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emwritesstuff05 · 12 days ago

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sooooo I wrote something!!

I was listening to Sara Bareilles obsessively and a ton of her songs gave me little snippets of inspiration

aaaand I didn’t have any solid plans for any of her other songs but I thought “Manhattan” was really Sprace coded (but like sad Sprace, yk?)

(Under the cut!!)

Manhattan

inspired by Sara Bareilles’s song from The Blessed Unrest (you should watch the music/lyric video it’s awesome)

Spot wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

He’d never thought that a relationship could work, but for some reason, it still hurt like hell. It had always been too good to last, anyway.

You can have Manhattan The one we used to share

Race was incredible. Funny, sweet, always talking a mile a minute and never looking before he leaped. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he laughed so loudly at stupid jokes that weren’t even funny.

The way he made Spot feel like he was at home.

The one where we were laughing And drunk on just being there

The moments spent on the rooftops, racing across the city. The days at the docks, at the racetrack, dashing through Brooklyn. The nights watching the sunset, stargazing, just being together.

They’d sold their papes together, each trying to outsell the other. Yelling phony headlines, trying to interest passersby while simultaneously attempting to make the other laugh.

Hang on to the reverie Could you do that for me? ‘Cause I’m too sad to

Spot remembered everything about Race, and it was killing him. Every moment without him, remembering what was, what could have been, was torture.

But it was for the best.

They weren’t meant to be together. They were too different, too unnatural. It could have never worked.

It was for the best.

You can have Manhattan ‘Cause I can’t have you

It had been a mutual decision to break it off, but that didn’t mean it hurt less. It had been too difficult. There had been too many stares, conversations stopping when they walked in the room. Double takes when they walked by.

Whispers in the back of their minds - and sometimes even in front of them - letting them know that in 1899, New York City, it was just too outrageous for them to be considered normal.

And so it goes One foot in front of the other ‘Til black and white begin to color in

The world seemed so empty without his laugh, his corny jokes and pick up lines, his shameless lies as he sold his papes.

The way he chewed his cigar - never smoked it - when he was thinking. His hand in Spot’s, melding together so they were one.

‘Were’ being the key word.

And I know That holding us in place Is simply fear of what’s already changed

Spot knew he needed to forget, because he knew he would be okay one day. But now, at this moment? He was far from okay.

There would be no more jumping from rooftops or chases through the alleyways. No more meetings on the fire escapes, or sunsets at the beach. The city of New York would never be the same.

But that was the problem. New York was never the same, is never the same. Life is always shifting, people changing. Friendships and relationships, ending.

So Spot knew he couldn’t fear the variations in life. He could grieve what was and what could have been, but he couldn’t change the past.

You can have Manhattan I’ll settle for the beach And sunsets facing westward With sand beneath my feet

He would be okay, and Race would be okay, and that, in itself, was okay. But for now, while the hurt was still fresh, he could mourn what he’d lost.

A friend, of course, but he’d also lost a brother (something he thought he’d never call a ‘Hattan newsie). A partner in crime, a selling partner, his own personal annoyance.

He hoped Race didn’t feel the same pain tearing him up inside. He hoped that Race could heal his broken heart and live and move on.

I’ll wish this away This missing the days When I was one half of two

One day he’d find someone else. One day, he’d be happy, sprinting through the city with a partner by his side. And Race would too.

And maybe one day, they’d meet again. The thoughts of what might have been would return, but they’d be weaker with age. They’d wish each other well, and congratulate each other on their latest accomplishment.

Maybe they’d meet again, maybe not. Spot was getting better at accepting change, and he was healing.

With love comes loss. That’s the price humans pay to love.

And Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn, was finally okay with that.

Goodbye, Racetrack Higgins. Until we meet again.

You can have Manhattan ‘Cause I can’t have you

im sorry

#newsies

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emwritesstuff05 · 12 days ago

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I wrote some more stuff hehe

and to apologize for the sad sprace (which you can find here) I wrote some cute Javey :)

I CHOOSE YOU

inspired by the Sara Bareilles song from The Blessed Unrest

obviously I don’t own the lyrics or the song (I wish)

Davey, Did ya know that when you take off your hat, your hair is so messy and-

Jack scowled down at the paper in his hand. He could envision the subject of the letter so clearly in his mind, but when he tried to express the absolute beauty of the boy in words, they seemed to jumble and race away from him.

