Ribbon
Spot Conlon gazed into the fire and felt the ribbon in his hand, clenched a fist around it. It was ancient; he couldn't remember how old. He knew how long he'd had it, but not how long it had been around before that.
He didn't want to remember the Christmas when it had first turned up. He didn't like to think too hard about Christmas in general, after last year.
There was a party going on in the lodging house behind him and he knew his boys were going to get out of hand. The Brooklyn kids always got out of hand at parties. That was why they were Brooklyn. And he'd have to get involved and break it up, because that was his job.
He wondered if it was worth it, but the flickering flames provided no answer. So instead he pocketed the ribbon and reached for the bottle of beer he'd stolen on his way home and began to drink.
Merry fucking Christmas, he thought to himself, and remembered.
*
Racetrack threw him a sly look. "You should be nicer ta me, ya know."
Spot arched an eyebrow. "Nah. Play your damn cards."
"Awright. I will." Race glanced down at his hand, then spread the cards over the table, and they both knew he'd won. "This ain't working, Conlon."
"No kiddin'. I'm broke."
"That ain't what I'm talkin' about."
"Yeah. I know." Spot shoved the coins that sat between them over to Race and met his eyes. "We had a good run of it, though, Race."
"Not really, we didn't."
Race looked more serious than Spot could ever remember seeing him before. His face was bruised from their fight; sometimes it amazed Spot how they could fight so much and then come and sit down at the table and play cards like a normal couple of guys.
Like a normal couple.
There was nothing normal about Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins. They hid it well; no one really knew what was between them. Half the time, they didn't even know. But still, they were more than friends.
*
Spot was drunk, which surprised exactly no one. He hiccuped loudly and staggered in the door frame, caught himself on a wall and tried to straighten up, but failed and just lurched against it.
"Shhhh!" Race hissed. "You wanna get us both kicked outta here?"
"I'ma–I'm leavin' anyway." Spot reached for Race, pulled him close, his breath smelling like everything he'd been drinking. "Come wi' me, Race. Come on. I needja, stay wi' me."
Race rolled his eyes. "I said no, Conlon."
"Come onnnnnnnnnn…"
Spot's voice was whiny, and Race hated that. But it only happened when he was drunk. The rest of the time, Spot's voice was just cold and hard. Race hated that, too. He missed the years from back when they were kids together. Before Spot was totally hardened.
*
"Buy me last pape, sir? An' do have yourself a merry Christmas!" Race tipped his hat, then rubbed his hands together and tried to warm them with his breath. He decided it was definitely time to get back to the lodging house, where Kloppman had promised to give them warm spiced cider for the holiday, and extra food, even though some of them hadn't contributed to the feast fund. They were all supposed to, but papers were hard to sell in the winter sometimes, and not everyone could afford to.
But Kloppman would give them a feast anyway. And, or so the older kids claimed, on Christmas he always announced that he'd clear the books. That no matter how many nights people owed him for, he'd drop the debt and let everyone start with a clean slate. He did it every Christmas.
Race was almost skipping through the snow, making his way home. He'd only lived there for three months, and it was already home. And, his mind already full of the feast and the warmth of the house, he didn't see where he was going until he tripped and landed on his knees and elbows in the snow.
He stood and whirled around, ready to yell at whoever had dared block his way, but saw… Just a kid. About his age, hard to say; starving and freezing, sitting in the snow shivering.
"You okay?" he asked the kid, who didn't answer. He shook the kid's shoulder. "Hey, hey, you. You okay?"
"Cold…"
He frowned. "You got a place to stay? 'S real cold tanight, ya shouldn' stay on the streets."
The kid shook his head no.
Race swallowed hard. No one should have to be alone on Christmas, let alone in weather like this. A kid could freeze to death, especially wearing rags like this kid was. No coat, no boots, no scarf. There was more blue than pink to his skin, and he probably should have been dead already.
But there was still some fight left in his eyes. Though it was hard to see them through his unkempt, shaggy hair.
"Come on, then," Race declared, holding out his hand. The kid just stared at him. "Well, come on, I ain't got all day. You deaf or somethin'?"
"I ain't deaf."
"Then come on."
"Where?"
Race rolled his eyes. "Come on home wit' me tanight, 's too cold to be on the streets. We's eatin' good tanight too, Kloppman won't mind one more, won't even notice. Come on already."
Slowly, the kid took his hand and Race pulled him out of the snow, then hesitated and handed him his jacket, too. He had two shirts on, and the kid had nothing but rags. He needed it more. "What's your name?"
"S-sean." He was shivering, but he traced Race's footsteps. "Conlon."
Race nodded a little. "I'm Racetrack Higgins."
"What kinda name's that?"
"A newsie name, don't you know nothin'? Come on, this way, hurry or we'll both freeze."
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in front of a fireplace, mugs filled with warm, spiced cider in their hands. Jack wandered over, looking bored, but full. "Who's the new guy?"
"Just some kid who was freezin' ta death on my sellin' spot," Race answered.
"Spot, huh?" Jack examined him closely for a second, then shrugged. "Spot works."
