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Spot doesn’t normally go back to the lodging house between the morning and evening editions, and especially not in the summer. He’s usually down at the docks with the other guys, cooling down in the water before having to get back on the streets. It’s just that he’d forgotten his slingshot in the morning and he wanted it. Not that he thought he’d need it , the other Brooklyn kids knows he don’t put up with shit; it’s just he feels better knowing he has it is all. Just in case, like.
It’s next to his bed, as expected, and he’s almost down the stairs in the main lobby when he notices his shoe’s undone. Last thing Spot needs is the headline to be “King of Brooklyn: Tripped and Died, Like an Idiot” so he sits down on the third to last step to retie it.
He’s just stood up again when the front door opens and two people come stumblin’ in. It takes Spot a second to recognize them, first because they both got their heads down and the second is the smaller one’s bruised all two ways from Sunday. It’s not ‘til the taller one lifts his head that Spot realizes it’s Hotshot. Which means the other kid is probably also a newsie, which means–
“Who I gotta soak?” Spot asks through gritted teeth, jumping down the last few steps and walking up to the pair of ‘em. Things have been calm since the strike and the formin’ of the union, but if someone from another borough thinks Spot let his guard down and they can stomp all over Brooklyn, they gots another damn thing coming.
The other kid raises his head, and Spot physically reels back.
“Racetrack?”
Racer blinks at him for a second, like he don’t recognize Spot at first. Then crows “SPOT-AYYY!!” with a grin so wide Spot can see the blood in his teeth, Brooklyn red.
He throws his free arm out, as if expecting a hug. Hotshot swears at him as he struggles to keep Race upright. Spot quickly puts himself under Race’s other arm – who does attempt to pull him into an awkward side hug – and helps Hotshot move him to the bottom step, near the wall. The second he’s down, Race slumps back against it.
Spot takes him in – the blood, the hole in his pants at his left knee, the bruise already swelling up one of his eyes – before turning to his second-in-command.
“The hell happened to him?”
Hotshot shrugs. “Dunno. Was walkin’ back here when I saw some’in slumped in an alley. Thought he was dead, he was so still” – Spot forces himself to not react; Race is many things, but ‘still’ sure as hell ain’t one of ‘em – “but he groaned when I nudged him.” Hotshot frowns down at Race and adds, “He been breathin’ real funny the whole walk back.”
Spot runs a hand through his hair and scratches his head as he looks at Racer. The other boy is clearly in no shape to get back to Manhattan, and Spot don’t wanna deal with Jack Kelly besides. He gets Jack’s protectiveness, one leader to another, but that don’t make him any easier to deal with. Davey would probably be there too, him and Jack attached at the hip the way they are, but Spot ain’t Racer and ain’t gonna take the risk of him not being there.
With a sigh, he turns to his second and says, “Help me take him up to the attic.”
Hotshot raises an eyebrow – Spot gets it, he doesn’t usually let anybody up in his tiny attic room, one of the perks of being King of Brooklyn – but doesn’t say anything. He just walks back over to Racetrack and slips an arm around his waist. Spot follows suit on Racer’s other side, and the three of them make an awkward, stumbling journey up to the top floor of the Brooklyn lodging house.
They stagger into Spot’s room and deposit Race onto the thin mattress Spot calls his own. He goes down like a sack of bricks and immediately starts falling sideways. Spot and Hotshot both let out a swear as they rush forward to stop him from falling on his already busted face.
Hotshot sighs, leaning back against the wall next to the door.
“Kid’s two feet tall, why’s he so hard to carry,” he grumbles.
“It’s my dazzling personality,” Racer slurs from the bed.
Spot snorts. “More like all the hot air in your head.”
Race makes an offended noise but doesn’t comment further.
Moving back into leader mode, Spot turns back to Hotshot. “Grab a bowl of water, will you? Gotta clean Mr. Personality over there up to see the damage properly.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” he says, giving Spot a two finger salute before going, closing the door shut behind him, leaving Spot and Race alone.
It’s quiet as Spot searches for a clean rag, so it only takes a minute for him to realize there’s a weird wheezing noise. He remembers all at once what Hotshot said about Race breathing funny the whole walk back to the lodging house.
He turns back to the other boy – who’s managed to push himself up enough to lean back on the wall the mattress is pushed against – and says, “Take your damn bindings off.”
“Aw, at least buy a guy dinner first,” Race shoots back, flashing a smile that Spot thinks is supposed to be charming. Between the blood and bruises and the slightly dazed look still in Race’s eyes, it falls flat.
Spot just rolls his eyes. “You’re breathing funny, and considering you always wear your bindings too tight –”
“I do not,” Race grumbles, but there’s no real heat in the words.
“– your ribs are prob’ly all sorts of fucked.”
Racer huffs loudly, head falling back against the wall. “You’re worse than Jack.”