This was why he stuck to art. With a drawing, you didn’t even need words.

But Katherine had told him, with her incredible reporter eloquence, that he needed to “man up and figure out how to tell him the truth”. Which, Jack acknowledged, was good advice.

Now if only he knew how to do it.

My whole heart Will be yours forever

Dear Jack, I never expected I’d fall for someone like-

Davey crumpled up the page he’d been scribbling on for the past hour, then immediately smoothed it out. He couldn’t afford to waste paper like this, but why was it so hard to write Jack a letter?

He was usually good with words; that was what all his teachers had said, what his parents had noticed. Usually, he scoffed to himself.

There was something about Jack that just couldn’t be said in words. It was a feeling, a warm fluttery tingle in his stomach when he watched Jack race around the city. It was a warm hand around his, a perfect golden sunset, the smell of the streets after they’d been washed clean with rain.

But every time he tried to put that in a letter, the words got stuck in his brain, clogging up his mind until he couldn’t even string a full sentence together.

Stupid Jack, making up lies to sell papers, picking fights with the Delancy’s. Stupid, insufferable, impulsive, attractive Jack.

This is a beautiful start To a lifelong love letter

Dave, I’m not very good with this whole writing thing. But you-

Tugging on the hem of his shirt, Jack leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Instantly, Davey’s face filled his mind, his classic you-are-so-annoying-but-I-guess-it’s-kind-of-funny look making Jack smile.

Unconsciously, he pressed the pencil to the paper again, smoothing the newspaper he was using until he found a suitable flat space.

And he drew.

He drew Davey, smiling like he’d just heard a funny joke (so not one of Jack’s then). He drew Davey, protecting Les like a mother bear to a cub. He drew every expression of Davey’s that he could remember.

And then he drew backgrounds. Landscapes, like the ones he painted for Medda. Except these weren’t real places, they were like feelings.

The feeling of being at home. The feeling of calm, and peace, and hope.

The feeling of being with Davey.

Tell the world that we finally got it all right

Dear Jack, You make me feel- I love the way you- I want- You are-

Davey sighed loudly, causing Les to bound over to him, looking concerned. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Davey replied, trying to hide the letter without looking suspicious.

“Whatcha working on?” Les said sweetly.

Davey glared at him. “None of your business!”

“Is it Jaaaaaack?”

“No!”

Les made puppy-dog eyes at him and tried again. “Is it?”

“No!”

“I don’t know why you don’t just say what you’s thinking…we all know you liiiiike each other-”

Davey cut his brother off by snatching Les’s hat and smacking him in the face with it. “We’re done with this conversation.”

Les made a face at him and stomped off, but Davey’s mind couldn’t help but turn over the advice his brother had given him. Why didn’t he just say exactly what he felt and not care about making it sound perfect?

He sat back down with his paper and pen, feeling reenergized and finally, finally inspired. He would talk about Jack’s laugh, and how it was contagious. How you never felt like you were being laughed at or outside the joke, but included in it.

He would talk about how cute Jack looked when he was concentrating on a new drawing, and how his tongue would poke out just a bit when he was focused. And how his face would light up when he talked about Santa Fe or about any of the other newsies.

He would write so many things, because Jack deserved to know them all.

I choose you

“Hey, Jack! I have something for you!”

Jack turned around, a smile spreading across his face as he watched Davey approach. “I got somethin’ for you too, Dave.”

He grabbed Davey by the arm and dragged him through the lodging house up to the roof. He can’t help but wave his hand at the expanse of city before him, “Welcome to my penthouse.”

Davey chuckled, the sound making Jack smile and flush a bit. “I love it.”

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, trying in vain to smooth it out before he handed it to Jack. He scuffed the toe of his shoe on the ground, fidgeting with his shirt as he watched Jack read the letter.

