Chapter Five

It's been a while since Race has felt his feet dangle. Despite his small stature, people have learned that it's better not to mess with this tiny Italian kid if they wanted to leave their dignity in tact.

His wit can't help him now. There are no oppotunities to goad, to provoke and inevitably trap: this is purely physical, and he can hear David's concern and Jack's contempt ringing in his ears at the same time.

"Think you c'n just worm y'r way into th' ranks, shrimp?" the boy holding him by his shoulders sneers, leaning in much too close for comfort, "Think y' c'n just- just walk up t' th' ring leader and get inta his circle, s'that it?"

Race opens his mouth, but his attacker's free hand clamps down on his throat before any words can come out.

"Don't even start," his attacker growls, glaring, "I's knows that you's gotta 'slick tongue'." He spits out the last two words with immense contempt. "That won't help ya this time."

Race makes a strangled sound for the sake of doing something. He feels completely and utterly helpless; god, it's been a while since that last happened. There's no way he can reach into his pocket and grab the chain in there; at this proximity, it's too easy to follow every move Race makes.

He manages to gather enough composure to level a glare at the bully, asking "what now?" without even opening his mouth.

The bully raises his eyebrows and digs his arms deeper into Race's body. "Well, we's has all th'time in th'world, don't we?"

Race can feel his eyes starting to roll into the back of his head. Why he can't just drift into sweet nothingness, he has no clue. It would be so, so much easier than dangling, feeling his blood struggle to reach his brain and keep him conscious.

"F- F-" Race began to splutter because goddammit he's so frustrated and angry and indignant and it's been way too long since he's said anything, "F- Fuck- Fuck you-"

"That's it!" his attacker bellows, moving his other hand back to Race's throat to lift him higher off the ground. Race's eyes bulge open and he chokes, his mouth moving as he tries so hard to gasp air into his lungs and avoid death-

"What the fuck d'you think you're doin'?"

Race has just enough energy to recognize that voice, but not quite enough to grin.

Spot lifts his cane and slams it against the bully's skull. The hit is met with a satisfying crack and Spot's victim crumples into a heap of arms and legs in a matter of seconds.

Spitting on the groud, Spot twirls his cane. "Too easy."

Once he has his cane put in its proper place in his belt, Spot offers Race a hand. With a shaky grip, Race lets himself get pulled to his feet. He falters, stumbling as he tries not to lean too much weight on the Brooklynite.

"Easy, Race, easy," Spot murmurs, slipping an arm under Race's. He drags the boy closer to him, giving him as much support as he can offer, "Don't worry, I gotcha."

There's only the sound of Race's desperate breaths filling the air as the pair stand against each other. Race's eyes are closed; he doesn't want to see the pity Spot must be aiming at him, or, worse, the possibilty of there being genuine concern in the Brooklyn newsie's eyes.

When Race's blood feels like it's pumping to all the right spots at the right rate, he chances a look at his companion. Spot's hard, blue eyes greet him immediately and it's difficult for Race to suppress the initial flinch.

"You alright?" Spot asks, ignoring the reaction for now.

"I... I think so, yeah," Race replies, his voice rattling out of his abused throat in a quiet breath. He clears his throat and tries again, "Th-Thanks for... that. Helpin' me out."

Spot clicks his tongue and Race thinks he just might spit again. "It was nothin'. That dumbass's been pushin' his luck lately, this's a good excuse t'show him just what exactly he's been pushin'."

Spot props Race upright and begins to lead him away from the alley the Manhattan newsie had been conered in, kicking the fallen boy on their way out. It's a good thing the two newsies are around the same height; there's less pressure on his shoulders and back.

"How did you's even end up in sucha predicament?" Spot asks him, his eyerbrows raised. The tone he uses is casual, almost mocking, but his steady gaze betrays his uncaring attitude.

Race shakes off the oncoming shudder and looks somewhere to his left. "Was just coming down the docks and the bastard grabbed me by th'back of me collar, dragged me down here and started roughin' me up."

This time Race can't stop the shiver that grips his body. It's been much too long since he's been attacked like that; he really can't handle Brooklyn, can he?

"You shouldn't come here so often." Spot looks away, too; Race can tell by the way the Brooklynite's hair brushes his ear. "You ain't used t'these streets, Race."

"Hey, this's the one time this's gonna happen, Spot, I swears it," Race replies a little too quickly to be normal. He makes up for his slip by puffing up his chest. Immediately, he regrets it; his lungs ache, his throat aches, and the sudden intake of breath is more painful than he had imagined it would be. "I mean, now I knows not to walk by here so damn casual like."

Spot chuckles under his breath, mirth shaking his shoulders. "It'll take ya more lessons'n that, Race, t'be able t'survive these streets. An' I don't think Jacky-boy'd appreciate you in shreds."

"Fuck what 'e thinks, ain't I allowed t'do whatever I want?"

"Sure y'are, just don't come complainin' t'me when he starts gettin' all preachy an' defensive on your ass," Spot replies, his chuckles a full out snort now. "You's important t'him an' obviously 'e ain't afraid to show it."

