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Chapter Text

“Oi, Spot?”

Spot raised his head groggily, peering through the darkness at Hotshot’s silhouette. “Was nearly sleepin’, there, Hotshot. Make it worth it.”

She offered an apologetic shrug. “There’s a new seller.”

“How old?” he tossed out, pushing himself up to sit on the rickety cot.

“Naw, boss. He ain’t Brooklyn.”

Spot’s eyes narrowed. “Hell is he doin’ on our territory, then? Tell me ya’ soaked him good.”

“I didn’t wanna, see. I saw ‘im, neat stack o’ papes in his hands, offerin’ ‘em up to the passers like he was one o’ us. Was gonna do somethin’, really was, but all o’ sudden, Matches hauls over and starts chattin’ like they’s partners. Had to talk to you first, I didn’t know what I shoulda thought.”

“Matches... he sellin’ by Sheepshead?”

“Right by th’ entrance, boss. Talkin’ up to the betters as they marched in.”

Spot’s brow furrowed.

“Meant to talk to ya’ earlier, but I on’y just got ‘ere. Tangled with a few bulls on m’ way back.”

“Y’alright?” Spot offered on reflex.

“Good as new. They ain’t done much.”

“I’ll talk to that kid t’morrow. Is he Harlem?”

“Manhattan. I’se seen him at some meets.”

One of Kelly’s kids. Why was it always one of Kelly’s kids? 

He sighed. “I’ll go talk t’him, real civil-like, an’ if he don’t clear out quick, I’ll make an example outta ‘im. Y’know his name?”

“Racetrack Higgins, boss. Jack Kelly’s second.”

“Thanks, Hotshot. An’ tell Matches to come talk to me b’fore we gets to the wagon t’morrow.”

“Gotcha. G’night.”

“Night.”

===========

“Y’wanted to see me?” Matches popped in, nearly tripping over a loose stone in the road. 

Spot crossed his arms over his chest, feet spread shoulder-length apart, chin up just like he'd been taught. He’d make it clear to her that he was running the conversation. “Tell me what y’know about Racetrack Higgins.”

Matches tipped her head, a sort of vague confusion settling over her round, honest features. “Well, he just started sellin’ ‘round Sheepshead a couple days ago. Real silvertongue, makes plenty o’ money. Gambles an awful lot, though, bettin’ on horses an’ such after he’s outta papes.”

“Sheepshead is your spot. Has been for nearly a year.”

“Yeah, but he takes the north entrance, I cover the south. Can’t take both by m’self anyway, so it’s not like I’se losin’ any profit. I don’t much mind.”

Spot levelled his gaze. “He’s Manhattan.”

“He what?” Matches blurted. She rubbed the back of her neck, apology written all over her face.“Aw, I’m real sorry, I thought he was jus’ a new seller you stationed or somethin’ o’ the sort. Was I s’posed to soak him?”

“S’alright. I’se plannin’ to visit him m’self today. You gotta keep your head on y’shoulders, though, Matches. Jesus.”

She tipped her cap, eyebrows setting low. “Won’t happen again. No, sir.”

“Good. Get goin’, now, Pig’ll be waitin’.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

For an autumn afternoon, the air was quite warm, though dark clouds were brewing quietly overhead. The murmuring hustle and bustle of the streets simmered underneath the occasional breeze, collecting around the edges in clumps.

Sheepshead Races was a rather large track, fitting for a rather large borough. Bars and shops clustered around the north entrance, bells tinkling as tough-looking customers passed in and out, pockets lighter than before. Sheepshead was easily the gambling capital of Brooklyn, with both rich and poor coming to bet on the horses, and perhaps hit a game of poker in the bar afterwards if they had any money left. The crowd funnelled through the double-door entrance, shouts and whistles coming from within as a starting pistol blasted off.

And there, leaning easily on one of the posts supporting the slim overhang, was Racetrack Higgins. Working the entrance as if he owned it, striking up conversation with an elderly couple, offering a mother and her son a winning smile, cheap cigar clutched loosely between his teeth.

Though Spot hated to admit it, Race was good. He had natural charm, an easy way of taking up space, a casual, contagious, grin that drew in his customers like a magnet. How much profit was he making? How much profit that could be feeding Matches, instead?

Spot leaned against the wall of the baker’s shop, mapping out his path. It had to be about four past noon by now, rush hour coming on quick. Causing a scene in front of buyers only dropped the reputation of the newsies, which meant less selling, less money. No, no, he’d have to wait the charmer out. At least until most of the gamblers were gone.

Almost as if he’d willed it, a first drop of rain skidded off his shoulder, followed by another settling into his hair. It wasn’t long before the milling crowd began to make way indoors, taking shelter in the local shops and calling for cabs. On instinct, Spot glanced up to the sky, sizing up the darkening clouds- and looked over, to his surprise, to see Race doing the same. Reaching the same conclusion simultaneously, the Manhattan boy shook out his last two papers and tucked them under his arm, shrugging a ratted vest onto his shoulders. Only a handful of people would dare to be out and about under such an endlessly dark sky, and a whole storm wasn’t worth selling a few papes. 

The last few stragglers made their way off into safety, leaving the street quiet, the silence broken only by the muffled laughter and song from the bars and shops and the steady downpour of rain that grew stronger by the minute. It was getting dark, quick, the outer edges of the town blurred into silhouette.

Spot, startled back into his body as a particularly heavy dump drenched him to his bones. He leaped out into the street, barely able to make out Race’s lanky silhouette. “Oi. You,” he demanded, crossing his arms and raising himself up just a bit on his toes.

He turned, squinting through the sheets of grey pouring down around them. “Yeah?”

“Look, you ain’t- you-” It was no use. Spot saw the boy’s raised eyebrow, barely able to hear him. “Just-” He grabbed Race’s arm, pulling him into the shelter of a roofed alleyway. He shook out his hair, settling back into a wide-legged stance. “I know you ain’t from ‘round here, Higgins. You’s gonna-”

“Y’gonna let go of me?”

Spot released his arm as though it had burned him, taking a step back. “Interrupt me ‘gain, won’t end well for you,” he warned, thoroughly embarrassed. “Listen, Higgins. I know’s you from Manhattan. You ain’t got no rights to be sellin’ ‘round these place- you’s taking money from good, hardworkin’ newsies who was born an’ bred Brooklyn. Now, y’mess with Brooklyn, y’mess with me, hear?”

“Ain’t done nothin’ wrong, Conlon, they likes me here. Me an’ Matches, we got it worked out. We’s friends and such,” he grinned, stashing his cigar into his pocket.

“No Brooklyn newsie’s a friend o’yours.”

“You’s gonna be shocked by this, then-”

Spot stepped forward, glaring dead into his eyes, only to be met with a cool, unflinching gaze. 

Race didn’t quite seem intimidated. He seemed amused, unbothered. He was strange for it, and Spot didn’t like it one bit. He needed to be back in control of the conversation.

“Listen,” he spat, lowering his voice. “You’s on Brooklyn territory. An’ that ain’t no backyard you can just saunter in and out of as y’please. Put your arms up, Higgins. I’se willin’ to make sure you crawl back Manhattan.” He shook out his elbows, raising his fists up in front of him.

“Real kind offer, Conlon, but y’know- I got places to be. Can’t take you up on that, awful sorry,” Race offered, dropping back a step or two. “How ‘bout you take a pape, instead. On the house.” He tossed his last papers at Spot’s feet, meeting his eyes with a winning smile.

Spot lunged for him, drawing his fist back, but he was too quick. Race dodged backwards, turning on his heel and skidding past the corner of the block.

He stood, shoulders still set, too wise to follow his fleeing shadow into the darkness. No use. 

Spot leaned back, mind running at full gear. Race was quick-witted, quick-footed too. He was a sly, arrogant, boy, the infuriating type. Spot would have to be careful with this one- he’d have to be smart. Find a way to corner him, to force him out.

Racetrack Higgins, count your damn days.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The next day was shiny and bright, the world coated in a shimmering casing of dew as it so often does when the sun comes up after rain. It was a lazy sort of day; a huge dome of cerulean sky, white clouds drifting overhead without a care in the world. The leaves of the maple trees lining the hedges were ablaze in gold and red, but one only had to look overhead at all the blue, to feel the sweet warmth of the sun to be convinced it could be summer.

Spot unconsciously wiped the sweat off his brow, glaring up into the brightness. He didn’t much enjoy hot days. Rather freeze. Weather like this was good for business, though, so he’d hardly any right to complain. These kinds of bustling streets should have had him sold out by sunhigh, and yet he still had nearly half his papers to go by the time the clock struck four.

It was that damn Higgins that was doing it. All Spot could think about was the audacity of him to waltz over to Brooklyn and take good money from his honest, hardworking newsies. It wasn’t like Manhattan was starved for selling spots, it had to be the second busiest borough in all of New York- so why did Race think he had the right or the need to take over another crew’s territory?

Spot broke out of his haze as a posh-looking woman struck him with a furious look, shielding her young son from his view. He realised he’d been glaring at the poor boy. 

To hell with it. It wasn’t like he’d be able to sell any more papers in this state. He’d offer them up to Duchess or Clover or someone who could make good pay of a fine business day like this. Hardly any of them were short of money this time of year, though, what with all the families and couples taking strolls to admire the autumn leaves, but any good newsie would appreciate some extra padding come the lull of winter.

Spot scooped up his papers, adjusting his suspenders to fit nicely over his shoulders, and headed off to Sheepshead, just to make sure the Manhattan boy wasn’t making too much profit before he chased him off.

It was a nice day, he supposed. Though he was sweating buckets. Fine sight to see. It was a last glimpse of summer before winter would begin to creep in. 

He tossed his papers to a newer newsie- Dorothy or Dora- with a nod as he rounded the corner past the block. Sheepshead came into view, bustling with customers as it so often was this time of day. Spot squinted through the crowd, shielding his eyes from the sun- but Race was nowhere to be seen. He raised himself up on his tiptoes, but no headline call was heard, no paper was waving between the passerby. Strange. Had Race- perhaps- had he taken Spot’s words to heart and stayed in Manhattan? 