Dear Jack, My whole heart will be yours forever…

I will become yours and you will become mine

Jack couldn’t believe what he was reading. It sounded like a story, or a sappy love song. But it also sounded so real, so true, so Davey that he can’t help but smile.

“You really mean this?” he asked quietly when he finished.

“Every word,” Davey replied, holding his gaze steadily, even as his ears reddened.

“Well then I don’t feel as odd givin’ this to you…” Jack trailed off as he passed over the folded newspaper, afraid to even look at Davey’s face as he unfolded it.

He didn’t have to be afraid, however, because as soon as he saw the drawings, Davey laughed in delight.

“Jack, I love it! It’s beautiful,” he said, running his finger over the penciled lines. “And…I love you too, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

All words disappeared from Jack’s mind as he processed Davey’s words.

Davey watched Jack warily, feeling his face get warm as the silence grew thicker.

And then, neither of them knew who moved first. But suddenly, their lips were pressed together, and their bodies were melding into one. When they broke apart, they both laughed awkwardly, not knowing what to say but knowing that they didn’t need many words anyway.

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I choose you.

#newsies

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emwritesstuff05 · 12 days ago

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Haunted (a late Newsiestober fic)

cross-posted on Ao3 (swimreadrepeat)

basically what happened was I wanted to do newsiestober and then life happened so I didn’t finish any of my prompts until this month (November) so yeah

words: 2228 there will definitely be additional parts bc if I write angst I need some fluff to resolve it

Seeing ghosts had never bothered Spot before. Sure, it was a little disconcerting to see random souls wandering around everywhere, but they were like people, just not alive. They never really talked to him, either, since he had gotten very good at pretending he was a normal person who didn’t see ghosts.

It made him sad sometimes, since some of them had died tragic deaths or still had unfinished business in the land of the living, but there was nothing he could do about it. Or if there was, no one had told him yet.

Spot slung his football bag over his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of his pads bounce against his back. He never had to worry about ghosts when playing football, since they all seemed to avoid the field for some odd reason. Picking up his school bag, he darted out the door as a flash of yellow caught his eye.

Sliding into his usual seat on the school bus, he takes stock of the ghosts he’d seen in just that small sprint between his house and the bus. An old lady puttering around on the sidewalk, a young girl dancing in a pile of leaves. And a boy on the bus.

He blinks twice, making sure that yes, there really is a boy sitting across the aisle from him. And then he blinks again to make sure the boy is a ghost and not just a normal new kid. The guy has curly dirty-blonde hair, and is looking out the window while fidgeting with an unlit cigar. (Really, who used cigars anymore? Was this kid a grandpa?). Even if Spot didn’t know how to see ghosts, he’d know this kid wasn’t a student - he didn’t have a backpack. Suddenly, the boy turns to look at Spot, who in turn pretends like he doesn’t see anything.

But Spot does see him. He’s solid, almost mistakable for a real live human. But there’s something off about the way he fits into the scene, as if he was photoshopped in, placed on a background where he doesn’t belong.

“Hey,” the boy says. Spot pretends not to hear, bending down to dig through his backpack. “Hey,” the boy says again, a little louder. “I know you see me.”

Spot ignores him, feeling a twinge of guilt that he can’t do anything for this boy, but pushing the feeling aside. He throws his football gear onto the seat where the boy is sitting, and leans back in his seat with a sigh. In his peripheral vision, he had seen the boy recoil from the bag, which had basically gone right through him, and he was now pressed up against the window.

“Oh,” the boy said quietly, now talking to himself. “I guess he can’t see me.”

Spot doesn’t know what possesses him. Maybe it’s because he feels bad, maybe it’s because the boy looks so sad and lonely, maybe it’s because - though he hates to admit it - the boy is cute…but he pulls a notebook out of his bag and tears out a sheet of paper. He’s not the best artist, but out of the corner of his eye he maps out the boy’s features, and begins sketching them on the page, careful to keep his body angled away.

When he’s done, he scribbles a note at the bottom: can’t talk now. meet me at bus stop after school 5pm. spot

Then, he crumples the paper slightly, obscuring what he’d drawn and written, and throws it gently at the boy. The kid’s head snaps up, curls bouncing, as he looks over at Spot, probably trying to gauge if Spot could actually see him or not. This time, Spot locks eyes with him, noting idly that the boy’s eyes were a startling blue. He tips his chin slightly towards the paper, watching the boy pick it up gingerly and unfold it.

