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caycanteven · 1 year ago

Text

To Steal A Ship

hehehe i wrote more and will continue to write more. Motti belongs to @mothiepixie and Lex belongs to me <3

Lex rehoisted her leather duffle against her shoulder as she followed her new captain toward the harbor. The sun wasn't blistering with it's early rise that morning, but the warm rays and cool sea breeze was a delicate reminder of the day ahead and many to come. The smell of saltwater was strong, though not as strong as the gutted fish smell as the two pushed their way around the docks toward the supposed ship her new captain acquired. "Someday I'll have somethin' like that," Motti spoke up with a pointed finger.

Lex hummed, raising a brow and following Motti's gesture to a brigantine anchored in the port. She acknowledged the woodwork and it's fine craftsmanship, a fine merchant ship no less. Her one eye landed on the beauty at the bow, a figure head of a mermaid who's hand outstretched to rest underneath it's bowsprit. It was most certainly a sight for a sailor's sore eyes. "Aye, that ship is a sight," Lex chuckled softly and shook her head good naturedly. "Merchant ship," she noted openly as she pushed through two large fisherman who crowded her. She gave them a glare, before taking Motti's side.

"Ye right," the captain nodded with a thoughtful hum, "I could of afforded a ship like that long ago, but for now I got the best I could."

Lex raised a brow again at the hint of a past her new captain had yet to share. She'd never pry for the information, though she admitted she was curious. She knew she wasn't from the same upbringing as herself, but if she wasn't, then how did she get to this point?

"So ye got a ship, then?"

Motti nodded, "'course I got a ship. Ain't much, but it's enough."

Lex and Motti stopped at last next to a schooner, who's appearance and care was much less than the merchant ship they shared appreciation for. Lex's single eye considered the vessel and it's hull. Not a large ship, but not a sloop; it was a good starter boat, but if her captain even dared to sail the seas in search of the Black Fiend, she'd need to upgrade it eventually.

Perhaps they could manage a few minor bounties, or goods transportation for local merchants between ports. It would be a decent start, but a long, long time before they'd be able to afford a brigantine of their own. It wouldn't be as nice as that other brig--especially if it were to have a figure head as nice as that--but it would be their own.

Lex followed Motti onto the rickety catwalk joining the dock and the schooner. She hummed and pressed a boot into the dock, testing her weight on the wood, fortunately finding it sturdy. Lex leaned against the mainmast as she dropped her duffle on the deck. She watched contently as the captain expressed how she came to own such a vessel.

"I was lucky 'nough the old bastard who had this before was so willin' to part with it for what I had," Motti huffed and placed her hands on her hips as she tapped her boot's heal against the ships deck. "Had'er repaired a bit but could be better, I suppose."

Lex hummed in agreement. "Aye, she'll do," she chuckled softly.

Motti smiled appreciatively and held her chin proudly, "I plan to head to the port south here in two days time. Lookin' fer more work, of course, but maybe some more crew." Seeing Lex nod, she felt confident enough to breach her next subject.

"Can ye sail?"

Lex shot Motti a confused look mid bite of an apple she pulled from her leather duffle, raising a brow and grunting in affirmation. "Aye...?" she replied, though curiously before biting into the fruit.

Motti smiled and only gave a nod, before turning to explain what else was available on the ship as well as her plans to gain a small fortune and where she believed the Black Fiend would be next.

Lex, on the other hand, was suspicious and refused to let the topic drop. She wiped her lips of bitter juice, her mouth full as she questioned her captain carefully.

"Can ye sail, Cap'n?"

Motti stiffened, shifting uncomfortably on the deck as she looked over her shoulder sheepishly toward her crew member.

"...ye can't sail, can ye?"

"...no."

Lex sighed with a groan under her breath. She shook her head, realizing what she was getting into when it came to this new captain; it supported her suspicions more so. However, as she stood straight, she refused to question her captain further and she decided to do the next best thing.

"Aight, cap'n, I'm gonna have to teach ya then."

