Spot Conlon was rarely fazed; it was a fact that he took an absurd amount of pride in, a fact that made him raise his chin and smile in the morning when he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror above the sinks. He could set Brick trembling with a glare, he could make Bullneck's eyes widen if he glanced his way. The power that he had over the Brooklyn newsies made his muscles feel like iron. He actually began to believe that his fists could deck a boy twice his size, and that he had the connections to wipe out any person in New York.

But this was completely different.

Spot had known Cowboy long before he had adopted the name of Jack Kelly. They had first met in the Refuge, as two miscreants forced together by ill fate. At first Spot had disliked the idealistic child, and Cowboy hadn't been able to understand the reasoning behind the other boy's arrogance. The Refuge was a cold, dank place, but there were several opportunities for the boys trapped inside to get to know each other. Their friendship began uneasily, but by the time that Spot was freed, he knew that Francis would be known as Jack, and was fleeing from Harlem to Manhattan, in the hopes that no one would recognize him if he took up the job of a newsie. Cowboy wanted to lay low for a while - but Jack didn't have the sense to follow his original plan.

Spot sat on his usual pile of wooden boxes, watching his boys hop willingly into the freezing cold water of the Hudson River. It was good for them - it toughened their skin. He wasn't in the mood for swimming right now. Around lunch time his boys usually congregated on the docks, and sat around gambling or went for a swim. Spot idly rubbed the false golden top of his cane, tracing the intricate design. His mind wandered, thought if he had consciously realized it was doing so, he would have been annoyed. He'd had a conversation earlier that day with Cowboy, and kept thinking over the words that they had exchanged.

"How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at you with a club?"

Jack Kelly, self-proclaimed leader of the Manhattan newsies, was one of the closest friends Spot had. Spot got along well with a few of the kids from Manhattan, if only because they were the ones that accompanied Jack whenever a diplomatic whim overtook his (somewhat erratic) mind. Spot knew that Racetrack was good for a quick gambling fix, and that Snipeshooter usually had quite a collection of cigars that could be pinched. Mush was a fantastic yes-man and Blink laughed at any joke, even if it wasn't funny. Boots had a good, solid head on his shoulders and wasn't afraid of much. If only he was a foot taller, he'd fit right in with the Brooklyn newsies.

"How do I know you got what it takes to win?"

The thing was, Spot was sick and tired of Jack's noble-minded shit. He had brought along a curly-haired boy with wide blue eyes, eager to please. He fawned over whoever Cowboy urged him to, a fact that disgusted Spot. Bringing David along was almost an insult...a borderline threat that made the Brooklyn leader prickle like a dog in heat.

"Because I'm telling you, Spot."

That was the last straw. Spot's gaze had flicked to where a few of his biggest boys had congregated, just of out ear range but within sight. He had raised an eyebrow approvingly, turning away from Jack and his deep voice and his horribly earnest eyes.

"That ain't good enough, Jacky-boy."

It was never good enough. Their first kiss, stolen in the Refuge after he had found Jack huddled in a corner, looking lost and mottled with bruises, had only been the start of their odd relationship. They weren't lovers - they had never done anything besides kissing hastily. Their lip locks were passionate and hard and over very quickly. Spot liked women. Jack was the only other male that he had ever...kissed.

"You gotta show me."

So now Jack thought he had some hold over Spot, because they shared a physical attraction. For Spot their relationship wasn't at all emotional - he felt nothing for the other boy, aside from a friendly affection. But affection could only go so far, and Spot hadn't meant what the other boy took his words to insinuate.

That night, Jack had visited him again, this time without friends flanking his sides. The only person he brought along was Racetrack, who settled in comfortably with a group of Brooklyn newsies who had always found his hell-take-all attitude and loud mouth rather amusing. A noisy card game started up, and Racetrack tipped his hat in recognition of Spot before getting down to business.