The boy mouths the words quietly as he reads it, and Spot looks away, feeling embarrassed. Why was he doing this? He didn’t talk to the ghosts for a reason. It became too complicated. Too difficult.

But for some reason, he was interacting with this boy. He sighs, turning to face out his window again, as the school bus pulls up to P.S. 1899, the hellhole that was called “school”. Grabbing his football gear and his backpack, Spot marches out of the bus without a second glance at the boy. It’s only when he’s safely on the sidewalk that he looks back, catching a glimpse of messy blonde hair before the bus turns a corner out of sight.

-----

School seems to drag on forever. Normally, Spot was a decent student, and he didn’t mind lectures or assignments as long as they weren’t too boring. But today seems to be an exception, because every chance he gets, he thinks about the boy. After second guessing himself for the hundredth time, wondering whether or not he should march up to Ghost Boy after school and say, “Ha, sorry, I can’t actually help you. Good luck on your unfinished business!” (he ultimately decides that’s too mean), he puts his head down on the cafeteria table and groans.

“Rough day?” his friend Jack asks, sliding onto the bench.

“You wouldn’t even believe,” Spot mutters.

Jack’s a good friend though, and when he sees that Spot clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, he just digs into his lunch happily. Charlie, the third member of their little lunch group, walks over with another boy who Spot has never seen before.

“Hey guys, this is David. He just moved here! His younger brother goes to the elementary school down the street.” Charlie’s grin is wide, which makes Jack smile too.

“Heya Davey,” Jack says, “how are you likin’ school so far?”

David tugs on the collar of his shirt (he’s the most put-together high schooler Spot has ever seen) and shrugs. “It’s fine, I guess.”

“This is Jack, and that’s Spot,” Charlie says excitedly.

“Spot?” David asks.

“It’s a nickname,” Spot replies, a tad snarkily. He regrets it though when David looks a little hurt, but then the taller boy opens his mouth again.

“I figured it was a nickname…does Jack have some fascination with not calling people by their real names?”

Spot snorts. Maybe this kid isn’t too bad.

“Come on,” Charlie says. “We all know Jack has an aversion to using people’s names. I’m ‘Crutchie’, for Pete’s sake.”

David looks appalled. “That’s…I mean, it’s…”

“It’s fine,” Charlie laughs. “I picked it!”

David looks unconvinced, but drops it anyway. He and Charlie sit down, unpacking their food (David’s looks homemade, while the other boys had all gotten school lunches).

Spot can’t help but smile at his ragtag group of friends. Jack and Charlie had been close for forever, but after he and Jack had settled the petty rivalry that went on between the football and art kids, they’d become pretty good friends too. The chatter and laughter at the table is almost enough to distract him from the mystery ghost boy on the bus. Almost.

-----

5PM rolls around both slowly and way too quickly. Spot packs up his football gear and practically sprints out of the school, clocking a janitor in an old-school uniform and a strict looking teacher as he races out the front gates. He makes it to the bus stop at a minute before 5, stopping short when he sees the ghost boy sitting casually on the bench. Or, rather, not on the bench so much as floating a couple inches above it.

He takes a gulp of air to try and slow his breathing, and then beckons for the boy to walk with him. “Hey…um…Ghost Boy? Sorry, I, uh- I never caught your name.”

The boy looks up, a huge grin splitting his face. He spins the cigar between his fingers as he stands quickly, holding out his free hand. “I’m Racetrack. You can call me Race.”

Spot looks between Racetrack’s hand and his face. “I’m Spot. You know I can’t shake your hand, right?”

“Right…” Race blushes, looking down. “I’m kinda new to this ghost thing.”

“That’s all right. I can help with that. Maybe.”

“Well, a maybe is more than I had before. I have no clue what happened to me, or why I’m-” he waves his hand at his body “-dead.”

Spot switches his football bag to his other arm, considering the best way to approach this problem. “Usually, ghosts become ghosts because there’s still something they need to do. Can you think of literally anything you didn’t get to do before you died?”