"What? Really?!" Motti exclaimed happily, but Lex eased the captain back onto the heels of her boots with a stern look.

"Aye, but ye hold ye britches," she began, "cause ye got no clue how to steer a boat, ye can't leave port. Gonna have to teach ya quickly if ye plan to head to the next in two days."

"Can't ye just--"

"Aye, maybe fer a bit, but ye need to know how yer own ship works. A captain is only as good as their ship," Lex enforced gently. "Ye eventually can hire a helmsman," she muttered and put her hands on her hips, "but fer now, let's get ye sea legs underneath ye." Seeing Motti's excitement in her blue eyes brought a warm flutter to Lex's chest. She smiled and turned the captain and started explaining the parts of the ship, from bowsprit to port.

Lex wasn't quite sure what she was getting into when she told her captain she'd teach her how to sail.

Though losing the ol' schooner on the day before they planned to leave port was not what she anticipated.

Lex grunted, sitting against a post of the dock as she wrung out her hair. Thankfully, their belongings were salvageable and they only lost their rations planned for the trip, but the ship as a whole was the greatest loss.

How in Davy Jone's locker were they gonna get anywhere without a ship?

"Sorry," Motti mumbled defeatedly, wringing out the skirts around her waist as she grumbled curses beneath her breath. She was soaked, but Lex was more than thankful her captain knew how to swim at least. Sailing was one thing, swimming was another. Motti scowled at the water that left her flintlock's holster as she emptied it.

"Ye just need practice," Lex reassured softly, trying her best not to express her frustration so easily. She rubbed her face once her hair was efficiently not as drenched. "Gotta admit to ye cap'n, we ain' gonna be doin' any practicin' without a ship, or get to the southern port tomorrow." Lex picked up her boot to wrench it off, then poured out the water on the inside, a couple small fish flopping on the deck with the gentle splash.

Motti sighed and plopped down, hands on her freckled cheeks with disappointment and irritation knitted in her brows. "Aye, I'm aware."

Lex hummed, seeing the defeated look. She sighed, "Oi, cap, don't let--"

She jumped when Motti exclaimed proudly her sudden idea.

"Ye wha?!"

"Ye and I will steal a ship!"

Lex stared, baffled as she blinked. She turned her head and began smacking her ears, grumbling about the water making her hear things.

Motti, however, grabbed her hand and gave her a firm look of determination. "We steal a ship. Ye know yer way around weapons, I know my way around men."

"Ye just admitted ye like to get aroun'," Lex scoffed and raised her brow, but couldn't help the little smirk curling at her lips.

"Not like that. I ruin the hearts of anyone, sure, but I got my eyes set on someone already and we're gonna find'em no matter what," Motti snorted smugly. "How ya think I got that...well, had that ship?"

Lex smirked and chuckled softly. So, that was how she managed, she thought, she's a fine manipulator, if she's doin' it right. Can't blame her in this life, I suppose. Lex sighed, relenting to Motti's eagerness and contagious desire to cause trouble for their benefit. "Aight, aight. Ye got me on the hook, cap."

"So, ye got anotha ship in mind?"

"I think ye already know," Motti grinned.

It wasn't easy, but it certainly wasn't hard to get on board. The captain was right about one thing; men flocked to her as soon as she presented herself. Lex had to hand it to her, she knew how to get them distracted, but seein' as their plan was working so well, Lex took it upon herself to scope out the rest of the ship.

Weapons, rations, merchant cargo from a northern port, no doubt. She'd seen some of these things before, not to mention the crops that grew there were valuable to southern and central ports. This ship was full of it. They could likely sell it themselves and get plenty of gold in return.

Though one thing that had Lex's eye was a beautiful musket, made with mahogany wood and fine metal. It looked like it hadn't been used. Lex took care to examine the weapon and it's condition, before giving it a quick glance down the sight.

Oh yes, this was a beautiful weapon, indeed.