Just to make sure, he squeezed himself into the packed entrance, shoulders wide to make room for himself. Even inside, though, he could hardly see over the betters' heads, especially with those ridiculous bowler hats that seemed to grow taller as every year passed. He shoved a suit-and-tied up man aside, making his way through the stable door hidden behind the first row of stadium bleachers. 

The space was lit with bright yellow lamps mounted on the walls, casting shadows over the straw-covered floor. The stables themselves were empty, but the faint smell of manure could be found in the stale hay scent. 

There, at a table directly under the furthest lamp, sat Clover, Matches, Thimble and Race, submerged in a rowdy game of cards. From where he was standing, Spot could see a card- no, several, hidden in the waistband of Thimble’s raggedy skirt. 

“You lot got somethin’ t’say?” Spot announced, stepping forward.

Clover startled, nearly dropping his hand. “Aw, jeez, Spot, we’s just playin’-”

“And y’dealt in the lil’ one too? She’s too young to be gamblin’.”

“I ain’t no baby, Spot,” Thimble protested, sticking out her chin. “I got just as much rights to play as they does.”

“She’s playin’ with acorn caps,” Matches added hastily. “Won’t be wastin’ no money.”

“Ain’t no crime in playin’ with a Manhattan, he ain’t a bull or nothin’-”

“He ain’t Brooklyn, either. No other newsie oughtta be on our territory, much less sellin’ on it!” Spot demanded, voice rising.

Race set down his cards, pulling the cigar out of his teeth with a grin. “Gee, Conlon, I’se a mind to think you really care ‘bout me.”

“I oughtta soak you right now, Higgins.”

“Aw, don’t do that,” pleaded Clover. ‘He’s a real good sport, he is. A fine newsie. Ain’t there a way to make a truce or somethin’ of the sort?”

“Get up,” Spot directed Race, leveling him with a cold glare. “We’s takin’ this outside.”

Race rolled his shoulders lazily. “But see, Conlon, I don’t much want to. Can’t fight in here. What’ll the customers think ‘bout a newsie dragging a poor, bloody boy out of the stables? Brooklyn newsies has already got a nasty reputation, don’t they? D’you want to keep business up ‘round here?”

Trapped. Again. Race was right- Spot would have to give him a good soaking someplace else, somewhere the delicate-minded passerby didn’t see. He cursed himself, fury simmering under his skin. “Higgins. The second I catch you out o’ here, you scampers back to Manhattan an’ y’don’t come back. I’se plannin’ to soak you so you drag y’self back to Jackie-boy.”

Race met him with an unreadable expression, then nodded. “ ‘Kay, Conlon. Y’gotta catch me first, though.”

“Ain’t no way for you t’slip away this time. Other entrance is ‘cross the whole stadium. Not even you can get there that quick.” Spot leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “I’se willin’ to wait. Finish up your game, then let’s see how quick you run off, Nimble Jack.”

“Naw, I’ll stick for a couple more rounds. Say, Conlon, while you’s waitin’, how’s about I deal you in? Might be borin’ standing round there, the wall ain’t much comfortable.” He flashed a charming grin, blinking his eyes in an exaggeratedly dainty fashion. 

“Quit it. I ain’t here t’play around”

“C’mon, Spot, it’ll be fun!” Thimble pleaded.

Clover nodded, urging him over. “Ain’t much else to do while you wait.”

“An’ no matter what happens, y’still get to soak him in th’ end.”

“I said, quit it. The lot-”

“Oh, Conlon,” Race cut in, eyes sparkling mischievously, “you ain’t scared, is you?”

“He is,” Thimble grinned, sticking her tongue out at him. “Ain’t you a gambler, Spot? Ain’t you a real newsie?”

Matches stifled a smile, attempting to reserve him a little dignity. Heat rose up to Spot’s face. “An’ how ‘bout some respect for your leader, Thimble?”

“I’se be ready to show some respect if y’work up th’ guts to to play a nine-year-old. Whaddaya say?”

Race whistled, ruffling her hair. “Tell him.” He turned, palms up in an offer. “So, Conlon. You gonna back out of a game with a Manhattan newsie? Proves the lot of you’s is cowards?”

“You’s a damn snake, Higgins,” Spot spat, pulling the last wooden stool out from under the low table. He was far too proud to turn down a taunt like that, and Race knew it.

“Oh, deal him in, Racer,” Clover urged, pushing his cards to the middle. Matches followed suit with a good-natured groan, revealing a full flush in hand. 

Race tucked the cigar back between his teeth, tossing out the cards with a quick flash of his hand. “We’s playin’ cent-to-halfies, regular poker but none of them posh-boy rules. Any games is fair games.” He winked. “Any games.”

Much as Spot hated to admit it, it was a much better way to pass the time than what he’d planned. Race was extraordinarily good at his game- he had a convincing bluff, which Matches seemed to fall for each time. Thimble eventually won by a slim margin, largely in part to Race and Clover’s lenience on her questionable acting skills and Spot turning a blind eye to the ever growing number of cards hidden in her waistband. 

A second round followed, and a third, and a fourth. Spot found himself relaxing, struggling to keep a stern face as Race dropped more and more wisecracks at all of their expenses. It was true, the Manhattan boy was the life of the party- somehow managing to put everyone at ease with his quick wit and disarming charm. It wasn’t difficult to see how the other three had grown so attached to him, insufferable though he was. 

Finally, Matches folded her last hand, swinging her coat up from the floor onto her shoulders. “We should get goin’ soon,” she announced, glancing at the door of the stable. “I oughtta check in with Duchess an’ such.”

Clover nodded, tossing his cards out in suit. “Come with me? I made a real good pay today, we could grab a bite at the diner.”

“Bring me too,” Thimble protested.

“ ‘Course. Ain’t leavin’ you nowhere. Spot?”

“I’se business to attend to,” he protested pointedly.

“Ah. Right.” Clover made a distasteful face, as if he’d eaten something unpleasant.

 Matches gazed at him imploringly. “Don’t bang him up too much, Spot, he’s a good man, I says, he really is.”

“Mind your business. An’ get goin’.” No one moved. “All o’ you!”

Reluctantly, the three of them collected their affairs and squeezed out of the stable, shooting Race apologetic glances and mouthed words.

Finally, it was just the two of them left. Wordlessly, Spot led his way outdoors through the back, Race following.

Early dusk was settling over the city, basking the empty street in a purple glow. Cicadas sang brightly to the rising stars, mingled with distant shouts and cheers off in a different part of the town.

Spot faced off with the boy, unsure of how to proceed. He supposed he should give him a good soaking, but something about the thought just felt strange after that afternoon.

Race gazed at him silently, unfearing, impassive. His expression was almost curious as he waited for Spot’s next move. “You losin’ heart, Conlon?”

“Can it.”

“Ain’t you gonna soak me?”

Spot didn’t answer. 

Race spread his arms, leaving himself wide open for attack. “Go on, then.”

The moon appeared, a bright white slice in the violet sky.

Spot sighed. “Look, Higgins. Matches, Clover, Thimble… they likes you an awful lot. Couldn’t say why. Y’don’t much seem like the backstabbin’ type, so I can’t says a lot ‘bout that…” He rubbed his cheek, meeting his eyes. “I’se okay with lettin’ you go for t’night.”

“Aw, really? Ain’t that sweet-”

“Pipe down, or I’se a mind to kick your shins out.” Race shut his mouth.

Spot settled back into his leader stance, the familiar set-back shoulders and jutted-out chin that gave him his air of authority. “You’s got conditions. Number one: Ain’t nobody hears ‘bout this. All you know is I hit you real hard and y’scampered, ‘kay? An’ two: You go back to Manhattan, an’ y’don’t come back. Promise it, Higgins.”

Race’s eyes sparkled, a smile quirking at the corners of his lips. “I ain’t too good with promises, Conlon.”

“You’s in real trouble if I comes back t’morrow and sees you on Brooklyn territory, understand?”

“Absolutely.”

“Get goin’, then.”

Race gave a mocking salute, turning on his heel to disappear into the darkening street.

“An’, Higgins? I ain’t doin’ this for you,” Spot added roughly. “This for my own newsies. ‘Cause they likes you s’much. Be grateful.”

“Alright, Conlon,” Race called over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around, but a grin in his voice. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Hotshot clutched the charcoal pencil between her teeth, rubbing a smudge off the edge of the paper. “That’ll be… three new since last week, Spot. I wrote they’s names down here, but this damn chalkstick blurs the letters. A brother an’ sister, eight and fifteen r’spectively. An’ the girl by the butcher’s.”

Spot nodded, pulling at his vest. “I’se already talked t’her. Any idea where the new two’s is sellin’?”

“Sammie said she saw ‘em hawkin’ by Thompson’s.”

“That’s Ruly’s spot,” Spot muttered, brow furrowing.

Hotshot shrugged. “He was talkin’ to me ‘bout it. Said he’s half a mind to soak ‘em, but waitin’ on your orders on account the brother barely clears four feet five. Don’t feel right. Says the sister’s a menace, though, real protective and the like. Maybe she’d join the crew?”

“Yeah. I’ll check it out. Go on, now.”

“Ain’t you sellin’?”

“I’se takin’ the evenin’ shift. Ain’t none of your business, anyway.” He bumped her shoulder.

Hotshot tipped her cap at him, scooping up her papers. “Noted, boss. I’ll see you.”

Spot tipped his chin up at her as she cracked open the door of the lodging house, slipping out into the street. It had already gotten dimmer- the crystalline, sweltering beauty of the day before was covered up with quick-moving pale clouds. The temperature had dropped quickly, but it wasn’t anything a good Brooklyn newsie couldn’t take in stride.

Spot stretched his arms out behind his head, letting out a sigh. 

He perched his cap on top of his increasingly scruffy hair, sparing a glance up at the sky as he stepped out onto the porch of the main entrance. No rain, at least not today. If it got that much colder overnight, though, there could be snowfall in a matter of days.

