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Melbourne sat in the cabin, an open book on his lap but his gaze was directed at some faraway distance. He hadn't seen Spot since the morning, which was fine by him, in theory. It was understandable that the boy wanted to expore the ship on his own. Melbourne had nothing against Spot finding his own amusements but he did wish to speak to him as soon as possible in order to sort out something that had come to his attention earlier in the day.
They had barely gone through the incident at the harbour, and now there was already another thing to discuss. Race's words echoed in his mind: Don't let him down. That wasn't Melbourne's intention but he wasn't sure he could handle new problems every day.
Spot had finished his breakfast before Melbourne who was soon afterwards approached by two American businessmen. They asked if the boy whom they just saw leaving was Melbourne's son and he confirmed it to be true. 'Cardwell and Hall' they had introduced themselves, 'partners in a mining company in the Rocky Mountains'. Melbourne had gestured them to sit down, quite confused of why they wanted to talk to him.
They were wealthy by the look of it, but not the type of men that Melbourne typically socialized with, as he was more accustomed to quiet English gentleman, not the self-assured, loud and the more informal Americans.
They explained how the night before they had been sitting in one the recreation rooms when a young lad had stopped by their table. Children didn't normally occupy those spaces without their parents although they weren't by no means prohibited if they knew how to behave. When Mr. Cardwell continued and mentioned that they had been playing cards, Melbourne could feel his heart sink. He knew by then where the conversation was going but he kept his calm and didn't try to interrupt.
"He asked us if he could play with us," Mr. Cardwell smiled. "We told him it would be better if he went back to his mother and father but no, he was adamant. Very polite but adamant that he was good at poker, so we decided to humor him a little, and play for a round or two, keeping the bets to a minimum. It didn't quite end like that."
"I see," Melbourne said curtly. "You do not need to spare my feelings. How much did he lose?"
The men glanced at each other, amused. "He didn't, sir. We did. Twelve dollars."
Twelve dollars! That was a huge amount for Spot which made this even worse. Melbourne couldn't believe Spot had let the game go on for that long. Or actually, he could. He could definitely see Spot getting excited about winning and not wanting to stop, but what if he had lost? Although, if he was honest, Melbourne had to admit the whole thing was entertaining, too. It just wasn't something he wanted these men to know, so he tried to disguise his levity with a rueful head shake.
"I apologize. I do not have that kind of money with me at the moment, but you can be assured I will pay you back."
"No, that's not why we're here," Mr. Hall laughed. "He won, fair and square. We wouldn't imagine asking it back. We simply thought you ought to know what he has been up to. Not everyone who gambles on the ship is going to take it well to lose to a young boy. He could get in serious trouble. It's not a good idea for him to continue. We take responsibility for our part, of course, and owe you an apology that we let it happen."
Melbourne leaned back in his chair. "I appreciate you telling me. I will talk to him."
"That would be best," Mr. Cardwell nodded, pausing for a second. "I apologize if I'm being overly curious, sir, but you are British, correct, and your son isn't...?"
"Correct. He has been living with his mother in New York but I felt it was time for him to... get to know his English roots." As much as Melbourne would instill in Spot to always speak the truth, he wasn't above telling a little white lie himself. It wasn't really even that, but there was no point in getting into details about the past.
"Ah, the best of both worlds, then?" Mr. Hall concluded. "Excellent. Well, we won't keep you longer, sir. It was a pleasure to get to know you."
"Likewise."
Both men got up and shook hands with Melbourne before leaving their business cards on the table.
"One more thing... this is awfully premature, obviously, but we were discussing this together and we wouldn't mind hearing from your son when he becomes of age. Mining can be a lucrative business. Not for everyone but it has been for us and we're always looking for bright young men to add to our workforce, or to become partners with us."
"Excuse me?" Melbourne couldn't believe his ears. Were these men trying to recruit his wayward, uneducated son?
"Just an idea for future, nothing more, but it is a serious offer. The way we see it, it never hurts to keep options open. Hopefully you and your son will give it proper thought. Good day, sir."