Lex's examination was interrupted at the sound of chatter muffled by the hull of the brigantine. Her immediate thought was of her captain, and she quickly got up with the musket in hand and it's pouch of ammo at her belt. She knew there were limited guards on the ship, but she was weary as she snuck around back to the upper deck. She crashed her back against the side and peeked over the railing.

The captain had her hands full; larger men, sailors that worked for the ship perhaps, were crowding her with rather disgusting grins. Lex narrowed her eye at the looks they had, and one had gotten close.

Far too close.

The glint of metal was all she needed

The crack in the air sent men and straggling fisherman on the docks into a surprised panic. The man, who's knife was bared before Captain Motti, fell lifeless as his dead weight hit the edge of the harbor's dock and into the waters below.

Motti, hands on her hat and eyes finding Lex on the ship's edge, quickly began to push her way past the men who'd yet to recover from the gun shot.

Though, at the sight of Motti breaking for the ships ladder, they seemed to realize they'd been run a rig. "Stop them!" Yelled a sailor, and another dove for Motti in chase.

Lex grunted and cursed under her breath. She needed to reload. She snarled and she grabbed her own flintlock from her belt and she lifted it in haste to take aim and fire once more.

A warning shot; the bullet whistled past with the second crack of the gun, scaring the man off his pursuit and falling face first into the wooden boards. That gave her captain plenty of time, she was certain.

"Sink me, ye savvy Cap?!" Lex yelled urgently to Motti as she climbed the ladder and joined her crew mate.

"Blimey. Ye I'm fine, ye ol' salt!" Motti huffed and she looked over her shoulder as the men started after them. She gasped as Lex pushed past her and cut the ladder with her knife, swift and quick.

"No time to watch them feed the fishes," she grumbled and she climbed the bridge to the helm. "Weigh anchor, we leave now! Ye remember how I showe'd ye the sails?" Lex yelled as she began to reload her musket, preparing for the worst.

Motti nodded fervently and quickly got to work without a second thought. It took time, but when they managed to haul the anchor back up, Lex was already at the helm and directing the ship out of port. Motti quickly joined her, the two of them witnessing the wind catch the sails with vigor and the boat forced through the waves.

"Aye! We're doing it!" Motti exclaimed.

"Not yet, Cap, still gotta outrun the fleet if they show," Lex grunted and jerked the wheel effortlessly left to steer out of port. Another crack sounded and Lex quickly ducked as did Mottie. "Blimey!"

Motti looked portside to see the sailor who'd fired. She grunted and grabbed her own flintlock. With quickness, she fired and held firm as the gun jerked upward following the bullet.

The captain didn't miss.

Lex smirked, surprised yet impressed. "Aye, ye can shoot but ye can't sail?!" she laughed ands he held to the wooden wheel.

"Sailin' is much harder than shootin', and one of them I learned when I was younga!" Motti smiled.

The two shared a boisterous laugh as they stole away with their prize, a brigantine fit for a crew to be, with a golden mermaid at it's bow.

#caycanwrite #pirate au #motti crew #mothie pirate au #lex pirate au #motti pirate au #captain motti #cay drabbles #i swear to god im drowning in this brain rot #pun intended #we went to deep #should i actually make this a fic or something?#short story?#lmfao may happen anyway #motti x nightmare #motti swoonin for a fuckin' ship #caysdrabbles

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heauxkyu · 7 years ago

Note

ooh for the writing prompt! sprace; 65 or 79?

Hi lovely anon! Sorry this took me so incredibly long to write. I had to restart so many times. I’m so out of practice and this is probably super bad (grammatically it’s a disaster), but at least it’s DONE! I hope anyone who reads it enjoys it. ALSO IM SORRY IT GOT SO LONG I JUST RAMBLED FOREVER

65. “Look at me— just breathe, okay?”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Get back here, you rat!” A booming voice called out to Race’s retreating figure as he sprinted as fast as he could away from the dimly lit alley way.