"Spot works for what?" Sean asked suspiciously.
"For your name." Race rolled his eyes; that should have been obvious to anyone. Clearly, Spot had some learning to do. "You's gotta sell papes wit' me now, 'cause I'm coverin' ya for lodgings. See? So you's a newsie, ya gotta have a newsie name."
Spot shrugged like he didn't care, and took another gulp of cider. It was good, and it warmed him up inside. Maybe being a newsie wouldn't be so bad, he decided. It would have to beat begging for coins like he'd been doing…
*
They sat in front of the dying fire, still drunk and not ready to go to bed yet. No one else was up, they'd been so late getting home from Brooklyn, where Spot was spending more and more of his time.
And where he'd be moving.
"Don't go, Spot," Race mumbled, not quite able to look at him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and inside one of them felt a familiar old piece of ribbon, and folded it between his fingers. He didn't want Spot to leave.
"I gotta."
"You don't gotta, you can stay here as long as–"
"I get in one more fight an' I'm out anyway."
"So don't get in one more fight." Race sighed. "Come on, Spot; you don't gotta go. Stay in Manhattan, it's safer."
"Come with me."
"Stay with me."
"I can't do that, Race." Spot shook his head. "I don't belong here no more."
"I don't belong in Brooklyn, I–"
"Race, I don't wanna go without you." Spot watched him carefully. "You know you're…" He groped for words; he wasn't good at this kind of thing. "You mean a lot more to me than just a sellin' partner."
"You mean more to me, too. Don't go, Spot."
"I gotta."
"But–"
"If you keep sellin' at Sheepshead, we'll see each other. You'll have to go through Brooklyn ta–"
"But it won't be the same."
"I know. But… If you won't come with me, then…"
"You never gave me a reason to go with you."
Spot hesitated, then he leaned forward to where Race was sitting, his face close to Race's, and hesitated for just a second. Then kissed him, quickly.
Race kissed back.
And for a few minutes, all thought of leaving or staying were gone, and all the boys thought of was each other.
*
Spot gripped the cane tightly and glared.
"Try it." Bridge narrowed his eyes.
"You wanna give me the city for Christmas, or do I really gotta take it?" Spot demanded, almost unconsciously dropping into a fighting stance. "'Cause you won't like it if I take it from you. You won't be gettin' back up after we're done."
Bridge smirked and stepped forward; Spot matched him. There were a handful of people watching, but not willing to intervene. They weren't so loyal to Bridge anymore, not since that damn skinny new kid had proven himself to be smarter and far better in a fight than anyone his size should have been. And if Spot beat Bridge now, he'd have proven himself.
Bridge took the first swing, and Spot sidestepped easily and lashed out with the cane, caught Bridge's knee, but it wasn't hard enough to send Bridge down. He grabbed the cane and pulled, but Spot's grip didn't loosen.
*
Race and Spot stared at each other. Spot swallowed hard finally and sat down, and it was Race who spoke first. "I can't go with you, Spot. This is my home."
"It ain't mine."
"Only 'cause you don't want it to be."
"I need somewhere else, Race. I need…" He couldn't articulate it. He needed excitement and adventure, in a way that Race didn't, and in a way that Manhattan couldn't provide. He needed to be somewhere with people like him. Maybe it wasn't as safe and certainly not as stable as Kloppman's place in Manhattan, but he knew he needed to be in Brooklyn.
The only reason he had to stay was Race.
And that wasn't a good enough reason.
*
Bridge stumbled and was hit from behind by Spot's cane. He fell. He didn't get back up.
Spot stood still for a long minute, breathing hard, covered in sweat which was quickly freezing to his skin. So was the blood. Finally, he straightened up and looped the cane through his belt loop, then turned to regard the onlookers. "Anyone else?" he asked simply.
No one answered.
So they walked back to the lodging house, and Spot spent his first Christmas in Brooklyn.
*
"So we're done, then."
Race nodded, and absently rubbed his jaw, where Spot had hit him earlier. Spot wondered if he should have felt bad about that, but he and Race had been fighting for a while now. It started almost as soon as Race had shown up on New Year's Day, a bag of his things over his shoulder.
Spot had just raised an eyebrow. "About time, Higgins," was all he'd had to say, and Race had moved in. And for awhile, it was like they'd never been apart. They sold together during the day, and if space was tight they shared a bunk at night. They stole kisses when no one else was watching, and did more than that when they could be certain they were alone.
But then the fights had started. It was inevitable. Spot was too much Brooklyn now; the things Race had liked about him began to vanish. He no longer let on what he was thinking or feeling, not even to Race, when they were alone. Race felt shut out.
He didn't like it.
Spot didn't respond well to Race's comments about it, though.
By Valentine's Day, they were fighting, by the time spring rolled around, they were getting in fist fights. But by December, they were both clinging to each other and what they'd had, once, while still shoving each other away.
Spot watched Race silently as he stood up, gathered his things and started for the door. Race paused, and glanced back at him. "Merry fucking Christmas, Conlon."