---
"Did you think I would not find out?" Melbourne asks when Spot finally returns from his excursions. "Is the money in your trunk? I hope you aren't surprised to learn that I will confiscate it for the duration of this journey. You can keep two dollars but I don't want you to get ideas that you can go on spending twelve dollars on whatever nonsensical thing you'll find on the ship."
"I wouldn't have spent it." Never. Spot was all about saving money.
"You won't, that is true."
They stare at each other for some time, Spot feeling defiant and Melbourne at a loss.
"You know what is the most absurd thing about this? You do know, don't you? I was stunned to hear what you had told them your name was."
At that moment Spot decides that the view from the cabin's tiny window is the most exciting thing ever.
"I want to hear you say it. What was the name you introduced yourself with?"
Spot keeps avoiding the question.
"Go on, I'm waiting."
It takes a few minutes for Spot to open his mouth, just like it did the first time he told Melbourne his name. The tone of his voice is a little annoyed, even if he knows this is all his doing.
"Sean."
"Sean. Indeed. The name that you've refused to use for sixteen years. Now you're suddenly Sean. Why?"
Spot shrugs.
"You don't know? I should hope your reason was that you didn't want to downright lie about it."
"I guess."
Another quiet moment falls between them.
"What happens now?" Spot finally inquires.
"I have to think about it." Melbourne buys some time for himself by arranging clothes that he has haphazardly thrown over chairs and his bed. He isn't the tidiest person on earth. Spot waits anxiously for the verdict.
"Did you know those men own a mining business?" Melbourne finally asks.
"No."
"Well they do. Maybe I'll send you for hard labour in their mines."
His expression turns a little devious, though, which isn't lost from Spot. He dares to grin back, realising he's already been forgiven and is going to escape without any kind of punishment.
"My son, the gambler," Melbourne muses and shakes Spot gently by the shoulder. "Let's go to lunch."
He will never let Spot know about the future job offer - it would just make the boy think too highly of himself - but he believes Spot has had enough of a punishment in the form of using Sean as his name.
((OPTIONAL ENDING, because I got another thought but couldn't decide which one I liked better:))
"And that's not all. You know what is the most absurd thing about this? Not the gambling. Not the fact you let me hear about it from strangers. No. You had to pull a completely ridiculous stunt. You know what I'm talking about so don't try to deny it. What in the world got into you, making up your name?"
Spot shrugs. "'twas the first name that came to mind." In all honesty, it's the name that is on his mind all the time.
Anthony.
"Spot, I know you miss Race but you can't go around lying about your name."
"No, dad."
"You need to go and tell those men the truth."
Spot nods. "Is that all?"
Melbourne sighs. "Yes. Just... please let me have one uneventful day, alright? Go find your fun somewhere other than the gambling table."
"I promise, dad."
"Good. Let's go to lunch."
Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins: Backstory
Modern AU:
It's Friday night. Race is lounging on the bed, one knee up and his back against a pile of pillows when Spot comes from the shower and unceremoniously drops the towel on the floor. Race glances up, dark eyes shining at the naked form in front of him before it's hidden by underwear.
"Shut up."
It's Spot's go-to phrase when he's embarrassed about being complimented (even silently, as is the case here) and they both know he doesn't really mean it, so Race simply rolls his eyes and gets back to his phone.
"You swiping left and right again?" Spot enquires, pulling up his best trousers and putting shoes on.
"Absolutely," Race grins.
"Anyone interesting?"
"Mmh... Midnight Rain. Cotton Joe. Both in South Carolina."
Spot laughs. It's a running joke between them that Race is on 'Horse Tinder', that he's looking for a stallion for Sugarheart, his favorite mare that has already produced one fine runner. He wants a good match for her and therefore spends quite a lot of time going through options.
"You thinking about going there?" Spot asks while holding two neckties in his hands: one a solid burgundy colour and another one of blue with thin yellow stripes. His shirt is light blue. Both ties match, at least in his opinion but...