What had started out as an innocent game of cards on the streets of Brooklyn had soon led to Racetrack being cornered by the four huge men he had foolishly decided to gamble against. The young newsie had thought he knew their type. Each was slightly overweight and a little drunk, all with dark eyes and intimidating features but with little to no brain cells. They should have been easy targets to steal a few cents from, and Race had not been expecting the backlash he received after winning the fifth consecutive game in a row, shooting the men a grin and collecting his winnings.

“Up for another round, fellas?” He had asked smugly, pocketing the money and shuffling the cards with his practiced hands. When no one responded, he raised his eyebrows. “Givin’ up already? Aw c’mon!”

Another pause.

“Tell ya what,” He pulled some of the money out of his pocket and showed it to the men, immediately recapturing their attention, “If any one of you wins this next game, I’ll return all my winnin’s. Deal?”

The men had all foolishly agreed. Race grinned even wider, clapping his hands together. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

The sixth game had begun smoothly until one of the men noticed Race counting cards, a trick the young boy had mastered years ago. The man quickly communicated it to his fellow players through hushed whispers while Race was busy deciding his next move.

“Hey! This bastard is countin’ cards!” He hissed. The other three men whipped their heads around to stare at him, lowering their voices.

“You sure?”

“ ‘Course I’m sure, you idiot. How else would a kid win five games in a row? That ain’t no dumb luck. I saw him do it just now.” 

When Race finally made his play, he looked up at the four figures he was crouched in front of, his cocky smile soon vanishing as he took in their furious facial expressions. He had been caught.

“Got somethin’ to admit?” One of them asked as all four rose to their full height in front of a now cowering Race. The newsie’s eyes widened as he saw them begin to crack their knuckles menacingly.

“I…” Race began, quickly pocketing the cards and the money, standing up and backing agains the alley wall. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” His heart began to pound as the four men advanced on him, his shoulder blades pressing into the brick.

“Don’t play dumb, kid.” Another one of the men growled, reaching out and shoving Race further back so his head smacked against the hard stone. He winced, his hands beginning to shake and his eyes darting around, looking for any possible escape. “We saw you countin’ cards.”

Race cursed himself for not being more careful. He had gotten too cocky after his string of wins and forgotten that the men were simply dumb, not blind. He tried to open his mouth to come up with any sort of excuse, but all that came out was a weak “Oh.”

The largest man laughed humorlessly. “Oh? That’s all ya gotta say? You’re a cheater,” He stepped closer. “You know how we deal with cheaters?”

Race’s breath caught in his throat. He knew exactly how cheaters were dealt with, especially in Brooklyn. He also knew that, since he wasn’t in his own borough, there would be no one around to help him with this fight. In other words: he was screwed. As more panic set in, he squeaked out, “I-I’ll give you the money back! I- I just thought-“

Just then, a fist came flying at his face, but he was quick enough to dodge the blow. The man who threw the punch hollered in pain when he made contact with the brick wall, jumping back to cradle his bruising fist. Race took the opportunity to shove past him and booked it out of the alleyway.

Now, he was sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him, trying to drown out the threats the men were shouting at him as they followed at a surprisingly fast pace. His heart felt like it had jumped into his throat. He could feel his own panicked pulse everywhere, beating in his lungs, stomach, and head. Race knew that, if these men caught him, he might not survive. God, how could he have been so stupid?

“Damnit!” He cried out as he reached a new alleyway that ended in a dead end, his plan to escape through it now foiled. “Damnit!” He whipped around and attempted to run back out of the alleyway, but instead of running forward, he smacked right into the solid figure of one of the men.

Baring his teeth, the man shouted “Gotcha!” And grabbed Race by the collar of his shirt. Race let out an embarrassing squeak as he was lifted off of his feet to face the man. “Over here, boys!” The man called, still smiling a terrifying smile at the boy in front of him. “You’re gonna get what you paid for, kid.” He growled. Race was thrown onto the ground as the other three men ran into the alley, all breathing heavily but obviously pleased to see that their culprit was caught.

Race scrambled backwards as fast as he could, unable to get back on his feet due to the sheer amount of terror paralyzing his body. As the men advanced on him, he made one last attempt to bargain with them.