Directly across from the lodging house, the squat Evidy Inn sat stark and empty, void of visitors. The steeple of the local Anglican church rose just beyond it, the cross reaching far into the sky. This little slice of Brooklyn was quite quiet, a small neighbourhood composed of modest wooden homes and rundown lodging houses full to the bursting with orphans and runaways in need of a place to sleep. 
It was common knowledge that Brooklyn was the toughest of the eight or so boroughs, and yet, it was underestimated how much the place took from its people. It was easily the densest, the priciest, rife with wicked old men infected with greed. There weren’t enough jobs to go round, and each of them knew it. The pay was lowered and lowered, barely enough to find food for the day, much less a week. No money to feed extra mouths, no money for medicine, no money for shelter… disease and famine on the step of every household, just waiting for the door to open. So many children ended up on the streets, runaways from broken homes, toddlers left on the curb from families with too many mouths to feed. Spot had seen their broken, emaciated bodies lying motionless in alleyways, swaddled in tattered cloth, reaching for something, someone…

Some of them managed to find work with the newsies or the fishermen by the border, some turned to crime, relying on stolen goods to keep them going. Most newsies dabbled in a bit of both. Spot believed in taking what was needed, no more, no less. The produce in the groceries was hard-earned and paid for, but there wasn’t a newsie in all of Brooklyn that hadn’t nicked an apple or two in a tough spot. The lower-class workers, the owners of the corner shops, they tended to turn a blind eye to bony fingers reaching for food. Strangely enough, it was those rich bastards in lavish bakeries and exotic butchershops that would, more often than not, send the bulls after some poor street urchin for simply resting by their sparkling shops. Even though they had more to give. 

Perhaps this cruel hierarchy was how the Brooklyn newsies had earned their place at the top of the food chain- an overwhelming number of them; tough, work-hardened children, used to fighting for their place, quick-fingered and fleet-footed. They held a shared distaste for the wealthy snobs of their world, a shared respect for each other. Spot maintained this balance. It was his job to make sure they remembered who the real enemy was, his job to keep up appearances and relations with the other boroughs. He kept track of his newsies, kept them in line, made sure they knew who was in charge. His reputation as a strong, levelheaded leader not to be crossed was something he held proudly. Spot enjoyed stirring up a little fear from the rest of the city, even in his own newsies. Many newsies envied his power, but feared him too much to pose a real challenge, and he intended to keep it that way.

Spot nearly walked straight into a light pole, whole body startling back to reality. He’d passed the Thompsons’ nearly a block ago. Cursing under his breath, he retraced his steps, dodging past a bundled up couple clutching each other's arms.

There was the corner store, still walled with that awful peeling yellow paint. Just to the left of the door, squat in the middle of the sidewalk, a small, dark-skinned boy played with stones, sitting cross-legged on what must be his sister’s jacket. The girl was standing beside him, reaching out to the passerby, messy brown locks sticking to her face in the wind. Her clothing seemed nearly brand-new… a long, flowered skirt, high-quality despite its tackiness, a silken blue blouse, already torn by the wrists. This kind of wear was impractical for a newsie. Other than the obvious issue with the cost of such materials, the floor-length skirt was dangerous for running, and the delicate texture of the whole outfit would be shredded by the next week. More things Spot would have to teach her, should she join the Brooklyn crew.

He spotted Ruly down the street, upstream of the few customers, glaring at the girl and her brother. Spot gave him a look, forming a fist and swiping it across his open palm. Go. A kind of basic sign language he’d had all the newsies memorise. 

Ruly nodded, scampering off behind the block. Spot waited for the last couple passerby to disappear around the corner, then marched over to the new sellers. Head high, shoulders back, legs apart. His mantra.

“Is you new ‘round these parts?”

She jumped, immediately stepping forward to shield her brother. “Who’s asking?”

Clipped words, precise, natural. So, she was upper class. “Spot Conlon. Heard of him?”

“Spot Conlon?” the boy parroted, gazing up at him in awe. 

“Quiet, Thomas.”

“The one and only. King o’ Brooklyn, y’know. And as king, I keep track o’ my newsies. D’you know you’s sellin’ on another newsie’s territory?”

She jutted her chin out, defensive. “No one was here when we found it.”

“So? Maybe Ruly’s got a problem with wakin’ up in time, ain’t no excuse to come ‘round and steal his business. Now, ain’t an issue in fall, but y’know he could’a died if you took all that in winter? Naw, more likely you would’ve died. Ain’t nothin’ a starvin’ newsie won’t do for an extra penny when times gets rough.” Spot stepped closer, glaring at her until she glanced away. “And not all o’ us got parents an’ a ritzy old house to go home to when the sun goes down.” 

“We don’t have parents,” she spat back. “And we don’t have a home. So, go ahead, judge me by my clothes and my talk, but at the end of the day, I need this money just as much as that other newsie does. Go on. Fight me. I won’t leave this place unless you drag me out by the hair.”

A faint sense of recognition stirred in Spot. He could’ve sworn he’d spoken the same words the first time he’d been found out on the streets, nothing to his name but a handful of coins. “You ain’t got parents?”

“Dead,” she answered tersely. “Diphtheria. Both.”

“Since when?”

“It’s been six weeks,” the brother- Thomas- spoke up quietly. He dropped his gaze and resumed playing with his pebbles listlessly.

“Hotshot says you only been out on the streets for one.”

“We squatted in the house for a while after they were gone. Waiting for the letter that would send us off into the care of some rich, distant aunt… but he left us nothing. My father sent all of his money to his nephew. Said he needed a male heir. Apparently, he didn’t think of Thomas as his own.”

“How come?”

“Stepbrother. Can’t you tell?” she scoffed, gesturing at the difference between her pale freckles and his coffee-dark skin.

Spot watched her intently. “What’s your name?”

“Madeline," she hesitated after a moment.

“Madeline, how’d you like t’join our crew of Brooklyn newsies?”

“What’s in it for us?”

“Protection. Extra money if things get real tough. A place with us.”

She raised an eyebrow, sceptic. “And what do we have to do?”

“Y’follow my orders. Respect the other newsies, stay in your sellin’ spot, give up your extra wages when there’s others who needs it more.”

Madeline eyed him for a moment, then swiftly crouched down to be level with her brother. “What do you think, Thomas? Want to become a real Brooklyn newsie?”

Thomas nodded, wide-eyed. Spot offered him a stern dip of the head, reaching out his hand to shake.

“Don’t you spit on it? That’s what my friends said newsies do.”

“ ‘S’a Manhattan thing,” Spot confided, shrugging. “Jack Kelly’s fault. Ah, first rule to bein’ a Brooklyn newsie: A lot of things is Jack Kelly’s fault. ‘Specially border-crossers from Manhattan.”

Thomas grinned, shaking his hand enthusiastically. Madeline dusted off his shoulder, pushing herself back up to her feet. “Well, Mister Conlon, you’ve got yourself two new newsies. Where do we start?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

“A couple o’ new newsies in Brooklyn, eh, Conlon?”

Spot knew that voice. He whirled around, gritting his teeth. “Well, if it ain’t Racetrack fuckin’ Higgins. Is you deaf or just stupid?”

“A bit o’ both, I s’pose.”

“Did you not hear what I said t’you yesterday? Did you forget?”

“Could be.” Race offered a charming grin, plucking the cigar from his teeth. “I dunno, my memory is a bit blurry… let’s see… ah, sorry, Spot. All I remembers is absolutely bustin’ the King o’ Broooklyn’s ass at cards.”

“That’s it, Higgins. Pack it up. I’se walkin’ you back to Manhattan. Now.” He jerked his head towards the end of the alley. 

“Gee, but I left my vest back at Sheepshead…”

Spot shot him murderous glare, shoving him hard out onto the street.

“ ‘Kay, okay. But it’s damn cold outside, Conlon.”

Spot curled his hands into fists, stomping out towards the bridge. Not only was he losing good business time, but he’d have to put up with Race’s yammering for a good chunk of his trip. The boy never seemed to learn, but then again, none of the Manhattan newsies did. That was one of the many reasons Spot held a corrosive hate against the smaller borough alongside a tiny spoonful of respect- none of them were simply sensible like any good Brooklyn newsie. They never knew when to quit.

“... so I thought why not go for only forty? Weather’s nice- was nice, least this mornin’, it’s freezin’ now- an’ I thought if I sold out in the early hours quick, I could go for a nice stroll ‘round Brooklyn. Swell borough, by the way. You's got a lovely home, Spot.”

Spot bit the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth closed. He wouldn’t take the bait. He resolved not to say a single word to Race throughout the whole trip. Scaring him hadn’t worked, so the silent treatment must.

“Thing I like ‘bout Brooklyn is all the places for gamblin’. Lots o’ bars n’ pubs and the like, and I can go in an’ out as I pleases. Jack don’t like it when I bet so much, says it ain’t good for me an’ my wallet. Jokes on him, I ain’t got a wallet. I gambled it on a horse named Quicksilver. He passed out halfway through the first lap.”

Spot resigned himself to kicking the stones on the street. Clearly, Race wasn’t planning on shutting up anytime soon.

“Did I mention, Conlon, I’se freezin’ out here. A bit o’ Brooklyn hospitality wouldn’t hurt, y’think?”

“Another word, Higgins, an’ you’re goin’ in the river.”

“It’ll take me months to save up for a new vest, know that? Weeks if I stopped bettin’ all o’ my money, but, well…” Race tucked his cigar into his pocket, head thrown back to face the sky. A burst of laughter came from his mouth as he caught Spot's contrary expression, breath billowing white into the frosty air. “Aw, lighten up, Conlon. It’s gorgeous out here!” 

Spot shot him a look, raising his gaze to the sky. It was deepening into a dark plum, rising high above the streetlights from the windows. The sun was beginning to set much earlier, but with a sight like that, he didn’t mind much.

“S’pose it is,” he answered gruffly. And it was. Somehow, the horizon seemed twice as distant against the vibrance of the plane above. The sky was huge, sprinkled with the first few stars, but it seemed to stretch so far , beyond the reaches of his vision, Spot nearly lost his balance trying to find the edges. He gave a low whistle, unable to resist a smile at the way a tiny breath of white left his lips, like smoke off a cigar. 