He dropped something small on the floor, and stomped on it on his way out. He slammed the door behind him, and Spot said nothing, did nothing, and just let him go. It wasn't until the next morning that he found an old, frayed ribbon lying there, discarded.
*
It was sort of their tradition that they'd go outside and talk for awhile, leaving the party behind. It had started the first year, when Race had had to bring Spot outside to explain the lodging house rules, since it was just too rowdy indoors. And they'd ended up talking for awhile.
It was nice, to have some time alone together on the holiday. Even if it was just a few minutes. And it was nicer to trade presents where no one else was watching, so they didn't have to explain why they'd gotten them for each other, and not for anyone else. It was just their thing.
Race pushed the small bag into Spot's hand as Spot handed the unwrapped bundle to him. For the one boy, a bag of marbles; more likely to be used as fodder for his slingshot than for any sort of game; for the other, a small package of three cigars, tied up nicely with a piece of ribbon like the rich folks liked. It had been some sort of set for sale, when Spot had stolen it.
"Gotta light?" Race asked, eagerly pulling off the ribbon and pocketing two of the three cigars. Spot nodded and provided a match, and they walked around the block twice, sharing the cigar while Race twirled the ribbon between his fingers.
*
Merry fucking Christmas, he thought to himself, and pulled himself back to present time. There was yelling behind him and it sounded like someone was about to throw a punch, but it all went silent when, without bothering to look over his shoulder, he declared, "Ya fight, ya sleep on the streets tanight."
No one wanted to sleep outside on Christmas, and Spot's word was law.
The Brooklyn lodging house wasn't much of a home, but it was better than nothing. There was no real feast here and he couldn't help but remember the warm cider and the roast turkey at Kloppman's. There was no family here, and he couldn't help thinking of Racetrack, over at Kloppman's, and the whole goddamn group in Manhattan. They were brothers for each other, a family that fought together and worked together and supported each other.
He'd left it. By choice.
And for this.
He stood up and headed for the door, glanced back over his shoulder. "Break any fucking furniture while I'm gone and I break your heads." He slammed the door behind him. He never explained his bad moods, but then, he didn't have to. If Spot Conlon wanted to leave his boys unattended on Christmas Eve, he was allowed to; who the hell would stop him?
When he got to Manhattan, he found Racetrack was sitting outside, smoking a cigar, wearing a thick coat that clearly wasn't his. Spot could hear the celebration inside, and it sounded like more than a few people were drunk. And he wondered why Racetrack wasn't a part of it, why he'd choose to sit out here and freeze instead.
Even though he suspected he already knew the answer.
Race didn't look surprised to see him, just exhaled a plume of smoke.
"I was wondering when you'd get here," was all he said.
"You knew I was coming?"
"'Course I knew."
Spot brushed the snow off the step next to Race and sat down.
"You was waitin' for me." Not even a question.
"Yep."
Spot reached out for the cigar and Race surrendered it, and when their hands brushed he pulled away quickly. Spot smoked silently for a minute, then handed it back, careful to keep from any actual contact.
"It wouldn't have worked anyway," Race mused, seemingly out of the blue, after another long quiet spell.
"Yeah?"
"If you'd stayed here. You'd a' hated it; you'd a' hated me for it as much as I hated you for draggin' me ta Brooklyn."
"Yeah."
This time, when Race handed him the cigar and their hands met, he didn't jerk away quite so quickly.
"So it wasn't your fault, ya ain't gotta ask me ta forgive you."
Spot snorted a little. "I don't ask for things like that."
"That's why we'd never a' worked anyway."
Well, that stung. But it was also true.
"Kloppman give you the cigar?"
"Yeah." Race nodded a little. "He knew I'd be waitin' out here for you, too. Smart old man. Let me borrow his coat."
"Yeah; noticed that."
"Why'd you come here tanight, Spot?" Race asked suddenly, finally turning to look at the newsie next to him; the kid he'd once rescued, the man–young man–he'd once loved.
"You knew I was comin', you tell me." Spot avoided looking in to Race's eyes.
"You know it ain't gonna work; nothin' can fix what went wrong between us."
"I know."
"But you came anyway."
"Yeah."
Race took the cigar out of Spot's hand, leaned forward and kissed him quickly, then sat back down. "It's done, Spot. We both needa move on."
Spot nodded. "I should go… Home."
"If that's what ya call Brooklyn now. I'm a' go inside an' thaw."
"Yeah."
They both stood. Race started for the door, then stopped. "You… Wanna come warm up a minute before you head off?"
Spot shrugged. "Nah. Just wanted ta make sure you was… doin' okay."
Race smiled a little. "I do fine, missin' ya. 'Cept tanight it hurt real bad."
Spot nodded. He'd never say aloud that it hurt him, too. But Race knew it anyway, because otherwise he wouldn't have been waiting outside.
They faced each other, and kissed one last time in the moonlight; a little bit longer and a little bit more passionate than before. Then Spot left to go back to Brooklyn, and Race went inside to his family.
Merry fucking Christmas, Spot thought as he walked.
It wasn't until the next morning that Racetrack found an old piece of ribbon left outside on the stoop, almost buried under the snow that had fallen the night before.