Race runs his fingers through his hair. “Well, that’s the problem. I, uh…can’t remember anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Just the word ‘racetrack’. But not like a noun. Like a name. I think it was my name.”

Spot scoffs quietly, “What parent names their kid ‘Racetrack’?”

Race looks offended. “Not my real name, doofus. A nickname.”

“Yeah, I know. Did you think Spot was my real name?”

“Maybe, I don’t know! I don’t know when I died. What if that’s a normal name now?”

Resisting the urge to just turn around and run away, Spot mutters, “No, it is not.”

“Okay, great. We got somewhere. You taught me that people are not named either Racetrack or Spot at this time!” Race seems to be delighting in how annoyed he was making Spot.

Spot was less than enthused. Why, oh why was he doing this?

-----

A couple hours later yielded no results. Race couldn’t recall anything about his life. Spot couldn’t figure out why Race was so annoying. And quick googling didn’t turn up anything.

“I have to get home,” Spot says, looking at his watch.

“Yeah,” Race replies, his face falling slightly.

Spot doesn’t know what comes over him - really, twice in one day has to be a record - but he says, “You can follow me home, I guess. No one else can see you, so it won’t be weird. But you aren’t coming inside, you got it?”

Race nods quickly, his spirits seemingly restored. Spot, however, instantly regrets his offer as Race spends the entire walk and bus ride home chattering away, taking advantage of his ability to talk without anyone but Spot hearing.

When Spot reaches his house, Race is still talking. How did this kid have so much to say without even remembering a lick of who he was? So far, he’d covered topics including dogs (inspired by a fluffy golden retriever they saw on the walk home), public transportation (on the bus), foods he wanted to try (despite being unable to taste…or actually eat), and a whole slew of things that Spot had tuned out.

“Seriously, do you ever stop talking?”

Race’s face fell slightly. “I just…no one could see me for a while. No one could hear me, no matter what I said.”

God, Spot needed to stop making people sad. “No, no, I get it. You- you can talk all you want, okay?”

He doesn’t look at Race, but he can feel the other boy smiling.

-----

Three annoying, long, distracting days later, Spot and Race walk through the park, where Spot lays down with his computer. “I think I found something,” Spot says, suddenly sitting bolt upright on the grass. Race’s head snaps up from his hands.

“Really?”

“Really. Listen to this: ‘Antonio ‘Racetrack’ Higgins, state champion track star, dies in tragic car crash.’ That’s dated two years ago, from a town a few hours north of here.”

Race’s face screws up in concentration. “Antonio,” he says, seeming to try out the name. Spot has to admit, it does fit him.

“Track star,” Spot teases.

“Track star,” Race muses. “I don’t feel like a track star.”

Spot looks at him. Really looks at him. His traitorous mind wanders to how shiny Race’s hair is in the sun, and how his eyes sparkle a clear, wonderful blue. But taking in the rest of Race’s body, Spot can definitely see track star. The other boy is muscular, but in more of a wiry way. Lean, but toned. A runner’s body.

“So…” Spot starts, “this was- is - you?”

“I guess…”

“So why do you think you’re still here? Maybe something to do with the car crash? Or, I don’t know, your track team?”

Race’s face has paled, freckles standing out against his cheeks. “I- I don’t know. And, you know, what am I supposed to do when I find out? Do I just…vanish?”

Spot considers this. He’s never had this happen before, never reached out to a spirit to try and help them. But what if the spirit doesn’t want to be helped?

Race bites his lip. “I mean, I know I’m Antonio Racetrack Higgins, but I guess I don’t really know what that means.”

“Race,” Spot says, looking directly into the other boy’s eyes. “Do you want to move on?”

Race averts his eyes, running his hands through his messy hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know!” He stands quickly. “I’m going…on a walk. Going on a walk.”

Spot lets him leave. He’s just as conflicted as Race is. What do you do when the spirit doesn’t want to leave? What if you don’t want him to leave?

What do you do when you fall in love like with a ghost?