He glanced behind him at Race, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, sarcasm gone from his face, cheeks apple-red with the chill of the coming night.

“Shut up, Higgins.”

Immediately, Race snapped back to his trademark grin. “I didn’t say anythin’!”

“Shut up.” Spot turned sharply back towards where the bridge would be, marching off a little faster than he would. 

Spot Conlon wasn’t a sap. He didn’t look at the sky. He didn’t smile at mist. He was a king, but somehow, Race caught him in those moments, guard down.

Perhaps it was all a plot. Perhaps Kelly had sent his second-in-command to collect information against Brooklyn’s leader and use it to start a rebellion against him in his own borough.

Even as the words rippled through his head, Spot knew he was kidding himself. Jack Kelly wasn’t a bad man. Impulsive and stupid, he was, but he was loyal to his own crew and respectful of the rest. Spot held a sort of grudging respect towards him for that.

Race, on the other hand… he didn’t know what to think of Race. ‘Silvertongue’, Hotshot would call him. He was certainly smart. He seemed brash, like his leader, but something about him was more… thought out. His charm came naturally, and it was clear he meant every word he said, but unlike Kelly, Race was better at hiding what he felt. He never let on to what he really thought of people, somehow managing to steer the conversation away from opinionated topics. No one really knew the real Racetrack Higgins. Maybe no one ever would.

“Queens is invading from the east!”

Spot spun to his left, scanning the rows of lit-up buildings. “Where?”

“Naw, just jokin’. Makin’ sure you’s payin’ attention.”

“One day, I’se goin’ to get to that smart mouth of yours-”

“An’ give me a big, sweepin’, kiss?”

“An’ sew it shut with my own two fingers an’ a pair of scissors.”

“Oh, you’s such a romantic, Conlon.”

Spot kicked him in the knees, sending him toppling. “Watch your mouth.”

Race righted himself, blowing Spot a kiss before getting back to his feet. “No, I’se watchin’ yours.”

“Can we just get to the damn bridge without any more of yours antics?”

“Lemme flip a coin-”

“You ain’t holdin’ no coin, Higgins.”

“Use your imagination , Conlon.”

“You’s a smartass, ain’t you?”

Race puffed out his chest proudly, smile turning up the corners of his voice. “Born an’ bred.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Spot caught Hotshot lugging a bundle of cloth. It was a sweet habit of hers, hauling bits of rags off the streets and dumpsters to bring back to the lodging house for Snips or Cricket to mend into whatever was needed. Scraps of blanket, rough, jagged-cut shirts, half-sewn jackets, whatever they could think of. 

Spot immediately stiffened, throwing his shoulders back and his chin up. He hadn’t realised he’d been relaxed, but the last thing he wanted the Brooklyn newsies to see him easing up while marching some Manhattan ass across the border. He waited until she vanished behind the bookstore, and finally let the tension in his neck release.

“One thing I ain’t bred to be- a polar bear. It’s absolutely freezin’ out here.”

Spot rolled his eyes, settling back into a relaxed gait. “So? I don’t control the weather.”

“It’s damn cold out here, Conlon.”

In one move, Spot jerked the vest off his shoulders and threw it at Race, who barely caught it before it hit the ground. “There. If nothin’ else won’t shut you up.”

Race only looked at him, surprise etched into every corner of his face.

Spot realised what he’d done, harsh reality knocking the wind out of his chest as he remembered that he wasn’t a Brooklyn boy. He was a slime from Manhattan.

“ Damnit- forget it, I-” Spot reached out, fingers finding the familiar rough cloth, but it quickly dodged his grasp.

“Nice try, Conlon. You ain’t gettin’ this off me,” Race grinned, quickly recovering as he shrugged the ratty old thing onto his arms. It looked too short on his lanky body, but he looked as comfortable in it as he would in anything. It added shape to his shoulders. 

Spot whipped around again, turning the corner. He was getting too comfortable with Racetrack Higgins. They were not friends. They weren’t even allies. So, why did Race act like they were? And, in doing so, how did he fool Spot into thinking the same, be it only for a moment?

There was the famous Brooklyn Bridge coming into view, lit by rows of streetlight-style lamps mounted on the strong coiled wires. Across the river was Manhattan, glowing softly against the near-dark sky. “There,” Spot announced, gesturing to the other side. “You knows your way.”

Race nodded, stopping beside him.

“An’ I’se dead serious, Higgins- I’se been very reasonable with you bein’ over here, in Brooklyn- but if you’s here t’morrow, that’s it. I ain’t goin’ easy on you no more. Ain’t no joke, this time. I sees you sellin’ here again, you ain’t seein’ Manhattan ever again, I swear on my name. I’se serious .”

“ ‘Course you are, Conlon,” Race offered sweetly. He shot him a wink and bolted into the darkness, racing towards the bridge. 

“Higgins- you- Higgins, get back- damnit. Fuck.”

Spot was halfway back to the lodging house before he realised Race still had his vest.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

By the time the circulation bell tolled, Spot was already sitting on the edge of his cot, wide awake, waiting. The first naked rays of dawn were slowly turning the darkened room to grey, pale, slanted lines of sun slowly brightening as they reached out through the window.

Spot tapped his fingers on the rough sheet, the iron frame of the bed pressing into his skin through the thin mattress. He watched the doorway impatiently, ears perked, listening for the first stirs of life in the lodging house. 

Finally, he heard the rusted rails creaking, slurred mumbles, stiff cloth shifting as the newsies roused themselves to ready for the day. Spot tousled his hair, slid the straps of his suspenders just off his shoulders and made his way to the rest of the beds, offering the waking kids a leisurely nod as he made his way out onto the street. He’d do better not to raise worry by looking too alert.

Immediately, as the door eased shut behind him, the cold bit into his skin, settling deep into his bones. The city had been doused in icy grey and blue, frigid and still. Not a breath of wind stirred by, Mother Nature unwilling to wake from her slumber over New York. He reached for something to cover him, only to be met by bare arms. Images of Racetrack, lanky and at ease in Spot’s vest, blue eyes sparkling with mischief flooded Spot’s mind, sending ripples across his body. 

Anger. Ripples of anger.

Damn that Higgins for taking his vest, damn him for being stuck in his head like a stubborn melody that refused to go. At least now, that he was off Brooklyn territory for good, Spot’s constant need to get him out would fade, and with it, his memory of the Manhattan boy altogether. 

A tiny, tiny part of him wailed in protest, knowing he would miss the boy’s easy words, his sharp wit, the way he somehow managed to make even the King of Brooklyn feel open around him. 

Spot would never admit it. He hardly noticed it himself, pushing back his thoughts to the back of his mind as he so often did.

He set out straight for Sheepshead, briefly taking a moment at the paper cart to flip a coin onto the cart. Pig wasn’t there yet, so he took his fair share of papes for himself. He counted them out himself- as long as he had the money to pay, he’d do so fairly. Even folks like Pig and his cronies had families to feed and rent to pay. 

By the time the stadium came into view, the sky was glowing white behind the clouds. Soft stamping came from inside the wooden doors, briefly punctuated by a loud snort. The horses were up and restless. Spot felt a bit sorry for the poor things, locked up all night in tiny stalls with bare room to lay down their long heads.

The front doors were locked. He turned the corner towards the west end, heaving himself through the open window at the end of the stables, tumbling down onto the wooden planks inside, soft with mold and years of rain. One horse, a particularly large chestnut stallion, gave him a reproachful glance as he righted himself.

Spot glared right back, dusting the stray bits of straw off of his clothes as he scanned the rows of long, equine heads sticking out of their stalls. So, Race wasn’t with the horses. That was a start.

He eased open the door at the back of the stable hall, crossing through the dimly lit passage out into the open air. The stadium was empty, cold wooden benches rising on the sides, jutting out of the low hall circling the track. Directly across, a man and a woman cooed around a black pony, tiny figures at the edge of the field, lit by the pale white light filtering through the sheet of still grey clouds. No Race.

If he was here, he’d be skulking around somewhere with his papers, waiting for the first riders to start setting up the day’s events. Spot made his way to the south entrance, steps hard and quick on the dusty wood of the path connecting the bleachers. He wasn’t there, either.

The tension drained out of his shoulders. Spot shook his head quickly, readjusting his suspenders. 

Why had he even doubted? Race was stupid, bravely so, but not that stupid. He must have some sense of self-preservation embedded into his thick skull.

“Fancy meetin’ you here, Conlon.”

Spot should have known better by now not to overestimate the nonexistent survival instincts of Racetrack Higgins.

He stood rigid, listening intently as the slow footsteps neared him, approaching from behind. Spot counted under his breath, waiting… and quick as anything, he whirled around, grabbing Race by the throat and slamming him into the wall before releasing his grip. 

He sunk to the ground, grabbing his stomach, winded. “Jesus,” he wheezed, “you ain’t gotta-”

Spot drove his boot into his side, rewarded with a pained groan as he rolled over into a ball, clutching his ribs. “I warned ya, Higgins. You don’t listen.”

“Conlon- Spot-”

He kicked him again, driving his foot into his abdomen and pressing him into the ground.

“I can’t, I can’t breathe- fuck, Conlon, I can’t-” Race fell into a vicious coughing fit, hacking as if his lungs were to jump straight out of his throat. Fear flashed cold through Spot’s veins, and almost against his own will, he lifted up his leg, easing up the pressure on the boy’s stomach- and sensing the moment of weakness, Race grabbed his foot, jerking it harshly to the side. Spot crashed to the ground, landing hard on his ribs. Dust stirred up at his abrupt landing, stinging his eyes.

Panting, Racetrack backed away, wiping his lip on his torn sleeve. Spot did the same, pushing himself back up on his feet, fists raised, only to be met with hands up in surrender.

“Conlon- Conlon- listen to me. Just- put down them arms. I don’t wanna fight.”

“You made that choice when y’came back to Brooklyn territory after what I said to ya yesterday. Don’t wimp out on me now, you-”

“Look at me, Conlon, fuckin’ look at me! I’se a smart boy, I know when I’m outmatched. I ain’t stronger than you. But I’m back up on my feet and I’se a whole lot faster than you. Y’ain’t got no choice, really. You come at me again, and I’se runnin’. An’ you knows I still won’t be gone for good, anyhow.”