Race frowns and gets up to stand between Spot and the full-length mirror in the corner of their bedroom.
"I might." It goes without saying a travelling companion would be nice but Race knows that depends on Spot's schedules.
He snatches the striped tie from the other man's hand and tosses it away. The burgundy tie gets wrapped around Spot's neck, him obligingly keeping a chin up so Race can make the perfect knot.
"Don't wanna go," Spot confesses and steals a kiss from Race, now talking about the event that he must go tonight: arranged by the publishing company he's been in for the last three years. It's an evening for socialising with other authors and agents and editors, and only for them. If Spot could bring Race along, he would. Race is good with people, Spot is not. He's good at writing but that's not enough. He's expected to make appearances here and there and have a social media presence. He's hired an assistant to manage all that for him.
"You never wanna go. What else is new?" Race says that matter-of-factly, free of judgment.
"You'd be so much better there instead of me."
"Yea but it ain't my book to negotiate deals to." Holding on to one end of the tie, Race tugs it a little to bring Spot's lips to his own. "You'll do fine. You always do. Regardless."
"If you say so."
"I do. Now, lemme see." Race steps aside to look at Spot through the mirror's image and nods approvingly. But he's feeling mischievous, too, so then he moves to stand behind his friend and slides his hands into Spot's pockets.
"Cruel," Spot whispers, leaning slightly against Race's chest. He wouldn't have it in any other way, though, but his hands still come down to stop Race's fingers wandering too low. There's no time for that now. The warm kiss he receives at the nape of his neck makes him dip his head down an inch or two and to sigh quietly.
"Racer..."
That deserves a snort from Race because just recently they both learned what that word meant about a hundred or so years ago. It's funny, and kind of awful, but not to be taken too seriously. Race still loves that endearment, nothing's going to change that.
"Isn't this what racers do?" he chuckles, looking over Spot's shoulder into their reflections in the mirror.
"I wouldn't know," Spot says defiantly, fighting away his own laughter as he turns to face Race. "What are you gonna do? Tonight, I mean, when I'm off to places I feel like I don't belong."
"Not much. Watch a bit of tv, get my stuff together so I don't hafta do anything tomorrow before I leave. I don't mind if you wake me up when you get home." He's leaving early for a race that's in another town and won't be back until Sunday.
"We'll see," Spot agrees and picks up the towel. "Call me a taxi, would you?" Then he goes to find a comb to get his unruly hair into something presentable. On Friday nights, one can expect to have to wait for a taxi so he doesn't need to rush out immediately.
"Sure."
A moment later Spot is standing at the bedroom door and checking that he has everything needed with him. He's not totally reluctant to go, no matter what he just said, but knowing Race will be gone all of Saturday and most of Sunday, he wishes the event wasn't on this particular night. He'd much rather stay in. He'd rather be in jeans and a t-shirt, too. With Race.
"You look handsome."
Spot inhales. It's not the first time he's heard that said yet it always makes his heart skip a beat. A smile creeps up on his face.
"Good night. Don't stay up too late," he replies and reaches for a kiss.
It's past midnight when he returns home and finds Race sleeping on his back, both arms above his head like he's surrendering to someone. To me, Spot thinks and sheds away his clothes before climbing up on the bed, to snuggle close. He's too kind to actually wake the other one, knowing Race needs a good night's sleep and to be sharp the next day, especially when driving a horse trailer.
With hardly any voice, with just his lips moving, Spot feels he has to say one thing about this evening. "It went well. You were right." It won't take long for him to fall asleep.
A cup of instant coffee is all Race makes for himself in the morning (he'll eat something at a stopover place along the way) and he comes to sit at the edge of the bed with it, knowing that the scent of the coffee is enough to stir Spot up. It's a pity to wake him but they have an agreement: they never leave for any overnight trips without last words, so to speak. It's not like he anticipates bad things to happen but there was one time he ended up in a car accident and while nothing serious happened and he just had a sore neck for a few days, it really shook him up. He lost his parents suddenly, when he was just a kid. There were no last words that he could remember. He won't let that happen with Spot.