A bit stunned, Race is left speechless. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? It's not common for Race to betray his friends' trust, and if Jack trusts him not to make a fool out of himself and get soaked, then he should respect that. He knows his boundaries better than he'd like to admit; hell, he doesn't even want to admit he has limits, but everyone does.

Race rolls his shoulders. Spot loosens his grip, but he doesn't let go. "Fuck, Spot, how the hell'd you end up the king o' this place, anyway?"

Spot snorts again, muttering "king" under his breath. "I likes t'call it strength and perseverance, but lots likes t'call it brute force and stubbornness. If no one listens t'me, I make 'em listen, and I wanted everyone to listen. Eventually, I did, and no one regrets makin' that decision."

That sounds about right, if Race knew Spot at all. But he does know Spot pretty damn well by now, and he knows that cannot be all to his story. "C'mon, man, there has t'be more'n that."

"What, d'you want every single detail? I could tell a goddamn epic about me life, Race, don't make me some piece'a folklore, now."

Quiet for a moment, Race scuffs his shoe on the ground. "Still... Musta taken ya a while t'get t'the top..."

This time, Spot does spit. Luckily, it's in the opposite direction of where Race is walking. "It did, didn't never tell you it didn't. Was a fuckin' runt then, s'why I've been in this position so long." He aims a crooked grin in Race's direction. "When you get your ass kicked by a fuckin' runt, you's gotta let 'im stay, else it just ain't fair. 'Sides, with their tails 'tween their legs like that, they didn't have no other choice in th'matter."

Race's eyebrows rise to his hairline. "Jesus, Spot. You're crazy."

"Tell me somethin' new, why don't ya."

Race sighs around his cigar. The sun has already dipped past the horizon and despite the fact that he doesn't want to leave Brooklyn, not yet, the idea that maybe Jack's worrying about him is nagging him in the back of his mind.

What annoys him the most is that it's actually getting to him, making him distracted as Spot tells him something about some new kid and how he's been roughed around lately.

"Reminds me a lotta myself, actually," Spot is saying, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "Tiny, scrawny, nothing too unusual, but tough as a motherfucker. He's takin' on kids three times his size and not backing down."

"Maybe he can be your right hand man," Race says, glancing back at Spot for a second. He catches the small smile gracing the boy's face, but he also watches as it falls.

"Yeah," Spot agrees, albeit slowly, "Maybe. I guess I gotta keep the next generation in line."

With a shrug, Race looks away again. "It'll make things a lot easier in th'long run."

"Probably."

The slightly sullen look on Spot's face garners Race's full attention once more. "Hey, don't be like that. You still got a long time left, y'know that."

Spot sighs, leaning away from Race. He takes his legs off the edge of the roof they're sitting on and puts his back against the short railing supporting the pair, dragging his knees to his chest.

"You gotta point, though," he says in a tone so quiet Race has to strain to hear him, "What am I- I mean, I've been soaking kids and selling papes ever since I can remember. What'm I supposed t'do after alla that, huh?"

Race makes a choked noise under his breath. That's a hard question. Race can say pretty much the same thing for himself, minus the soaking kids and getting to the top part- which, although it wasn't said outright, was definitely implied.

"I dunno, Spot." Is it getting a little warm out here, or is it just him? "Like- Like I said, you still gots a lotta time left 'fore you even gotta consider anythin' like that."

"Still." Spot's harsh tone makes Race jump in his seat. He decides to stand up to avoid any mishaps. "Even Jack has- had a dream. He ain't going through with it 'cause of David and that girl, but it's still somethin'. I got nothin'."

It's so unusual to see Spot uncertain about anything. If he's honest, Race likes to avoid the idea of the future as much as possible, but it's a slight comfort to know he's not the only one.

"If it makes you feel any better," Race starts, offering a hand to the boy on the floor, "I ain't got nothin' neither. An' if we still gots nothin' by the time we's too old t'be sellin' papes, we can team up and see where the world takes us." He smiles wryly. "That sound appealin' at all?"

Returning the crooked smile, Spot takes the hand and hauls himself up. "Sounds better than nothin'. You gotta deal, then."

The pair spits into their hands and exchange a handshake. Once they let go, Spot puts his hands on Race's shoulders and leads him to the fire escape.

"C'mon, I know your little mother hen must be lookin' for ya by now."

"Which, Davey or Jack?"

Laughing, Spot swipes his hand over the top of Race's hair. "Both."

The moon is high in the sky when the pair returns to the lodging house. To Race's surprise, both Jack and David are waiting for him by the door.

"Ain't ya supposed t'be home by now, Davey?" Race asks, lifting both eyebrows. Spot's presence beside him gives Race a bit of confidence he normally would be lacking when confronting Jack and David together.

"I could ask the same thing," David retorts. The tone of voice startles Race; he's never heard that tone directed at him. In fact, he's only heard that tone of voice when Jack became a fuckin' scab.