“Please! I’ll do anything!” He cried out, digging the money out of his pockets and throwing it on the ground. “It’s yours! It’s all yours!”

“Too late for that.” One of the men spat at him and Race felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t die like this. He couldn’t have Jack and Crutchie and the other Manhattan newsies out looking for him tomorrow. He couldn’t be left in an alley to rot.

The first kick to his ribs was enough to knock him completely flat on the ground. Race swore, attempting to sit up fast enough to at least put up some sort of fight, but a fist connected with his jaw, followed by another, and another, until he tasted blood and tears were running down his face.

“Get off a’ me!” He cried, swinging his arms wildly in an attempt to get any sort of punch in. He felt his fist hit something hard, and then he heard a vulgar curse from one of the men. Opening his eyes, Race saw him clutching his eye. He had no time to celebrate his success, however, for he was soon shoved back onto the ground, taking a beating that would soon have him lying helpless on the dark streets of Brooklyn.

He could hear the men laughing over the pounding in his ears, could feel the fists colliding with his body, making him jerk back and curl up, trying to protect himself. He felt so stupid, so useless. Covering his head with his arms, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to be over.

And just like that, it was.

There was a sudden deafening silence within the alleyway. Race, still in the fetal position, opened his eyes, slowly uncovering his head and moving his arms to his sides to attempt to push himself up, only to be met with searing pain throughout his whole body. Swearing, he fell back into his original position, unable to turn his neck to see what caused the men to suddenly stop. Was this some sort of sick game? Were they giving him a break before delivering the final blow? Race let out a sob he didn’t know he was holding in, covering his head again, his chest heaving.

“Jesus Christ,” He heard a voice say. Race only covered his face further, trying to stop the tears coming out of his eyes.

“Please stop!” He cried out wildly.

“Race? Jesus, Race, look at me.”

It was the same voice as before, now louder, the speaker clearly closer. The voice was laced with a thick accent and filled with concern. It wasn’t one of the voices of the men. This one was different, and Race would know that voice anywhere.

The Manhattan newsie managed to lift his arms high enough to look Spot Conlon in the eyes. Once he had made eye contact, Spot rushed forward to crouch beside him, worry etched over his normally calm and collected face.

“Race…” He said again, placing a hand on Race’s heaving shoulder, only to have the other boy jerk away, choking out a “No! Don’t touch me!”

“Fuck.” Spot mumbled, unbuttoning his own shirt and shrugging it off of his shoulders, leaving him in a thin, ripped undershirt. “Race, look at me. It’s me. It’s Spot. Those guys… they’s gone, Race. Let me help you.”

Race, still shaking uncontrollably, brought his hands away from his face, his eyes still squeezed shut. He nodded quickly, signifying that it was okay for Spot to approach him. Spot crawled over to the bleeding boy and cradled his head in one hand while the other used his shirt to wipe the blood off of his forehead and away from his nose.

“W-what happened?” Race croaked, his eyes still squeezed shut. He balled his hands into fists at his sides as Spot accidentally swiped over the sensitive parts of his face, gasping. “Why are you helpin’ me?”

It’s not like him and Spot were friends. Sure, Spot let Race wander through Brooklyn to get to Sheepshead and sure, Race had the uncanny ability to make Spot blush, and sure, the two spent a lot more time together alone than may be considered normal for two newsies of different boroughs, but they weren’t friends.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” Spot muttered, cradling Race’s face with his hands and slowly turning it from side to side, inspecting the damage that had been done. Race kept his eyes squeezed shut, feeling his cheeks burn under the younger boy’s touch. “What the hell did you get into?”

Race figured there was no use in lying. “Gamblin’. Got caught cheatin’. ” He finally allowed his eyes to flutter open to meet Spot’s. Spot quickly averted his own gaze, clearing his throat slightly and focusing his attention on Race’s other wounds.

“You’s an idiot.” He sighed “Bleedin’ everywhere too. Can you get up?”