"You leaving?" Spot mumbles when his eyelids finally open.
"Aha-h." Race rests his hand on Spot's hip. "I love you."
"Yea?"
"Yea."
"Love you, too."
That's all Race needs. Now he can go.
Spot's not one for instant coffee. When he wakes up three hours later, he wants the real thing. And there, leaning against the coffee maker is Race's business card. He's left a message on the back side of it. It's nothing original, because Race, who has no trouble talking the ear off of people, doesn't enjoy writing like Spot does. His messages are simple but they do come from his heart.
Spot sends him a text, content with the note as Race will be busy and it'll be much later in the day before there's a reply or a call back. This is how their weekends are sometimes but they make these small precious moments count.
Xmas Story 1899
The walk across the bridge feels short and long at the same time. It's such a stupid thing, this plan of his. He hesitates and considers turning back to Brooklyn. Why is he doing this? Race is going to laugh at him. He's fucking going to laugh and Spot will lose face for the rest of his life.
"Hey."
It's too late now. Spot tries to hide his grin at the sound of a familiar voice, and even more so, at the sight of Race in front of him.
"Hey."
They stare at each other a moment.
"Merry Christmas," Spot finally says.
"What? Is that why you's here? To wish me Merry Christmas?"
Spot frowns.
"No, I... Well, why not?" But before Race has time to reply, Spot has taken his hand and pulls him away from the bridge and crowds of people. It's a bit urgent and forceful but as they start walking along the river, Spot's hold of his friend loosens a little into a more gentle handholding.
Race would like to say a lot of things, but he knows Spot and wants to give him time to say what he apparently wants to say. Eventually they stop and turn to face each other.
"I have a gift for you but you's gonna hafta swear you won't laugh. I mean it."
Race doesn't know what to think about that but he's fast to cross his heart and swear. They've never given each other gifts before. It's not like they normally have money for superfluous things, so yeah, it's kinda big thing to give or get a gift from a fellow newsie.
Spot's free hand dips into his pocket again though it takes him awhile to dare to show what he has.
"Thought you should have a cane, too...," Spot says slowly and opens up his palm.
Race gasps and his smile is accompanied with a chuckle, but it's not the kind of laugher that Spot was fearing for. Not at all. Instead his heart warms up instantly.
"You like it?"
"Who wouldn't?"
The tiny peppermint candycane switches hands. Race takes a lick of it but he's not selfish so the next thing he does is offer it for a tasting for Spot.
"I love it," Race reiterates.
"Good," Spot nods and blushes, looking down.
Race yanks him gently towards him. "Thanks."
When their eyes meet again, so do their lips. That's the best gift ever.
The best Christmas Eve ever, in 1899.
((The story is inspired by 'The Fairytale of New York' song by the Pogues. I've always liked it, and when I heard it again about a week ago, it made me think of Race and Spot because of some of the lyrics. So then I also made this image with slightly altered words. Just to make it more accurate for these boys.))
Christmas 1904
For a while there, Race had been really worried. He'd never seen Spot so sick before. Race even got so far as to buy some suspicious, unnamed medicine from a street vendor, all because he couldn't think of anything else to do, though it was only that one time. After all, there was no guarantee what the medicine was. It could've been anything from a regular baking flour pressed into tablets or something that hurt Spot more than helped. Well, at least it hadn't made things worse.
It had been a rough December over all. Race had been the one to get sick first but he came around in about a week. He was still weak but managed to get back to work. In Spot's case, the illness hit harder and deeper, as it did for several of their neighbours. Not all of them made it through which obviously did nothing to ease Race's mind. It was extremely difficult for him to go to work each morning, not knowing how Spot was faring, not knowing what he might come back home to, and he always rushed back with fear in his heart. He couldn't imagining... No, he would not let his mind wander to those dark places. Spot was going to be well. He had to. Race wouldn't know what to do without his best friend, his partner in this life.