“Damnit, Higgins!” Spot threw his hands up, bringing them down to his sides with a smack . “Whaddaya want from me?”

“Listen. I wanna sell at Sheepshead- and listen, Spot, don’t make no face- you ain’t gonna stop me. You can soak me to m’bones but youse gonna see me crawlin’ my way back across the bridge. Ain’t nothin’ ya can do ‘bout it.”

“You’s- you’s-” Spot’s face coloured furiously, lost for words. “Why’s you doin’ this? There’s plenty o’ spots in Manhattan and you know it.”

A flash of a grin, brilliant like the sun. “ ‘Cause I likes a challenge, Conlon.”

“Fuck you, Higgins.”

“I ain’t heartless, though. Go ‘head, set some conditions. If I’se on your territory, I’se willin’ to follow your rules. Most of ‘em, at least.”

Spot jutted his chin out, stumbling to regain his footing in the conversation. “You- you’s gotta stick to your sellin’ spot. North entrance. Sheepshead. I see you anywhere else, you’s dead.”

Race nodded, plucking a cigar out of the sleeve of his shirt. “Done.”

“Second- you ain’t to be ‘round here before the circulation bell. Not after proper hours either. And third- most important one, hear? You ain’t under Brooklyn protections. None of us obligated t’protect you if you’s gettin’ soaked, whether they’s from another borough or this’un. You ain’t got no rights on my territory.”

“I can handle myself. Ain’t no issue.”

“I’se gonna be checkin’ in every damn day. Makin’ sure you ain’t up to no good.”

“Gee, really? Every day? Does it come with a bouquet an’ a serenade too?”

Spot kicked him in the shins, a bit harder than he intended. “And you’s givin’ me my friggin’ vest back, Higgins.”

“Oh-” Race’s eyes sparkled, mouth turning up in mischief. “-I don’t know if I can do that, Conlon.”  

He took a threatening step forward. “Higgins-”

“Now, listen to my conditions- I don’t want much,” Race assured him. “Just so long as you don’t send no one after me b’hind my back. An’ you oughtta stop by for a round of poker every once in a while. Oh, an’ apologise for kickin’ the shit outta me.”

Spot crossed his arms, settling back. “I don’t gotta ‘pologise for nothin’.”

“C’mon, Conlon,” Race coaxed sweetly. “All you gotta say is sorry. I can spell it out for ya, if-”

“Fine, I’se fuckin’ sorry for rightfully bustin’ your ass. Happy?”

"Ecstatic. An’ I’se keepin’ the vest, by the way.”

“You’s got your own vest, right by-”

“But this is Brooklyn, Spottie-boy. Ain’t no way in the seven heavens that some poor street kid hasn’t snatched it up already. Winter’s comin’, y’know.”

“Suppose the cold don’t affect me?”

“You’ll survive, Conlon,” Race grinned, slapping his shoulder heartily. “Tough skin. Your lip’s busted, by th’ way.” He didn’t wait for an answer, only giving a quick wink before he blew by towards the entrance, papers held loosely in slender fingers.

Spot didn’t turn around to watch him go. He raised his hand to his mouth, feeling the raised blister swelling on his lower lip. He swiped his tongue over the cut, a metallic tang seeping into the tip. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Well. Somehow that bastard had managed to draw blood.

A grudging bit of respect managed to worm into his mind. If Racetrack wasn’t so courageously stupid, like all of Kelly’s boys, he’d make a fine Brooklyn newsie. He was a tough fighter, a quick negotiator, stubborn and unswaying like no one he’d ever met. He’d add a lot more money to the pool with his quicksilver tongue and… charming smile. 

Too often, Spot found thinking of him like chasing his own shadow. Round and round, becoming so dizzy he forgot where Brooklyn loyalty ended and Race began. 

Race. Racer. Racetrack. Higgins.

Spot raked a hand through his hair, scowling, as if he could scrub the thought from his head. No matter how hard he tried, though, the image still lingered. He’d made a fatal mistake by promising to check on him each day, but it was too late to back out now. He was toeing the line, swinging on a wire above a whole sea of danger. He couldn’t get attached to Race. The idea was ridiculous. They weren’t… friends. Spot was Brooklyn. Race was not. What else was there to say?

Spot stooped to pick up his papers, realising he must’ve dropped them during the scuffle. Some hawking would be sure to get his mind off things… especially with a headline like the one in his hands. Peter Swentam, renowned lawyer, involved in cheating scandal. He’d never heard of any Peter Swentam, and he’d bet a week’s wages the passerby on the street hadn’t either. 

Race would probably bet a month’s. He liked to play with risks.

Now, to sell this sort of paper, Spot would have to come up with some sort of splash-and-dazzle to spice it up. He set out for his usual block, just north of the piers, flipping through the rest of the news for something he could sell, but it managed to grow even dull as it went on. The best he could do was to spin the front story into something dramatic, a murder out of love or the sort. Teenagers absolutely ate that up. 

Lower Bay slid into view as he passed the fishmonger’s. The field of black ocean stretched far into the distance, disappearing into the grey fog gathering by its surface. Waves rippled underneath the glassy sheet, occasionally swelling into bubbles that broke into white splashes of foam. The smell of fish and salt hit the back of Spot’s nose, stinging for a brief second. He inhaled deeply, taking in a breath of ocean air. Quiet chatter billowed around him with the stirring wind, fishermen and sailors discussing the conditions out on the Atlantic.

Spot had never had a chance. He’d fallen in love with the harbour the day he’d met it, finding refuge from cruel streets in the docks slicing into miles and miles of water. That was what he loved about it. People came and went, but the ocean was always there. 

Once, in a different time, Spot had wanted to be a sailor. His mother had told him stories of her time out on the sea, surrounded by nothing but blue. Sandbars under water clear as glass, swarming with fish in every colour of the rainbow, abysses so deep the rays of the sun turned black as they reached for the bottom. No land in sight, just a compass and a set of sails. 

Her eyes had been blue, Spot managed to recall as he glanced out at the dark, swirling waters now. Deep blue, blue-black, but they sparkled like anything when she told him how she’d felt out there out in the great wide open, untethered, soaring, free. 

Of course, Spot would never afford a boat. He wasn’t stupid enough to steal one or become a stowaway, only to come back to Brooklyn in chaos or to be tossed out to the sharks by some heavy-handed fisherman. It was a pipe dream, a wild one. He’d turned to the harbour as soon as he wasn’t welcome on the land, but the harbour had turned away. So, Spot made an empire of his own. He’d picked up his first paper that day, and taken a good beating for it too. Some street girl, a newsie named Snippers, took him under her wing, introducing him to the way of the poor. 

Pay when you can, steal when you can’t. Take enough to survive, that’s all that’s needed. Stay strong. Shoulders back, chest forward, legs apart. “Chin up, little soldier,” she’d chide him. 

Snippers had died the way she lived, protecting those weaker than her, teeth bared, going down fighting like a mad dog. She had taught him more about honesty and loyalty than any teacher, any cop ever did. Spot had taken charge of the Brooklyn newsies in her name after she passed, taking in the kid she’d died defending as his second-in-command. Hotshot.

It didn’t matter now, anyways. The past was the past. Spot had places to be, papers to sell- lingering over old dreams and memories wouldn’t put money in his pockets. He set his jaw, clutching the papers in his hand, and made his way towards the corner of the concrete launch, just between where the base of the Kinnons’ pier and the Mackers’ met.

Despite the frosty weather, the pier was bustling with all sorts of life, unfurling sales, hauling crates, chatting up a customer or two. There weren’t many, as those who could afford a daily paper tended to prefer the warmth of indoors to the frigid air of the day. Spot didn’t much mind- he was a newsie, of course, King of Brooklyn to boot, and he had the tough hide to prove it. He was numb to the cold for now, but it wouldn’t do him any good to freeze the whole day outside. He’d have to take shelter indoors every now and then. Street kids did die from the cold, after all. Spot had seen it with his own two eyes. Emaciated, skeletal figures, curled up in puddles of newspapers and rags, watching the rich mince their way around them with hollow, desperate eyes. It terrified him, the thought of dying a slow, steady death alone, surrounded by people who pretended not to notice the sick perfume of death slowly blooming all around. Rather go out with a bang, like Snippers, fighting for honour and for Brooklyn. A hero’s end.

A pair of young women, arm-in-arm in frilly petticoats, made their way across the plaza daintily, one giggling into her gloves as the other blew a kiss to a sailor paying rapt attention to their strides. An elbow hit Spot in the side, a mop of russet hair filling the side of his vision- Carp, old Bea’s deckhand. “Ain’t that a fine sight,” he remarked, voice still carrying the boyish tones of youth. “You oughtta take a nip at that, Spot, turn on the ol’ charm.”

“Charm ain’t my forte, fish boy. Maybe one’s for you when you’s a bit older.”

“Sayin’ I ain’t handsome now?”

“Clean yourself up, make you look less like a catfish, maybe you’lls have luck with the ladies one day.”

Carp made a face. “ ‘Kay then. I got plenty o’ girls chasin’ after me anyway.” 

Spot snorted. “Sure you do.” 

The shorter of the women, a pink-cheeked brunette, offered a young fisherman a charming smile before turning her back on him, tossing her hair over her shoulder, much to the delight of her companion. Spot gave Carp one last shove in the shoulder before he made his way up to the girls, dipping his head. “Mornin’, ladies. May I interest you in a pape? Awful headlines ‘bout a love affair today, terrible vengeful husband. Penny a pape, miss.”

The pair looked at each other, sharing a heavy glance. “I haven’t any money on me, Elsie, would you mind?” 

The second girl- Elsie- offered Spot a shy smile, pressing two copper pieces into his hand. “We’ll take two, please, sir,” she chirped sweetly, twirling a lock of golden hair between her slender gloved fingers. 

Spot nodded, quickly catching on to the drift. He recalled Race’s effortless, winning smile, and gave the same to her, pulling three papers off the top of his stack. “Won’t you take an extra for the road, miss? Sure a smart girl like you will find use for it,” he flattered, unsure of how to further charm her.

