them brooklyn boys⚡️sprace

Oooooooh

The sun rose, and with it the Newsies. Well, two of them. Race was hesitant to get out of bed at first, then he remembered his duty of the day. Race going over there one a month was weird. Twice? It'll look pretty suspicious on him.
"Jack."
He elbowed him off.
"Piss off Race. I'm sleeping."
"Jack it's 5:30 am."
He shot up like a rocket, hopping out of the old bed. He threw on his cap which was laying on the ground.  He stretched, and cleared his voice. Race knew what was coming.
"UP AND ADAM NEWSBOYS! HEADLINES DON'T SELL PAPES!!"
There was no response. Jack had been doing the same morning ritual ever since the strike, it was getting annoying.
"I said, HEADLINES DON'T SELL PAPES!"
"Shut up Jack."
Crutchie responded, his face buried into the pillow.
Race was the only other one up, he stood next to Jack, who was looking defeated by a bunch of sleeping boys.
"We're waiting till 6:00 this morning."
One of them said, and then went back to sleeping.
"I'm gonna go. It takes a while to get across to Brooklyn."
Race said, grabbing the dime from under his pillow. He patted his friends back on the way out.
"Good luck bud."
-
Race watched the the yellows and pinks of the sky break into a Navy blue. New York was wrapped in a thick blanket of fog. It was chilly out, but not too chilly. It was..nice, even if he could barely see three feet ahead of him. He arrived at the other side of the bridge, promising himself that this would be the last time this month.
"Well, well, well. If it ain't Racetrack Higgins again."
Race rolled his eyes, sighing. The same boys as yesterday.
"Yah. It's me. I just gotta do Jacks business. He don't know nothin about bets. Gambling."
"Okay. Gotta dime?"
Race pulled the shiny coin out of his sack, where his newspapers were. He'd sold a few on the way over. A smarter decision then what he'd done yesterday.
"A'ight. Spots down at the dock."
"Figured."
Race said, pushing past the two boys. He finished crossing the bridge, then hopped down some steps and to the right where the docks were.
"Ey! It's Race again!"
"Ya. I'm here to do the monthly bet."
Spot got up and walked over so they were face to face.
"Jack really can't bet. Can he?"
Spot mumbled, getting closer. To the point where their noses were almost touching. Race pulled out the dime again, holding it up in between their faces. He was blushing uncontrollably, he hoped Spot couldn't tell.
"I'll make you a deal, Racetrack."
"Isn't that what we'se doin'?"
Spot sighed, twirling the iconic cane he'd always carry around.
"Gimme that dime. And the other. I know you always carry two. And..I'll let you youse turf sell ovah here's for a month. You wouldn't wants to disappoint Jack if you lost this gamble."
He smirked. Race hesitated. 20 cents for a month of selling in Brooklyn? Race new Jack wouldn't be mad if he lost the bet. It was all luck, of course. He might be disappointed though. Jack hated giving up Newsies. Then again, his 'name' was Racetrack.
"Hows youse sellin' right now?"
"Better than youse."
"You don't knows that!"
Spot snatched the dime from his hand.
"Ise sure I do. You see, don't tells Kelly you knows this, but a few newsies 'ave been payin' us to sell over heres. Queens. The Bronx. Even a couple from Manhattan."
Race was confused. This went against almost everything they'd ever done. It wasn't illegal, but it seemed...strange. They had hated each other before the strike. Now suddenly all the burrows were paying each other to sell on the others turf? It seemed suspiciously buddy buddy to him. Then again, if Brooklyn did it, they all did it.
"See, only the the leaders know about this..game."
Spots dirty blonde hair was up in races face again.
"Can we just to this normally please? I can't waste any more time ovah heres."
"Your loss."
Spot said, handing the dime back to Race. They gambled. Race won. He kept his money and earned the newsies a week of selling in Brooklyn. Without having to pay. After Spot refused to give up a newsie. Race should've felt proud. But, oddly, he didn't. It's like he did the same thing so much it wasn't even exciting to win. There was no more adrenaline. Apparently he'd been looking off into space for a little too long.
"Racer. You okay? Race? Racetrack? ANTONIO RACETRACK HIGGINS?!?!"
"Hm?"
He was startled back into reality.
"Sorry. Bye Spot."
"Wh- Racer? Hey!"
He left. Ran. Back over the bridge. He stopped half way in the middle, bending over with a huff. If Spot hadn't thought he was weird before, he definitely would now.
"What the hell?"
He whispered to himself. Why did he care what Spot thought? Maybe because he was King Of Brooklyn. So what? Race was King of New York. But something came back. He couldn't brush of Spots dumb smile. Or his stupid eyes. He'd gotten the chance to actually meet Spot 4 months ago. Why was this mindless thing developing inside of him now? Just as things were becoming normal again. He could not be queer. No way. It was a phase. There were plenty of rational explanations to this. Race just skipped over them right to the most worrying one. If he liked boys, the newsies would-
He didn't wanna think about it. Going back to the hell hole of abuse he came from was not on his priority list. Little did Race know, on the other side of the bridge, Spot Conlon was thinking almost the exact same thing about him.
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952 words? Alrighty then.