Thankfully there was one person to lend a hand, even if it was a very small hand. In the apartment above theirs, lived a little girl, Bridget, with her mother and an aunt. Race had rescued her once from bullies and now she regarded him as her hero. She would do anything to be useful, whether it was cleaning their home, or as in this case, checking up on Spot during the day, and bringing him a cup of warm broth. Race felt better knowing Spot wouldn't be alone all day in the darkness while he tried to earn a living for both of them.
There was, however, one option he hadn't used yet; the nuns who helped the poor, but at this point it seemed like half of New York was bedridden and there weren't enough nuns or nurses to go around. Besides, Spot wasn't exactly keen on their help, although should his condition turn for worse, Race wouldn't have given a shit about Spot's feelings about the church, and he would have sought for the nuns anyway. But so far, he hadn't had to resort to that, no matter how often the thought came to him.
It was Christmas Eve now and while there wouldn't be much of a celebration for them this year, the best gift for Race would be for Spot to get better. He didn't need anything else.
Spot wakes up when Race comes home and there's an expression of relief on both on their faces. They've survived one more day.
"Hey," comes Race's soft greeting as he steps forward to sit on a stool by the bed. "Feeling better?"
The nod he receives as an answer is a small gesture but encouraging.
"You're cold," Spot says in a quiet voice. He can see Race's coat is wet.
"Nah, I'm fine. It started raining just two blocks from home. Snow's almost gone. Look." He reaches for a special treat - an orange - from the pocket and gives it to Spot, whose eyes reveal the question he's too tired to ask.
"I got it from this little kid who came to open the door with his mother. "
On top of his usual job, Race has been delivering Christmas flowers and wreaths for people who have ordered them from a florist shop. It's just an extra thing he's started doing now that Spot isn't able to earn any money. It doesn't pay very well, but every penny matters.
"He was toying with it and when he realised the mother paid me for the delivery, suppose he wanted to pay me as well." Race shrugs. It had been almost embarrassing, but he wasn't going to turn down a thing that he wouldn't buy himself. Oranges were a waste of money in their situation.
"I'll peel it for you," he adds.
"For us," Spot coughs and offers the orange back; his fingers are too weak to peel it anyway.
"For us," Race smiles and after putting away his outdoor clothes, he dives under the blankets to warm up next to Spot.
The orange is delicious, the best thing that Spot has eaten for a long time. It's just what he needs: refreshing and cool and something sweet but not overly so, and he eats nearly half of it which makes Race happy.
"I bet Jack's eating oranges every day in Santa Fe."
Spot huffs at that. They don't know if Jack actually ever made it that far. He left the summer before last, but his first destination was Chicago. Crutchie had got a postcard from there but after that Jack's tracks had vanished and nobody has heard from him since.
"It's warm in there," Race continues. "We oughta go and see. You wouldn't get sick like this."
Again, Spot just shakes his head but after a moment of silence he 's compelled to ask, "You serious?"
"I mean, not for forever but what's the harm of exploring a little? To see what this country is all about."
"I guess." Spot has never thought about leaving Brooklyn and the notion of Race contemplating the idea, even briefly, unsettles him.
Race sees that and realises he's said the wrong thing. Truly he didn't mean his words to cause any confusion.
"Idiot, I chose Brooklyn because of you. My home is where you are."
That was true. Race had left newsies before Spot did because he wasn't a leader. For Spot it had taken a bit more time to settle his affairs and in general, to detach himself from what had been such an integral part of him for years. But Race, he'd made the surprise announcemet one day that he was ready to leave newsies for a job near Coney. He'd planned it in secret but it didn't take long for Spot to realise that Race had done it for them. For the future he wanted to have with Spot. They'd been together ever since. Not openly, of course, for that wasn't possible but there were hundreds of men sharing apartments because it was cheaper that way, and no outsider needed to know what they really meant to each other.
"Yea, I know." He had a home, a real home now, because of Race.
"Not going anywhere without you, Spot."
