Newsies One Shots and Short Stories

Sprace- So Close, Yet So Far

(A/N Musical Spot and Race   

Sorry, I have writer's block, I have no idea what this is. 

Set in canon era, a few years after the strike) 

"Tell me somethin' Spotty." 

Spot Conlon turned from his current position, leaning against a wall next to the window in his bedroom, to face the Manhattan Newsie who was sprawled across his bed. 

"Somethin'." 

Racetrack Higgins lazily lifted his head to shoot an unamused glance to the boy across the room. 

"Har har, very funny Spotty." 

The blond smirked and crossed the room to flop down next to his friend, arms under his head, legs crossed at the ankle. "I try." 

The gambler rolled onto his side to look the Brooklyn leader in the eyes, a question evident on his face.  

Spot shifted slightly to see his friend better. "What's on ya mind, Racer?" 

Race frowned and flopped back down, sticking his cigar back in his mouth. "Nothin'." 

"C'mon," Spot groaned and rolled onto his side. "I know when ya bluffin' Higgins. Ya can't lie ta me. So what's on ya mind?" 

When the brunet still didn't meet his eyes, Spot let out a huff of annoyance and sat up, grabbing the other boy's cigar. 

"'Ey!" Race protested. "My cigar!" 

"Nah," Spot replied cooly. "Think it's mine now. Least till ya tell me what ya was gonna say." 

Race whined and sat up, reaching for his cigar. 

Spot dodged easily. "Dat's cheatin', Racer." 

"Give it back, Spotty!" Race dived for it again, this time ending up knocking both of them off the bed onto the floor, landing with him sprawled across Spot's chest. 

The shorter lost his breath, for more than one reason, and the taller just groaned and buried his head in Spot's shoulder, the shorter instinctively moving his hand to tenderly cup the back of the other's head. 

"Racer." Spot's voice was a bit faint, but the other didn't notice. 

The Manhattan Newsie raised his head slightly. "Hm?" 

"Get off." Spot ordered. 

Race just burrowed further into the shorter boy. "No." 

Spot sighed, secretly savoring the feeling of the other boy in his arms, and grabbed Race's shoulders, flipping them over, so that he was directly over Race, supported by his hands and knees. 

"'Ey!" Race pouted, looking off to the side in a childish act of defiance. 

"Just ask ya question already." Spot said exasperatedly. 

Race suddenly moved to grab the cigar from Spot's hand. "Gimme my cigar!"

The shorter boy quickly put his arm behind his back and raised an unimpressed eyebrow at his friend. "Told ya Racer." Spot chided. "Cheatin' won' do ya no good. Ask ya question and I'll give it back." 

When Race finally met his gaze, Spot could almost feel his insides melting. The Manhattan Newsie had curiosity written all over his face, big blue eyes swimming with a million unasked questions, eyebrows knit together and mouth forming a slight frown. 

In short, the gambler was absolutely adorable. 

Actually, 'innocent' was the first word that came to his mind. Along with 'precious'.  And 'perfect'. It took all of Spot's self-control not to reach out and thread a hand through Race's hair, or stroke his cheek, or lean down and kiss his forehead.