Elsie shared another glance at the girl beside her and promptly burst into giggles, dropping a nickel into Spot’s outstretched palm. “I don’t need another newspaper, it’s on me. Keep them.” She shot him a wink. “I’ll hope to see you around.”

Spot nodded, knowing full well he’d likely never see her again, but the silver piece shining in his hand stopped him from opening his mouth. The women pranced away with that dainty little upper-class step, clutching each other's arms the whole way across and laughing like maniacs.

There. Spot might not have the quicksilver charm that Race naturally exuded, but he could flirt a couple extra pennies should the occasion arise. Perhaps he should try that sort of strategy more often, but he knew it was more likely than not a fluke. Rich girls didn’t care for raggedy urchins like him, faces tough and dirtied from years of toil. Racer would hit them every time, though. He had very, very blue eyes, the kind that schoolgirls sketched into the margins of their homework, and a way of raking his fingers through his hair that somehow brought attention to that disarming smile of his. 

Yes, blonde hair, blue eyes, a veritable fairy tale prince. Spot would despise him if he didn’t know how hard he worked for his borough and the kids that needed his extra wages. That had to be the most impressive part of him, once the surface was dug past. His selflessness, his humour, his way of putting anyone at ease, the sharp tongue that carried an unmatched wit…  Spot could admit he wasn’t a terrible person to be around. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from the Manhattan boy.

The pier did him well in a day’s profit. A fleet of fishing rigs were taking off for a week’s trawl, and their crew scrambled for a paper to keep them entertained through the journey. He’d made good money by the late afternoon, as the sun began to dip into the icy ocean churning behind him. 

Night fell quick, and Spot scrambled to make for the lodging house before the worst of the cold came on. His feet pattered along the empty streets as he skidded by the door, rubbing his arms furiously to get some warmth into them. He slammed it shut behind him, exhaling a puff of mist as he relished the feeble warmth of the room. 

The Brooklyn newsies’ lodging house was in absolute chaos, as it so often was at this time of day. Unruly teenagers launching balled up papers across the room and tackling each other onto frail, brittle cots, screaming at the top of their lungs- at least their spirits were high. Spot would rather this sort of mess rather than the silent, desperate lull of winter. It was a dreaded time, a kind that sapped every ounce of energy from the poor, taking their warmth, their food, their lives.

It had been two years since a newsie under Brooklyn’s watch had died of the cold, and Spot vowed never to relive that kind of horror again.

A folded vest slapped him across the face, catching on his shoulder before sliding listlessly to the floor. Spot kicked it towards a flushed Duck, mouthing a sheepish apology. 

He crossed his arms, directing his attention to the rest of the rowdy crowd. “Oi, tone it down! Night don’t sleep for no one,” he shouted. “I ain’t gonna be kept up by some animals ‘til the bell goes. C’mon!” 

Grumbling quietly, the newsies began to organise themselves to rest. Spot turned out the light, tugging on the old lamp’s chain ‘til it went off with a click. Soft grey moonlight filtered in weakly from the window, ebbing and flowing as the clouds passed through the sky. The lodging house was filled with soft whispers and rustling sheets, a picture of peace. 

Somehow, Spot’s mind remained restless.

Even as he settled into the stiff sheets of his cot, turning onto his side, he couldn’t manage to close his eyes. There was an itch in the back of his mind, brushing at the edge of his thoughts, keeping him awake. He couldn’t quite catch it, despite how hard he tried to chase. Finally, he gave up, letting the nag fade, succumbing to sleep.

That night, Spot dreamed of blue eyes.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Spot woke sharply at the bell, jolting upright. Sweat slicked off his brow, but the air took a chill to his body as he pushed himself off the edge of the cot, wobbling upright. He nearly jumped out of his skin as the icy wooden floor seeped into his feet.

Winter was coming. That was clear. 

The wind whistled softly outside- harmless, for now, but a threat nonetheless. Spot didn’t let his memory of that far-off storm out in the bay slip his mind.

Spot tucked his cap onto his head, donning his accessories for the colder months. He’d need a new jacket; the one he shrugged onto his arms was thin as paper. He wouldn’t last to see the new year.

A lump under the covers groaned as Spot marched into the main room, banging on the wall with his fist. “At it, newsies, c’mon! Sun’s up. You should be too.”

“Geez, Spot, can’t we take a day off? My toes’ll fall clean off in this sorta weather!”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky an’ your mouth’ll fall off too,” quipped Terrese, smirking wide. An empty box of matches chased her words, thunking off her forehead.

“Unless y’wanna starve a month from now,” Spot answered pointedly, ignoring the younger girl’s antics, “y’make some money while it ain’t below freezin’ and keep it.”

Snips sighed, flopping back onto his bed. “You tellin’ me this ain’t below freezin’?”

“Pull a smile, Snips. Complainin’ won’t make you any warmer.” 

Hotshot slung her paper bag over her shoulder, lacing up her boots. She dipped her head to Spot, addressing the rest of the room. “Storm comin’ on soon. Y’might wanna get out before we’s snowed in.” 

It took a while, but the lodging house was soon cleared out. Spot lagged behind, tossing a vest at a stubborn younger newsie so he wouldn’t freeze in the weather outside. 

Hotshot, by his request, had stayed behind too, waiting for the room to empty. She met Spot’s gaze with a curious look. “Somethin’ wrong, boss?”

“Yeah, there is, Hotshot,” he answered sharply. “The storm. It ain’t- it ain’t really that bad, is it?”

She shook her head, somber. “Y’been readin’ the papes? The weather section’s been ravin’ for days. Says it come straight off the Atlantic. Freezin’ temperatures, dangerous wind, enough snow t’blind us all. It ain’t safe for anyone t’be sellin’ out.”

Spot’s brow furrowed. “An’ when’s it hit?”

“They’s sayin’ ‘bout half a week from now, if it don’t come any faster.”

“No, that ain’t good. Y’shoulda told me sooner, Hotshot.”

She shrugged. “Sorry, boss. Figured it wouldn’t be too bad for now.”

“We’s gonna have a day in. No sellin’, cancelled everywhere. Soon as that storm hits, every kid in Brooklyn goes on lockdown,” Spot announced decisively. “I’ll visit the kids I got seein’ over the rest of the borough. Talk ‘em through. I got an idea.”

“The bell?”

Spot nodded, a small smile ghosting at his lips. “You remember the hurricane ‘bout three, four years back? Same thing. Three and two tolls. Spread the word, Hotshot. Older newsies’ll remember, get the word to the young ones. An’ bring me a good group o’ responsible ones. I’ll make us organised.”

Hotshot nodded, fixing her cap tightly over her braids. “Best we get it all done today. Who knows if the wind’ll turn?”

***

By the afternoon, Spot had made his visits to all the newsies he’d put in charge of the rest of the borough. North Brooklyn was ready, as was the East and Central. He’d had doubts with the West Side- the Upper Bay area- as Clasp was arguably not the sharpest tool in the shed… however, the boy had come up with a surprisingly foolproof plan of action, likely with some help from Trick and Jay.

As for Southern Brooklyn- which Spot managed on his own- he took inspiration from the system they’d used a few years back. 

The tower that rang out the circulation bell every morning was worked by the nuns, as an extension of the church. It was generally left alone for the rest of the time, free pickings for any young comedian who found it funny to send the bell tolling midday. No one really bothered to guard the entrance- so it would be easy to get in. Spot would go up as soon as the first sign of the storm hit. He’d ring the bell five times- three short, two long- and keep it going for as long as he could manage. Newsies would be instructed to take shelter in the lodging house or somewhere with shelter to wait out the storm. Foolproof, as long as the word was spread out to everyone in the area. Hotshot had already told Duck, who had a mouth like wildfire and a huge circle of kids he associated with. Surely no one would escape the news.

Just as the words crossed his mind, Spot was struck with a thought. Madeline. And Thomas.

As far as he knew, they were still squatting in their parents’ house, likely without good heat or anyone to look out for them. Fresh newsies, they wouldn’t have anywhere good to hide out. Spot would have to show them the lodging house.

He set out for Thompson’s, catching the pair hawking up a storm. The street wasn’t a particularly busy one, but Thomas had gotten quite into it, mastering the wide-eyed puppy pity face that most young newsies were taught to sell with. They would be making good profit. 

Madeline perked up as she saw him, smoothing her skirt to be presentable to the King of Brooklyn. She wasn’t lacking in clothing choice, as Spot could see, but she’d made the wise choice of cutting the sleeves out of the blouse she was wearing to allow for more movement.

Thomas brightened, smiling sweetly. “Hi, Spot!”

“Hey, kid,” Spot offered, ruffling his hair before turning his attention to Madeline. “Listen, I gotta talk to you ‘bout somethin’.”

Madeline eyed him, suspicious. She stepped just slightly in front of her brother, barely noticeable. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say so,” he answered curtly. He backtracked at her stubborn expression, adjusting his tone. “You been readin’ the papes? Heard ‘bout the storm?”

She shook her head slowly, but Thomas piped up. “I did! Snowstorm, right?”

“Attaboy. Right on the nail. It’s bound to be the one of the century. Dumps o’ snow, whippin’ winds, the whole cavalry.” Spot shook his head, catching Thomas’s starstruck expression. “Nah, but it ain’t gonna be pretty. You’ll freeze out here. Freeze to death.”

Madeline glared at him, eyes set. “You’re scaring him.”

“Tough life bein’ a newsie. You’ll get used to it,” he offered, trying his best at sympathy. “Look. You ain’t gonna survive in your parent’s house. You’ll freeze. Could get snowed in. It ain’t safe.”

“Well, we don’t exactly have somewhere to go,” she snapped back, defensive. 

“An’ that’s what I’se offerin’. Ever heard of the Streetsvale Lodging House? Home to the very best o’ Brooklyn’s newsies?”

“We don’t- we can’t pay rent.”

“No, but it ain’t a fancy old expensive place. Naw, it’s priced newsie style. Half a dollar the week. Ain’t too shabby, huh?”