“I dunno.” Race said truthfully, his voice still thick with tears. He extended his legs, attempting to conceal the gasps leaving his lips, not wanting to embarrass himself anymore in front of Spot, but failing to hide his obvious pain.

Spot instead of grinning at him and joking about how Race couldn’t take a soaking, stood up and held both hands out to the boy on the ground. Race looked at the hand for a moment before sighing and reaching up to take them. Spot gently pulled Race up. The obvious discomfort on the other boy’s face made his chest hurt. It seemed as soon as Race was standing at his full height, his knees gave out and he crumpled down again. Luckily, Spot was quick enough to catch him under the arms and stop his fall, muttering a strand of curses under his breath as he readjusted to support Race’s weight, winding one of the other boy’s arms around his shoulder and wrapping his own arm around Race’s waist.

“God damnit…” Race muttered, his voice tight with pain. “Those bastards probably broke my ribs.” He paused for a moment, looking down to where Spot’s hand was wrapped firmly around his thin waist, supporting him. “How did you…” He sniffed, wiping his nose on his own sleeve. “How did you get them away? Those guys, I mean.”

Spot took a tentative step forward, squeezing Race’s hip to get him to move forward as well. “Well, I saw ‘em chase you in here and… I was just gonna try to fight ‘em,” he let out a humorless laugh, “but they was big and I was outnumbered. So I told ‘em the police were comin’ and it sent ‘em runnin’ the other way.”

Race, who had previously been focused on walking without collapsing again, turned his head sharply to stare at the side of Spot’s face as the pair made their way out of the alley onto the darkened streets. “You saw ‘em chase me in here? What, you still keepin’ tabs on me?” He attempted to make his tone sound teasing and cocky, but due to his his scratchy throat and shaky voice, he just sounded pathetic and hopeful.

Spot didn’t answer him for a moment, his dark eyes staring straight ahead as he trudged toward the lodging house. “I like to keep track of what’s mine.” He finally responded, making Race’s eyes widen before he sputtered out a different response, “I mean no! I just- damnit- I just need to know what’s goin’ on in my borough, alright?”

“It was past your curfew.” Race commented through clenched teeth as a particularly sharp stab of pain made its way through his ribs. Spot shot him a glare.

“Do you want my help or not?” He spat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “I didn’t have’ta keep an eye on you. You’s lucky I decided to.”

Race fell silent after this, focusing more on the pain blossoming all over his body. ‘Jack’s gonna kill me’ he thought, his eyes shooting over to the outline of the bridge illuminated by the moon. ‘He’s gonna kill me and then Davey is gonna kill me again’ He shut his eyes, frustration building up within him. ‘Why did I have to stay out late tonight? Why did I have to be so stupid?’

He soon became so involved in his own worries that he didn’t notice Spot stop him in front of the Brooklyn lodging house. The King of Brooklyn, still holding onto him tightly, looked up at the large door, calculating the best way to get inside without causing a disturbance. Truthfully, he had been planning to sneak in that night, since Race had stayed out so late, and he couldn’t sleep until he knew Race was safely across the bridge and back in Manhattan. However, with Race in his current state, Spot didn’t know if he could make it through the window.

A few more moments of silenced passed between the pair; Spot was thinking of how to get in to the house and Race was cursing himself out, filled with shame and embarrassment that he was even in this situation.

Finally, Spot heaved a sigh and took Race’s arm off of his shoulders, removing his hand from Race’s waist. There was simply no other way to get in. “Can you stand on your own?” He asked, earning a slight nod from Race. “Good. Because we gotta climb through the window.”

Race sputtered out a “W-what? You- we- what? Why can’t you just knock?”

“I’m in charge of the newsies in Brooklyn. I ain’t in charge of the the house.” Spot mumbled. “There’s no way we can just waltz in the front door while it’s locked.”

Race blushed slightly at the obvious annoyance in Spot’s voice. He should be thankful the other boy was helping him at all. He nodded again and soon found himself being led around to the side of the building, his eyes constantly darting around for any sign of the men from before. Spot eventually found the window he was looking for, the one with boxes and miscellaneous items already stacked against the wall leading up to it, and grinned.

