Newsies Imagines

Arguments and Abandonment (Spot)

You had known Spot for a very long time. You'd been there with him, back when he wasn't the King of Brooklyn, when neither of you were newsies at all. You had been much younger then, having to protect each other on the streets when all you two had were the shirts on your backs. You trusted him like no one else, and he felt the same about you.

Then, he had become a newsie. Not content to stay back, you had quickly joined the ranks as well, selling papes just as well as anyone else on the street. It didn't take long for Spot to rise in the ranks (he'd always had a thing for leadership, people just flocked to him. People like you), and soon after that, anyone who was anyone on the streets of New York knew about Spot Conlon. Even when he had all of Brooklyn looking to him for aid, he still came to you for advice, knocking on your door late at night when he didn't know what to do.

People came to associate you with him. After all, who'd know a guy better than the girl who'd spent most of her life with him? The two of you were always side by side, talking in hushed voices about anyone and everyone who came in your way. Maybe Spot was the King of Brooklyn, but everyone knew that you didn't mess with Y/N unless you had a death wish. That's just how it was, how it would always be.

And then you had the argument. It shouldn't have been anything, shouldn't have lasted more than a few seconds before you two made amends and forgot the whole mishap. Yet you can still hear the steel in his voice, the way the two of you had fought like you'd never fought before. Probably would never fight again, actually. You don't think you'll ever get close enough to him for that to happen.

You suppose the argument itself had been a long time coming. See, it was easier to get along when it was just you and him, when you were still scrawny kids messing around on the streets and getting into trouble. But Spot had been changing, getting taller, showing off muscles that hadn't always been there. Dark locks of hair curled around his face, falling in his eyes. You had never noticed that before, never noticed any of the hundreds of details that made the boy before you Spot. Even with all the years behind you, you don't think you'd ever seen him in the way that you do now.

You suppose you yourself had changed. You were more confident, less afraid of what others might think of you. You knew your worth, you knew what you were capable of, and you knew that you should not be spending this much time thinking about Spot Conlon, even if he was someone you'd known all your life. Especially if he was someone you'd known all your life.

So, to distract yourself, you started changing your paper route to be longer, to take you farther away from the Brooklyn lodging house. You'd get back later, set out earlier. All in all, you spent less time with Spot and more time by yourself, biding your time and pretending you didn't care about the dark-haired boy you were doing your best to avoid.

However, even if not seeing Spot all the time was doing good things for your little crush, it certainly wasn't great for him. Spot, who was usually used to meeting up with you after sales were over to talk through rules for the Brooklyn newsies, was suddenly left alone with no idea where you were. As you grew more courageous, venturing out on little trips by yourself to pass the time, he grew more annoyed that you weren't reporting in to him. Eventually, his smoldering frustration and your overly breezy attitude were bound to clash in a thunderstorm of the century.

Stormy couldn't even begin to describe it. At first, you had both been civil. He had pulled you aside into a separate room. He had asked you why you weren't showing up at the lodging house as much, why you were suddenly skipping newsie discussions. You suppose something in his tone had bothered you, something about the fact that he seemed to feel that he could control you, and you had answered him with some sort of snarky retort. This, when Spot had been wanting a legitimate response, was the last straw.