Madeline nodded slowly, absent-mindedly pulling Thomas into her arms. “Half a dollar. Fifty cents for seven nights. That's less than a dime for a day.” She glanced at him, gears working behind her eyes. “We can do it. With what we’re making now, at least.”

“Expect t’see you’s there tonight. Get settled in. Storm ain’t hittin’ just yet, but it’s good t’be on the safer side.”

“What do we do,” Thomas piped up, curious, “when the storm does hit? Is it like a snow day? No selling? What will we do the whole day?”

“When the snow starts t’fall, there’s gonna be a bell. Loud an’ clear, right from that tower over there-” he gestured vaguely at the church- “three short, two long. That means you drops your papes an’ make for the lodging house fast like. Hotshot’ll be waitin’- she’s nicked some firewood so we won’t freeze all holed up.”

Madeline nodded, raising her eyebrows. “Seems like you have it all planned out.”

“Every bit. Ain’t lettin’ no one die in the first storm that touches winter.”

“I suppose I’ll see you in the lodging house tonight?”

“Count on it. An’ get your boy here a better jacket. He won’t last a month on the streets.”

“I’ll try, Spot.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Good. Pick your papes back up, now, they won’t sell themselves.” He waved them off, swiftly marching off the way he’d come.

Spot had one more errand to run before he could step back. Namely, check in on a certain blond Manhattan boy.

As he turned onto Cornelia Street, a crush of people filled his view, clustering thickly around Sheepshead’s entrance. Some kind of big horse race, Spot supposed. Good business for the  newsies. He could catch Race’s call out of the din- charm on full blast, papers flying out of his hand. It was a wonder he still had any left- Spot suspected he’d gone for a second batch at some point.

He forced his way through the mess, shoving his way to the paperboy.

“Heya, Conlon,” Race grinned, finding him quickly. “Care to take a pape off the hands of a sick orphan boy?”

Spot snorted. “You’s far from sick, Higgins. Sick in the head, maybe?”

“You got somethin’ to discuss, or just here for a pretty face?” He batted his lashes dramatically. A thin woman in a royal blue dress and blouse nearly jostled the papers right out of his hands as she pushed past.

 “Gotta check in. Seein’ what profits you’s made, what all the fuss ‘round here’s about, y’know.”

Race collected a coin from a couple under a torn parasol, tossing them a paper and a charming dimpled smile. “Kind offer, Conlon, but I can’t exactly give you a full report right know. Say we meet after hours.”

Spot gritted his teeth. “Fine. At the pier. By the sailboats. Soon as you’s outta papes. Be sharp.”

“Might be a while, y’know? I’se been wantin’ to take a look at the races for a bit,” Race called after him as he marched off.

To Spot’s relief, the harbour was much quieter than the continuous babble of the crowd by Sheepshead. The fishing boat had lifted anchor, several smaller sloops with it. Only a handful locals remained- Bea, sliding her catch of gleaming silver fish into a barrel, the Jonesys family readying their rods for a quick trip out on the bay, Carp scrubbing the algae off the planks of the Angel Mary- elderly and young, minding their own business and attending to what needed to be done. Just the way Spot liked it.

He glanced out at the horizon, across the bay. The water was dark, churning white with the first stirring winds of the storm far out into the ocean. The dense cloud was thickening, slowly creeping towards Brooklyn. It could hit in two days time, at this rate. Maybe even tomorrow night.

Spot took long strides, walking out to the wooden pier that rose above the grainy banks of the ocean. He followed the boardwalk to its very end, a little storage cabin stocked with hidden pockets of fishing wire and fake jigs, handmade and store bought alike. He climbed over the wooden sill of the windowless view, carefully crouching down and sitting over the wooden ledge against the cabin so his legs dangled over the sea twenty feet below. 

Saltwater and fish and freedom, that’s what he could smell. Out there, in the great wide open, he still longed to go, be it only for a moment. He couldn’t promise himself anything, but one day, he’d find a way to claim the waters as his own.

For a while, Spot kicked his legs in the open air, relishing in the whipping winds off the Atlantic. He took off his hat, letting the edges of the storm toss his hair around. Soon, though, he realised Race wouldn’t be able to find him out like this.

Reluctantly, he threw his leg back over the windowsill, climbing into the little cabin and following the thin boardwalk back to land. The sky was already darkening, but Race still wasn’t there.

Spot paced across the length of the harbour. If the Manhattan boy didn’t show up, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He could soak him, but Race had proven time and time again to be a relentless little pebble in his shoe. He’d be back. He was the one who truly had control.

The Jonesys docked their boats and locked up their rods. Bea shut her barrel and walked Carp back home.

No Race.

Finally, as the sky deepened into ink and the moon grew bright over the water, he pranced out from behind a corner, with all the nerve to smile, yet another cigar tucked behind his ear.

“Where you been?”

“Why, Conlon? You worried?”

“Y’said after you finished sellin’ papes.”

“No, you said that. I said after I watched th’ races.”

“How friggin’ long are those races?”

“Don’t matter. I’se here now.”

Spot crossed his arms. “Good. Now, listen, Higgins. I want a full report on the day. It’s your first day bein’ allowed t’sell on Brooklyn territory. You seen Matches? You gotta- dammit , would ya quit twitchin’?”

“Sorry. Keep goin’.”

“You gotta check up on your sellin’ partner, even if- stop it.”

Race shrugged his shoulders, tapping out a beat with his foot on the cobblestone. “Can’t help it, Conlon. Wind is alive, so, so am I.”

“You ain’t gonna be alive for long if you don’t shut up an’ listen.”

“But this is borin’, Spot! I ain’t much for schoolin’. Can’t we do somethin’ that makes it more fun?”

“It ain’t supposed to be fun, it’s-”

“It ain’t supposed to fun-”

“Quit mockin’ me!”

“Quit mockin’-”

“Fine!” Spot burst out, face a furious red. “What do you suggest, Manhattan? Y’want a playtoy? Y’want me to sing it to you?”

Race’s eyes sparkled, a familiar mischievous expression lighting up his face. 

“You ever been sailin’?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Spot glared at him, processing the words. “Sailin’?”

“Yeah. Ever been?”

“Why?”

Race shrugged, twirling his cigar between his fingers. “Figured it’d be good to have someone with experience in the boat.”

“The hell d’you mean?”

“Jeez, Conlon, do I gotta spell it out?” Race dimples deepened slightly, just off the edge of a smile. “We’s goin’ sailin’.”

“You’s jokin’.”

“Nah. I ain’t.”

“We can’t. Go sailin’.”

“Why not?”

Spot struggled with his words, jumping through his thoughts. “We- we ain’t got a boat. It’s too windy. It’s the middle o’ the friggin’ night.”

“Barely evenin’, Conlon! Moon’s lit up everythin’ we need to see.”

“Why would I go sailin’ with you?” Spot scowled, turning his gaze away from that intent gaze. The idea was appealing, but it was ridiculous. No way he could pull it off. Could he?

Race tucked his cigar into his mouth, cheeks caving in as he inhaled. “ ‘Cause ain’t nobody else got the guts to steal a boat,” he grinned, words coming out in puffs of smoke that dissipated into the icy air.

“Steal a boat?” 

“You own a sailboat, Conlon?”

“You ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, is you, Higgins? Stealing’ a boat?”

Race pouted, lower lip jutting out. “C’mon, Spot. Sailin’ll clear my head. I can give a real good report. Details an’ everythin’.”

“Forget it. I ain’t gettin’ my skull busted open by some deckhand for a night ride,” Spot scoffed. The wind ruffled through his hair, whistling by his ears, as if protesting his choice.

“Suit yourself. Ain’t gonna stop me from goin’, though… so if you wants your report, you better come an’ get it. Chop chop, Conlon. Ship’s leavin’.”

Before he fully understood where he was going, Spot allowed his legs to follow Race into a shallow dinghy with a curved bowl, letting the boy carefully untie the knotted rope, pushing off of the dock. Slowly, rocking in the wind, the sails unfurled and the boat wobbled out away from shore.

“Higgins?”

“Mm?”

“D’you know how to sail?”

Race opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, opting for a sheepish grin instead.

“You’s jokin’.”

“Don’t worry, Conlon, you’s safe with me.”

“I feel so safe,” Spot deadpanned. He rolled his eyes as Race tugged fruitlessly on the boom, grunting in frustration. “The tiller, smart boy.” 

“I knew that.”

Spot raised an eyebrow as Race retreated over to his end of the boat to steer them out of the bay.

A good bout of wind kicked up, whipping through the water in stirs and lines. Moonlight streaked across the inky ocean, illuminating the whole sea like day. Spot ran his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes to relish the feel of the night air skidding off his face. 

“Wake up, Conlon. We’s out.”

Spot cracked an eye open, glaring at him. Race only grinned, gesturing out to the horizon.

He sucked in a breath.

It was everything Spot had imagined, but better. Somehow, they’d been able to make it clean out of the bay in record time, slowing in the open waters. The shore had been left far behind, replaced by miles and miles of ocean. Black as night and white as day, the sea roared . It churned and twisted and settled in glass sheets and foaming waves, curling around the sailboat and following the way to the moon. Nothing but freedom. 

Spot clambered up to the bow of the boat, getting as close to the sky as he could without falling. He sighed, inhaling the scent of a million old dreams and sugar-sweet memories.

Oh, mama. You were right. 

He spread his arms, catching the wind with as much of himself as he could. He didn’t care what Race thought. The boy had seen him weak enough already. It wasn’t like he could lose any more dignity to him.

“You’s shiverin’, Conlon.”

“Yeah, some kid from Manhattan stole m’vest,” Spot countered gruffly, but there was a rare smile bordering on his voice. He turned, catching Race’s amused expression, crinkled up in the corners of his eyes.

“What an ass,” Race commented casually, tucking his cigar behind his ear again.

Spot stepped carefully back down, level with him, right up in his face. “Don’t I know it.”

For a moment, Race only stared, those wide blue eyes catching the moonlight. Flickers of light glinted off his lashes, leaving Spot caught up in his gaze.