"What do you want, Jack?" Spot asked coldly as they headed to the bathroom, his razor-sharp gaze drifting to the boy's chin. The Brooklyn leader smirked. He snapped at a boy who was washing his hands, and waited until the entire open bathroom was empty before acknowledging the taller boy's presence. He shut the main door firmly, but did not lock it. He trusted that his boys knew the consequences if they entered without permission.

Cowboy paused, his fingers on the cold metal of a rusted faucet. "We're goin' to go through with this, Spot. All of us. We'll fight until the goddamned end of time if we have to."

"Pretty words, Jacky-boy, always so pretty. But can you back 'em up? Can you prove it?" Spot snarled, almost rolling his eyes towards the cracked ceiling. Jack's words were always so idealistic, and yet so hollow.

There was an uneasy silence between the two.

"I would never lie to you, Spot," Jack mumbled awkwardly.

Again, there was a long pause that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Empty words, always so empty. He never had the guts to follow through with what he said. "Like hell you wouldn't," Spot chuckled hoarsely .

Jack took a stumbling step toward me, confusion on his pretty face. His face was a lot like the promises he made, Spot noted.. Pretty, but empty.

"Spot...I..." He halted a good five inches from the shorter boy's face, and then grabbed the sides of it with his rough hands, pressing his mouth furiously against Conlon's. Wide-eyed and startled, Spot shoved him away so hard there was a bruise on his chest the next morning.

"What the fuck're you doin'?" Spot demanded, horrified. They hadn't kissed for over eight months, and Spot had come to the conclusion that he only liked girls. The kiss meant nothing - Spot wouldn't let it mean anything more.

"I like you," Jack said in confusion, his face screwed up.

"What?"

"I like you," He repeated, this time more loudly.

For another long moment Spot simply stared. Finally he drew up his golden-tipped cane and pointed to the door. "Get out," He snarled.

"What?" This time it was Jack's turn to look stupid.

"GET OUT!" Spot roared. He hated having to repeat myself - always had, and always would. He stormed over to the door and threw it open, glaring, his cane held like a club. "GET OUT!"

Jack high-tailed it out of there, his expression dark, his lips pressed forcefully together. He grabbed Racetrack by the scruff of the kid's neck, breaking up the card game. Though Spot' boys grumbled in annoyance, one look at their leader's face quaffed their initially loud protests. He was furious, panting by the bathroom door. He glared, hard, and this boys turned and quietly began to occupy themselves.

Spot didn't want to think. Thinking would make the conversation real, and that was the last thing he wanted. He stormed to his bed - the only bed in the room that didn't have one above it - and took out his 'emergency' supply of vodka. He wanted to get smashed, and fast.

"If we don't stick together, then we're nothing."

The theater was so full that the air stank of cigar smoke and flesh. Spot looked at the congregated newsies with a heated glare, allowing himself to occasionally smile as he spied old acquaintances waving at him or girls blowing kisses. He tried to ignore Jack, but that was impossible. If there was one thing to be said about Jack, it was that he could not be ignored.

"And if we can't even trust each other, then we're nothing!"

For some reason, it seemed like Jack was speaking directly to the Brooklyn leader. Spot did his best to scowl, trying to play the part of the hardened leader. He kept one hand nervously clenched around the top of his cane. Jack's words had a double meaning - all Spot could think of were Cowboy's words in the bathroom. I like you.

"So, what's it gonna be?"

The crowd roared with delight, falling silent as Jack turned to face Spot.

"So, what about you, Spot?"

Spot glared, his eyes hardened. He set his jaw, his gaze wandering over Jack's face before he turned to stare at all of the newsies watching him in awe. He felt like some sort of theater god, an idol that everyone worshiped. He preened under their gaze.

"I say, that what you say-"

Jack begged him with his eyes. Both ignored David, who was watching their interactions with widened eyes as innocent and unseeing as a child's. Please, Cowboy asked silently. I like you.

I like you.

Shit.

I like you.

Now Spot couldn't remember what he had wanted to reply with. Some smart remark, something bitter. But the only words his lips would form were I like you, too.

No, he could do better than that. His eyes met Jack's, and he smiled even as he reached out his hand.

"...is what I say."

The roar of approval was deafening.