"You." Race turns his gaze to find Jack about a foot away from Spot. He's staring the Brooklynite down the bridge of his nose, trying to use his height as leverage. "The fuck d'you think you're doin' just, just waltzin' down here like you own the damn place, bringing back Racetrack at an ungodly hour when you know just exactly what time we get up-"

"Jesus fucking christ, cowboy!" In seconds, Spot has his cane in his hand and is prodding Jack's chest in order to create some distance between them. "The fuck are you yammerin' about? Race has a fuckin' bedtime now? What the hell!" He jabs Jack with extra force this time, drawing a flinch from the taller boy. "I fuckin' walked him over here, Jack, so that means it'll take me extra time to get back. That's two birds with one stone, y'know. You don't gotta worry about him gettin' jumped in some alley and I gotta suffer through tomorrow with only 'bout six hours of sleep."

That response has Jack quiet for a while. David's standing behind Jack now, just in case he needs assistance. The newcomer catches Race's eye for a second though; scratch that, the guy's practically checking Race out with the way his eyes are raking over his body.

"The fuck is your problem?" Race asks, aiming the question at both of them but returning David's stare. "I'm in one fuckin' piece and I brought Spot for a little visit, ain't that good enough for you?"

"Your throat," David says, totally ignoring Race's question. He approaches the shorter boy and pulls his collar away from his neck. "It's covered in bruises. What the hell happened to you?"

Race has completely forgotten about that. Slowly, he reaches up to prod at the marks in question and winces when he finds the area tender.

"I... Some dumbass just-" Goddammit, this is exactly what Jack didn't want to see, what the fuck should he do now, "Just- Fuck, he jumped me in an alley. That's what fuckin' happened."

David and Jack blow up at the same time, yelling in unison. Jack is yelling at Spot, who gradually slides up to Race's elbow, and David is yelling at both of them. Their wild hand gestures and raised voices overwhelm Race, make his head start to swim.

"Shut! Up!" Spot hollers, bringing his cane to the floor to emphasize his words. "Both of you, shut the fuck up before I soak the both of you-"

"You wouldn't," Jack hisses, "Not like I'd let you anyway-"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Spot interjects, managing to raise his voice over Jack's, "Shut the fuck up, Kelly."

The Brooklyn leader crosses his arms, his cane still in his hand, and waits for Jack to close his mouth. Once Jack does so, he levels a glare at the shorter boy. Every now and then, his gaze flickers to Race, unnerving him every time.

"Look, it's his choice, ain't it? You ain't his momma, just some unofficial leader'a this mangy pack'a kids," Spot sneers, "I know you ain't got no semblance'a no life, so you's can just stand around all night lookin' out for Race like he's some kid. But y'know what? It's your fuckin' loss, numbskulls; Race's gotta life outside'a you's. An' you know what else? I'm in it. That means that he's gonna visit Brooklyn every now'n then, you got that? It is goin' to fuckin' happen, an' no amount'a pesterin' or naggin's gonna make'im stop."

The Brooklynite slithers an arm around Race's shoulders; it's stiff, and his grip is much tigher than Race would have anticipated, or found comfortable for that matter. But Spot is still glaring up at Jack, his gaze unwavering. The hold is just another nail in the coffin.

"We're not saying that he shouldn't see you or anything, Spot, it's just-" David says, breaking the short lived silence, "I mean- look at his neck for god's sake! I doubt he would have encountered anything like that over here."

"So what, you want me t'leave th'kids over in Brooklyn by themselves for the sake'a Race?" Spot snaps, "I can't, not even for him. The place'd fall apart before you can say fuck me sideways an' then th'whole city's gonna be after my ass. An' if that ass's here, you's all're gettin' fucked, too."

"Well, if this's all Race's choice, how come you's speakin' for him, huh?" Jack crosses his arms, mirroring Spot's pose. While he lacks the cane, he does make up for it in his height; he stares down the bridge of his nose, glaring heatedly at Spot. "You ain't leader 'round here."

Jack looks over Spot's head to stare at Race. The shorter newsie swallows thickly under his unrelenting glare. "So what's your say?"

"Are you makin' me fuckin' choose, is that your deal?" Race runs a hand through his hair, his breath rattling as it leaves his bruised throat. "'Cause you know s'well as I do that this's my home. I ain't leavin'. But that don't mean that I ain't seein' Spot no more."

He takes a few more deep breaths and breaks into a coughing fit. When his breath calms down, Race lashes out at the air with his fists and nearly screams. "Just- God fuckin' dammit, I'm sick of havin' this fight! I ain't leavin' ya, Jack, you's one o' me best pals. We got years behind us, don't you fuckin' dare think that I's forgotten that." Jack moves to touch his shoulder, but Race shakes him off, removing Spot's arm from his body as well. "But look- you want me t'give up havin' Spot as a friend just 'cause it's a bit dangerous over there? Jesus Christ, Kelly, what the fuck d'you take me for? That's a shit cover an' you know it. You ain't losin' me, y'just gotta learn how t'share."

Breathing harshly, Race presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "This's the last I'm hearin' bout this, else I'm really outta here. Now let me get some goddamn sleep."

Without another word, Racetrack shoulders past the boys crowding around him and moves to wrench the door to the lodging house open. He gives them one last glance and finds their gazes fixed on him, speechless. The newsie scowls and enters the building, slamming the door shut on his way in.