“This is the one. You’s gonna go in first and I’m gonna follow t’ make sure you don’t slip and kill yourself.”

Race wanted to protest and complain about his injuries, but knew he was in no position to to do so. Plus, he’d already made a big enough fool of himself already. So, clenching his jaw, he slowly made his way up the stacked boxes and spare parts until he could push the window open. Spot soon followed suit, ready to catch Race at any point, should he fall.

Race hissed as he lifted his right leg up to the final wooden box, his body screaming at him to stop the physical activity, but his brain forcing himself to drown out its prayers. Clenching his fingertips over the windowsill, Race pulled the rest of his body onto the final box.

“ ‘Atta boy!” He heard Spot whisper behind him, causing his already red cheeks to turn even redder.

“Shut up.” He muttered, calculating his final steps to get into the window. He reached one arm over the windowsill, furrowed his brow, and decided to do it all in one go, lifting his weight off the box and trying to pull himself through the gap. However, the intensity of the pain in his arm caught him off guard and he slipped backwards with a poorly hidden squeak of surprise. He felt his stomach jolt as his balance left him and for a moment was prepared to crash to the ground, but then Spot’s hands were reaching out and preventing his fall, unfortunately, both hands having to support Race right on his backside.

“Easy there, hotshot.” He hissed. “You wanna wake the whole damn neighborhood up?”

“No! Get your hands off my ass.” Race snapped back, secretly thankful for Spot’s assistance but now even more embarrassed than before. Spot rolled his eyes behind him and, instead of taking his hands off of Race, he pushed him up the rest of the way through the window before clambering up himself.

When he finally settled both feet on the floor, he noticed Race gripping his left arm and wincing as he looked around the room. To his right, there was a single, small bed with an even smaller dresser at the foot of it, and across the room was a desk, a chair, and near the door was a sink. “This all yours?” He asked, clearly impressed.

Spot took a few steps forward, taking Race’s arm in his hands. “Being the king has its perks” He answered, not looking Race in the eye, running his hand up and down the arm, checking for any obvious breaks. “Your arm ain’t broken but it’s swelled up somethin’ fierce. I can wrap it.”

Race pulled the limb away. “You don’t need to. I just need somewhere to sleep before I go home and get killed by Jack.”

“Yeah and he’s gonna kill me too if you go home lookin’ like you do.” Spot retorted, striding over to the dresser and yanking open the drawers, rummaging through until he eventually found a long, thick piece of fabric. “This’ll do,” He muttered, walking back over to Race and gesturing at him.

Race cocked his head to the side, still holding his arm, unsure of what Spot wanted him to do. The younger boy rolled his eyes again. “Off with the shirt.”

Race felt his face heat up, but knew he had to do as he was told, or Spot would probably send him right back out that window. He brought his still shaking hands up to his shirt and undid the buttons, sliding his suspenders off of his shoulders and eventually shrugging the shirt off as well.

Spot was suddenly more tense than before, his words coming out short and strained. “Arm out.” Race held his arm out and let out an “Oh, lord” at the sight of the swollen, bruised wrist and the bruised forearm and bicep. Spot, now refusing to even look at him, reached out and attempted to begin wrapping it, but Race immediately jumped back at the contact, cursing loudly and biting his lip.

Spot jerked his head up to look at Race’s face, poorly hiding his worry behind a half-scowl. “Don’t do that!” He ordered. “The more you move the more it’ll hurt. C’mere.”

Race hated the way his chest tightened when Spot said “C’mere”. He hated the way it sounded so affectionate and concerned. He hated that he was in this situation: a shirtless, blushing, pained mess in the middle of Spot’s bedroom. He hated that he wanted Spot to make him feel better and hold him close until the sunrise.

“I…” He began, slowly holding his arm back out. “It hurts” He finally said honestly, looking down at the ground in shame. “I’m sorry.”