They fall silent again and eventully Race dozes off. He's had a long day of working and worrying but now he's confident that Spot is on the way to recovery.
It's never very much fun to be the only one awake at night, especially not when sick, but Spot doesn't mind this time. He enjoys watching over Race's sleep. There isn't much else he's capable of doing right now, after all, and he always wants feel useful. He's not good at being the one others look after - though he's grateful to have Race for that now.
He watches the rain and the reflection of streetlights glimmer in the window until sleep wins over.
Modern AU: Art assignment
Neither of them had any talent in art in the traditional sense, not with paints or pens, chalks or clay or what-have-you. Spot enjoyed photography but he only had his phone for it and although their school had a nice SLR camera that he'd started experimenting with, he didn't have access to it as much as he would have liked. And here they were, trying to get done an art project that was due the next day. The assignment was to create a movie poster, either an original one or inspired by an existent film - and they hadn't even agreed upon which one. Several papers had been wasted already and the frustration was getting to be real.
"I don't want it," Race answered to Spot's latest suggestion, annoyance clear in his voice. "I've already told you that, like fucking million times."
Spot didn't comment on it. Mouth pressed into a thin line, he kept adding paint to the canvas until he turned and made a small spectacle of switching off his hearing aid. He could do it without anyone noticing but this time he wanted to be sure Race saw it without any doubt.
At that, Race got furious. "Fuck you! Don't you dare do that to me!" He knew Spot got the message because he mouthed the words with precision, looking straight into the other boy's face, and even if some words were not understood, the meaning was obvious.
That actually made Spot freeze and to feel a morsel of regret because he really hadn't done that before. With others yes, but not with Race. Still, he wasn't going to back down or admit any wrong-doing, mad at himself and the whole situation the most. He got back to working on his half of the poster but then Race elbowed him to the side with an angry "No!' and went to paint a large X-sign with the blue paint currently on his paintbrush, all over whatever Spot had just added.
Ever the stoic, Spot was unfazed, and since Race wasn't getting the reaction he wanted, his next move was to run the brush right along Spot's hand and arm, coloring it blue. Though then he was being grabbed by the shirt and pulled into a short but feverish kiss that had their teeth colliding because Race wasn't prepared for it. Just as immediately Spot shoved Race away with an impish grin.
Well, as far as Race was concerned that kiss was no peace offering and if Spot wanted to play games, so could he. Putting on a fake smile he approached for a hug but actually ended up hooking his arm around Spot's neck, bending him downwards. In this scuffle they both got more paint on themselves but eventually Spot managed to slip away, and the second kiss landed onto Race's lips.
"Don't!"
"What?" Spot's smile was almost disarming.
"You know damn well what, Conlon. This!" It was Race's turn to pull his friend flushed against him, this time for a longer kiss.
His body betraying him, Spot lost himself in that embrace, but he wasn't surprised that Race yanked himself free the second he tried to deepen the kiss. Oh no, Race was having none of that, no sir.
"We have work to do," Race said matter-of-factly, starting to pour more paint on his palette, though burning inside. Their relationship even as friends was pretty new, let alone the relationship that had not been defined yet. No 'boyfriend' words had been used despite the deeper connection that had been building, and the amount of kisses shared over the past few weeks. But Race certainly wanted more. He wanted... things he couldn't voice yet. And as exciting as it was to engage in this kind of love-hate, he was starting to feel almost sick about it. He just wanted to kiss and make up but too much pride was at stake.
Spot had not heard that last comment anyway. He kept his cool and removed the ruined picture from the easel, setting a new paper on it. "Stop fooling around. We have to finish this."
"You mean we have to start it," Race muttered as a response and sat on the floor.
For a moment Spot stood quietly staring at the empty white paper again, and waited for Race to get up. Then he examined his paint-splattered hands like there was something interesting in them. Finally he turned and crouched down in front of Race, one hand reaching behind the other boy's neck.
"I hear you," he said, though not actually hearing - except in his heart. The device was still closed.
"And I..." think I love you. Race pulled Spot on the floor with him.