“Don’t never say that to me again,” Spot says, “or you’re banned from Brooklyn.”
“Aw, but you’ll miss me, Spotty!”
Spot rolls his eyes and goes back to looking for a rag. He hears Race grumble something to himself, but also the creaking of the ropes on the mattress, so Spot figures Race is doing what he’s told (for once in his life).
There’s a knock on the door, and Hotshot’s voice saying, “Hey, I got the water.”
Spot walks to the door and opens it; sure enough Hotshot’s there holding a bowl of water with a rag over his shoulder. The bowl don’t look familiar, but Spot’s long learned not to ask questions.
“Thanks, Hotshot,” Spot says as he takes it and the rag from his second. “When you see Ike, tell ‘im that Racer’s gonna spend the night here.”
Race and Hotshot both start stuttering out sentences –
“I can walk– ”
“Why the hell would I see Ike– ”
– both of which make Spot roll his eyes.
“You’re not half as good as sneakin’ in and out of here as you think,” he tells Hotshot before closing the door in his face. Hotshot makes more noises before stomping away.
“I ain’t staying the night.”
Spot turns to look at Race again. His shirt’s buttoned up, but his suspenders are off and his bindings are in a pile near his hip.
“It took me and Hotshot to get you up the stairs,” Spot says, unimpressed by Race’s stubbornness. “‘Sides, Jackyboy will get all mad if I let you go. Less I gotta deal with him, the better. He’s got a face for punchin’, y’know?”
Race laughs, which quickly turns into a groan. Spot raises an eyebrow; Race sighs and says, “A’ight, I see what you means.”
Spot sets the bowl of water down on the floor next to the mattress and sits down in front of Race.
“C’mere.”
Racer moves closer, making a face as he does.
“Should use your bindings to wrap your ribs right, ‘case somethin’ cracked,” Spot says as he dips the rag in the water.
“Yeah, yeah,” Race says, reaching for the rag. Spot pulls it away from him, shoving his arm down before reaching to clean off Racer’s face himself.
“Who’d you piss off today, anyway,” he asks. He tries to keep his voice steady like, but seeing the damage up close like this has his blood boiling. He was mad enough when he first saw Hotshot stumbling in with someone, but the second he realized that someone was Racetrack , Spot’s been trying real hard to keep his temper.
He clearly ain’t done a good job, because Race raises an eyebrow at him. Spot scowls back.
“Guy didn’t ‘specially like a tip I gave at the track today,” Racer huffs, scratching at a bit of dried blood on his chin. Spot slaps his hand away.
“Had to’ve been real shit for him to soak you like this.”
“It weren’t even that bad,” Race huffs, making another face as his dramatic shoulder sagging pulls his ribs funny. “Think he hated that he took advice from some streetrat .”
Racer’s tone makes Spot look back up and really study his friend’s face. Race is trying to look like the words don’t mean nothing to him, but he’s clenching his jaw all up (which is for sure just making him hurt worse).
“Sounding like this is less the tip and more the fact you mouthed off to him,” Spot says as he wrings out the rag and reaches for Racer’s hand. Racer rolls his eyes, and Spot grabs his knuckles a little tighter than really needed. Race hisses before glaring at him. “One’a these days, you’re gonna mouth off to the wrong guy and it’s gonna get you killed.”
“I can take care of myself, Spot,” Race snaps. “You ain’t my mother.”
Spot throws Racer’s hand back down, making Race hiss again, and glares at the other boy.
“Well, excuse the hell out of me if I don’t wanna see my friend beat to death,” Spot snaps back.
Race stares at him for a second before saying, “Didn’t realize you cared that much.”
“I know I ain’t as emotional as all you ‘hattan boys, but come the hell on, Racer. You sell in Brooklyn every damn day, we hang out ‘tween editions, we eat together. I spend more time with you than Hotshot some weeks, Racetrack, how the hell that make it seem like I don’t care if you live or die? ”
Spot is trying not to blush, but he’s worked up after that outburst and Racer just keeps staring at him .
“Well?” he demands.
Instead of answering, Racetrack leans forward and kisses Spot. Spot makes a noise in the back of his throat, but kisses back. His hand comes up to hold Race’s face, gentler than he’s ever been as his fingers brush Race’s bruised cheek.
They pull back after a minute, and Race leans his forehead against Spot’s.
“Ain’t gonna promise to stop mouthin’ off, Spotty, it’s just who I am,” he says softly. “But I can probably stand to pick my battles a bit better.”
Spot drags his thumb against Racer’s mouth, where his split lip has reopened. “I ain’t asking you to change who you are, Racer, I know that ain’t fair. Just maybe try to be more careful, huh?”
Race leans forward to press another kiss to Spot’s mouth (which is only a little gross, considering). “For you? I can do that.”