Spot paused for a moment, gnawing on his bottom lip as he carefully took Race’s arm back in his hands. Ignoring the fluttering in his stomach, he took a deep breath and reached forward to tilt Race’s chin up in a way that wasn’t romantic at all, no sir. Their eyes met.

“Look at me— just breathe, okay?”

Race’s wide eyes blinked at him once before he let out a tiny, breathless “Okay,” finding it harder and harder to ignore their close proximity and how Spot was looking so deeply into his eyes. If he just moved a little closer he could-

Spot suddenly cleared his throat and looked back down at Race’s arm. His expression had turned hard as he realized the intensity of the moment. This was wrong. Helping Race— a newsie who didn’t even belong to him— and thinking of Race in… that way. It was wrong.

He began wrapping Race’s arm with fixed concentration, acutely aware of how Race had listened to his advice and was taking deep, slow breaths to help distract him from the pain. Once the job was finished and the fabric was tied at the end, Spot squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, dreading the next moments that would, without a doubt, be incredibly awkward.

He eventually took a step back from Race, still not meeting his eyes and brushed his hands off on his pants, taking his shirt from over his shoulder and tossing it on top of the dresser. “Uh… There ya go.” He said, the normal smooth charm completely missing from his voice.

Race inspected the bandage on his arm, noticing how Spot wrapped it so he could still bend it. Suddenly overcome with a strange, warm feeling in his chest, he looked up at the other boy, who was suddenly much too far away. “Spot,” Race said, causing Spot to freeze in his steps. He finally looked at Race with a questioning expression on his face, waiting for Race to finish his thought.

“Thank you.”

Spot’s cheeks burned. “It’s nothin’,” He attempted to turn back to his dresser and end the conversation. He couldn’t look at Race standing there, shirtless, in the middle of the room, looking beautiful and vulnerable, without losing control. “Don’t worry abou-“

“No— I mean… I mean thank you for everything.” Race interrupted, limping forward to turn Spot around by his shoulder. “Thanks for, uh, for watchin’ over me.” He finished, now shuffling awkwardly back and forth on his feet, suddenly very aware that he was half naked and that Spot was staring at him.

The silence that fell after he was done speaking was haunting. Race tensed, not knowing if Spot was going to turn around and ignore his statement or possibly punch him in the face for being too close and too honest. Spot Conlon wasn’t really known for doing “emotions”.

Race was considering walking away and leaving the conversation at that, but Spot spoke just as he was about to turn away.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

The injured boy couldn’t help the smile that slid onto his face at Spot’s honesty. The younger of the two was staring at him intently, his eyes flicking down to Race lips before he forced them back up. Race’s smile faltered slightly, his expression turning serious as he saw Spot looking at his lips. Instead of fear filling his brain, desire clouded over his mind and he swallowed hard, looking Spot in the eyes, silently daring him to do something. When he didn’t move, Race took the initiative.

“Yeah, well,” He breathed out, taking another step closer so that their noses were almost brushing, taking Spot not punching the daylights out of him as a good sign. “I’m glad you saved me.”

It was a cheesy line, he knew it. But it was definitely the right thing to say because the next thing Race knew’ Spot’s hands were on the side of his face and his lips were smashed against his.

Race stumbled backwards, but one of Spot’s hands snuck it’s way around to the small of his back, supporting him and bringing him back so that their chests were pressed together. Race brought his hands to Spot’s neck and kissed him back eagerly, several different elated, anxious, and confused thoughts filling his head. He pushed them aside as Spot retreated for a moment, breathing heavily.

Neither boy said anything for a minute, but slowly two smiles made their way onto their faces, acting as a silent communication that this was okay. Nothing else needed to be said at that moment, and Spot leaned back in to recapture Race’s mouth with his own.

And, for the moment, Race felt safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~

SEND ME PROMPTS!

#spraced out #mine #answered #sprace #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #newsies #newsies fanfiction #will anybody see this? probably not!#tbh im still in shocked that anyone asked for a prompt #malwrites

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