to do that?" Racetrack asked in awe.

"I have a very persuasive voice," Spot claimed.

"You threatened her?" Racetrack shouted in outrage.

"No," Spot replied, looking affronted. "I asked her politely if you could; she said 'yes'." He smirked, "She thinks I'm a good kid."

Racetrack rolled his eyes as he got into his car; his mother never was a very good judge of character, but he expected her to be a bit better than this.

"Try not to come back anytime soon," Spot said, "You're too much work."

"I'll remember that," Racetrack answered before driving away.

"I wouldn't encourage him, boss," Hunter said, appearing right behind Spot, "He's got the biggest crush on you."

Spot mock-sighed before sarcastically replying, "Yeah, but who doesn't? I'm too irresistible for words."