Race coughed suddenly, turning away. “So, y’wanted your report.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Sellin’ went well. Big race, had a lot of people comin’ t’see.”

“An’ Matches?”

“Checked in with her ‘round noon. Same business. She sold out quick.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Even split.”

Race fiddled with the rudder, tugging on the sail to angle them better into the wind.

“Y’should figure out a rotation sort o’ thing. You take one day, she takes-” Without warning, the whole boat jerked violently, nearly throwing Spot overboard. He crashed against the side, slamming his ribs. The ship kept going, rocking violently into a rough patch of sea. “Higgins! The hell-”

“Damnit- fuck- sorry- shit-” Race clung wildly to the tiller, soaked through as a wave slapped against the side and sloughed cold water up onto him. 

“Easy on the language.” He pushed himself up to his feet, standing briefly before the whole sailboat nearly rocked completely onto its side, the ocean sending icy sheets of water into his face. He latched onto the boom, spluttering. “What didja do?”

“I ain’t- I ain’t done anythin’! Rough patch, came outta nowhere- fuck- wave, wave, Spot!”

The ship rolled violently, drenching the poor boys in the sea’s wrath. Spot lost his footing, caught in midair for a single, heart-stopping moment before his whole body was folded over the brim of the boat, arms desperately clutching on to the mast of the boat while his legs were tossed and kicked by the frigid, unforgiving ocean. He opened his mouth to scream and found his voice coming in a broken shout. “Race!”

“Spot! Damnit-” Race half-stumbled, half-crawled over to him, grabbing onto his arm with both hands. His fingers slipped right off him, slick with the silver splashes shuddering the rocking boat. “Grab on!”

He held desperately onto Spot with one hand, blindly swiping around the floor behind him for a moment- and whipped forward a rope, forcing it into Spot’s palm. “Wrap it- wrap it around your arm-” 

Spot wound the rough material around his wrist, latching on with both hands. Another splash soaked them twice over, and he clutched on even tighter.

Race retreated, scuttling backwards on his back, and wrapped his end of the rope around his own elbow and then the mast, pulling Spot up as much as he could. “C’mon- don’t- don’t let go, Conlon-”

“I ain’t stupid, Higgins, Jesus-” He yanked himself up onto the deck in one violent heave, collapsing onto the planks as soon as he landed. Race kneeled beside him, hand on his back. His heart pounded, chest caving in and out as his lungs wildly worked themselves to balance out the adrenaline from his fall. The cold was settling in, seeping down to his bones. He rubbed his arms.

Race sat for a second more, brushing his thumb over his spine, and then slid back over to the tiller, raising a hand to squint through the flying droplets. He forced it away from his body, steering the ship away from the worst of the waves. Spot didn’t trust himself to stand. He didn’t trust himself to do anything but lean against the mast and try to catch his breath.

Finally, after far too long, the ocean settled, satisfied. The inky water stilled into softer waves, foaming gently against the hull of the sailboat.

Race slumped to the deck, rubbing his eyes. He exhaled loudly. “We made it.”

“What was that?”

“Caught the edge of th’ storm. A little typhoon sorta thing. Y’know?”

Spot scoffed, propping himself up on his elbows. “ ‘Little’?”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“I nearly friggin’ died .”

Something in Race’s face changed at that, subtly. Spot couldn't quite catch it.

“Yeah. Y’did.”

“I owe ya, I guess.”

“What for?”

“You dense, Higgins?”

Race shrugged, that glimmer of mischievousness returning. He reached to his mouth, disappointed by the lack of his cigar. “Maybe.”

“Y’saved me. From fallin’.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyone woulda’ done it.”

“Nah. Not anyone.”

“It don’t matter, Conlon, y’don’t owe me nothin’.”

Spot gritted his teeth, slowing his words. “I gotta. On Brooklyn’s honour. Even if it’s some smart-arse from Manhattan.”

“Gee, I’m flattered,” Race deadpanned, leaning back against the tiller.

“Means I gotta do somethin’. Somethin’ to make us even. No more owein’.”

“Ain’t gotta be so noble. J us’ let it go-”

“You’s under Brooklyn protection.”

Race tipped his head, smile wide and confused. “Whaddaya mean?”

“You’s under my protection, least. I got your back in a fight. You ain’t gettin’ hurt on Brooklyn grounds. Not on my watch.”

“I can handle myself.”

“It’s a promise. That makes us even. Don’t you- don’t mention this. To anyone.”

“Y’know, I’d be happy with a thank-you-”

Spot glared at him. “We’s even.”

“You really gonna protect me? Be my knight in shinin’ armour?”

“In the name of Brooklyn. Just business, gettin’ even. You ain’t special.”

“I am very special, Conlon, just so y’know.”

“Shaddup, Higgins.”

“I saved your life. I get a pass.”

“Take us to shore,” Spot commanded. He held out his hands in an offer. “You can talk your mouth off ‘til there.”

Race grinned, brilliant in the moon. “Deal.”

True to his word, he pestered Spot best he could through the journey back inland. His eyes lit up when he spoke, glittering like jewels in the starlight sky. Again, Spot found himself relaxing, tension draining from his body, but he didn’t so much mind. Here, out in the open sea, with the wind in his hair and the boy who knew him both the most and the least, there was no point in keeping his guard up.

“I’se been gettin’ t’know them, y’know? We’s real friends. Didja know Clover wanted t’be a teacher?”

Spot shrugged. “He ain’t never had the money for an education.”

“None of us has, Conlon. S’nice to dream,” he poked. “Y’should try it sometime.”

“I ain’t gonna dream when I could be makin’ money.”

“Oi, Mister Businessman. Can’t y’spare a second to use yer imagination?”

“No,” Spot answered flatly.

“Mm. That’s what he says. But I knows you’s a dreamer.”

He scoffed. “Did the birdies sing it to ya?”

“I see it.” Race pointed, his finger right up in his face. Spot slapped it away. “In your eyes.”

“Oh, he’s crazy.”

“I see you lookin’ out at the sea. I see the way you’s watchin’ the stars. You actin’ all tough and careless, but you’s got your dreams, too.”

Spot opened his mouth and closed it, lost for words. 

How? 

How had Race been able to deduce that? To see the thoughts pass behind his eyes, just from looking at him? He didn’t seem it, but he was shockingly observant. He noticed things. 

He noticed Spot.  

“You been watchin’ me?”

“Maybe.”

“What for?”

“You’s interestin’, Conlon. I like you.” It was casual. Offhand. Obviously meant in a platonic way.

Still, Spot’s heart skipped a beat. 

“That so?” His voice went up at the end.

“Yeah. When you ain’t stompin’ me in the ground, or threatenin’ to, you ain’t a bad person at all,” Race admitted casually. He let it sink in for a moment, and then reached over the side and splashed Spot in a spray of icy water. Spot spluttered, wiping his face with the back of his arm.

“Higgins!”

Race gave a familiar dimpled grin, simpering in a sweet voice; “Sorry, Spottie, I slipped.”

“You ain’t-” Spot leaned to the sea and slapped his own sheet of cold droplets in Race’s direction. He ducked out at the last second, sheltering behind the sail. 

Spot scoffed, a smile edging up the corners of his lips. “You’s a coward, Higgins.” He scooped up water in his hands, skulking around the other side. Race dodged under the boom, stumbling to the bow of the boat, sheltering behind a barrel. Spot followed after him, casting a silhouette over his crouched form. “Mercy, Conlon, I call mercy.”

“All’s fair in love an’ war,” Spot only answered as released the shower over his head. Race jerked like he’d been electrocuted, wheezing a string of curses out as he shook out his hair. 

He stood, strands of blonde sticking to his face, and nearly toppled right over the side, arms flailing. Spot reached out and grabbed him instinctively, hooking him around the waist with an arm and pulling him back to safety. “Fuck, Higgins,” he breathed. “Don’t go overboard now.”

Race leaned into his grip for a moment, panting, and then pulled away. He backed up and tilted his head to look at Spot, surveilling him up and down.

Race was a mess. His hair was disheveled and fluffed up like damp bird feathers, he was soaking wet all over, but it didn’t take away from his charm. It nearly well added to it. The moonlight seemed to glimmer right out of his skin. And those eyes… piercing navy, soft sky, changing wherever the light hit them, fixed on Spot. Stars didn’t reflect off of them, they seemed to get swallowed right up into all that blue.

“Thanks,” Race said simply. He turned back to the tiller, guiding the boat closer to the dock.

Spot nodded, swallowing hard. “Welcome.”

What was that? Why was he thinking of Race like that? Sure, he was handsome, but that string of starstruck thought wasn’t just an observation. It was…

Spot didn’t quite know what it was. He didn’t understand. He only knew that he wanted Race to look at him again, to turn his whole attention to him. To see those eyes again, not just once, but forever.

He was being ridiculous. Perhaps he was just tired, perhaps his mind was just rambling on without rhyme or reason. To be honest, he did feel a bit disoriented. A bit confused. Maybe it was the result of being tossed around in that storm, or it was the chill of the water in his clothes and hair soaking right into his brain. Whatever the thought was, it needed to vanish. Getting attached to people- especially Manhattan people- was a terrible idea. It would only hurt more when they went down.

Finally, the ship sailed softly in, breezing to a halt beside the pier. Race hopped out, winding one of the ropes around a cleat, and Spot did the same, shivering.

Race stood up, frozen in place for a second. It seemed, for the first time, he didn’t know what to say.

Spot didn’t mind. He would rather get back in the boat. Sail away to absolutely nowhere. With him.

“I’ll see you, Conlon.”

“Yeah. See ya, Higgins.” Don’t go. Not yet.

Race took off quickly, disappearing behind the fish shack, leaving Spot alone with his thoughts.

The walk back to the lodging house took far longer than he remembered. He had that nag at the back of his mind again- like a word he’d long forgotten, or a memory he half-remembered. It was something with Race, that he was certain. Race. Race. Why was he still in Spot’s mind? What did it mean?

Is he…

What?

The half-formed thought was quickly shook out of his head, discarded with all of the other useless, brash ideas that he didn’t need. He certainly didn’t understand it.