Youse Is Sick. (Sprace One Shot

Youse is Sick

Racetrack Higgins knew something was wrong when he was at the Brooklyn bridge before his secret boyfriend, Spot Conlon. They met every Tuesday and Friday night in the middle of the Brooklyn bridge, and Spot was always there early.

He was getting nervous. Had Spot decided that he was over him? Did he do something wrong? All of his thoughts were brought to a halt when the man in question stumbled over to him.

"Are you okay, youse look terrible." Race exclaimed as Spot slumped onto him in some sort of hug.

"Yeah, 'where good. Sleepy though." Spot mumbled into his shoulder. Another red flag, Spot Conlon was never 'sleepy', sure he would get tired, but he wouldn't ever use a word like that. In fact, three weeks before Spot had sworn to never use that word in order to preserve his 'tough guy' image.

"Youse sure you're okay? I seem to recall youse sayin' you'd never use dat word to preserve your 'tough guy' image. God what is that smell?"

"That's me, I threw up on the way here."

"Youse threw up! Gross! Go home. Youse is sick. Youse gonna get me sick." Race put his hand against Spot's forehead. "Youse is burnin' up! We gotta get you home!"

Spot didn't object as Race dragged him towards the Brooklyn Newsboy Lodging house, but Race wasn't entirely sure he was conscious enough to object to anything.

After a while of trying to find his way through the streets of Brooklyn, Race finally found his way to the lodging house. Spot's arm was around Races' shoulder and his head was leaning against his shoulder.

When Race was about halfway up the stairs, he heard Spot mumble something and start giggling into his shoulder.

"What was dat?" Race asked with a raised eyebrow, which was only met by more mumbling.

"What?"

"You look cute when you're concentrating'." Spot mumbled quietly, a goofy grin spread lazily across his face.

Race chuckled and continued up the stairs with Spot in tow. Race started dragging Spot to his bed.

While trying to push Spot into his bed, he tripped over his own feet and fell on top of Spot, pushing him down finally.

Spot started laughing and pulled Race into a tight hug. Any time Race tried to push himself up, Spot would tighten his grip and giggle a little harder. He was really strong for someone who had a raging fever and had thrown up earlier.

"Youse gonna get me sick, let me go!" Race whispered.

"Kiss me."

"No, youse is sick."

"Kiss me."

"Youse. Is. Sick. I ain't gonna kiss you."

"But I want youse to."

This bickering went on for a couple more minutes before Race pressed his lips against Spot's fevered cheek.

"There, youse happy?" Race smirked.

"No, I wan' it on da lips."

"I can't get sick. Then who would take care of you." Race whispered, finally pushing himself off of the sick boy.

"Wese could take care of each other." Spot mumbled.

"I don't think that would work too well."

Race got up and grabbed a bucket of cold water and a rag. He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the wet rag onto Spot's forehead.