#newsies

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emwritesstuff05 · 12 days ago

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Be My Valentine?

cross posted on Ao3

Some Valentine’s Day fluff (yes I know it was 3 days ago SHHHHH)

Word count 3333; Sprace :)

“I freaking hate Valentine’s Day,” Spot groans, sliding into his normal seat on the bus.

“Hm?” Jack asks, glancing up from across the aisle. His boyfriend Davey, pressed up against the window with his ever-present book in hand, looks up eagerly.

“Exactly! It’s a capitalist money grab that intentionally excludes those not in long term, quote-unquote ‘serious’ relationships, meaning that those who are single - even by choice - are shunned or treated as lesser than-”

“Yeah, I agree with all of that, but…I just kinda meant that I don’t like all the hearts and Cupid and- ugh.” Spot mimes throwing up, wrinkling his nose and sticking out his tongue.

“I feel that,” Jack says, slinging an arm around Davey’s shoulders as the latter goes back to his book. “But this year at least I have someone to complain with.”

Spot can’t help the pang of jealousy that runs through him. He loves Jack and Davey, despite not getting along with them when he’d met them freshman year, but it gets kind of annoying every now and then, when he’s constantly being reminded that he doesn’t have a partner and they do. He’s fine without a partner, of course, and he’d rather work alone anyway. But it is tempting to want: to wish for someone to wrap his arm around, to dream about loving someone and having them love you back.

…And that’s why he doesn’t like Valentine’s Day. Because Davey is right. Even if he doesn’t care about being single, everyone else seems to think it’s their job to make him care. It’s stupid. He doesn’t have to be as eloquent as Davey in order to express that, and he’s glad his friends don’t seem to care.

-----

Walking into school is a shock in and of itself. The halls are papered with pink and red, and every way Spot looks, couples walk hand in hand, bouquets of flowers being exchanged and candy being distributed.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Katherine pops up next to Spot, a huge smile splitting her face as she hands him a container of chocolates. He forces a smile on his face, because he genuinely really likes Katherine and doesn’t want to take out his weirdly unnecessary anger on her, and takes the chocolate.

“Thanks,” he says, popping open the box and unwrapping a chocolate.

“Do you have a statement for the paper? Favorite Valentine’s Day tradition? Someone…special?” Katherine wiggles her eyebrows suggestively on the last word, her lips quirking into a mischievous smile.

Spot shoots her a glare, though there’s no real venom behind it. “No, no, and no,” he says vehemently. “You should ask Davey to comment, though,” he adds. “He’s got loads of thoughts on Valentine’s Day and the…what did he say? The fact that it’s a ‘capitalist money grab’. Stuff like that.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Katherine is beaming again. “I’ve already got an exclusive with him later. He’s on the newspaper staff, remember?”

“Riiiiiight.”

As they talk, they move down the hallway, and Spot stops as they reach his locker. Still watching Katherine as she rambles about the newspaper staff and their upcoming articles, he twirls the lock absentmindedly to open the locker…

and then steps back as the door swings open and a bundle of letters falls out. Katherine stops talking, glancing back and forth between the stack of papers and Spot’s confused face.

When he doesn’t move, she bends down to pick up the letters (or that’s what Spot assumes they are, based on the glimpse of neat handwriting he caught as they fell). Flicking through them, she holds them out to Spot. “They’re for you,” she whispers reverently.

He takes them numbly, looking down at the folded papers now in his hand. The handwriting is neat, precise lines that are perfectly legible, but there’s an energy in them; like the letter writer had really nice handwriting but was in a hurry as they wrote them. Each letter is on a piece of pink paper, folded in half and numbered. To Spot Conlon. Number One. To Spot Conlon. Number Two.

“I’ll…leave you alone now. You’ve got five minutes until first bell.” Katherine slips away, curls bouncing as she goes to hand off chocolate to more unsuspecting students.

Spot gives her a limp wave, still laser-focused on the cards in his hand. Gingerly, he unfolds the letter marked Number One.

‘Dear Spot, I know you don’t like Valentine’s Day, but I couldn’t think of a more appropriate time to confess to you. Before I go any farther, I would like to let you know that you do know me. I’m not a stranger. I promise. Also, I’m really really really sorry if this is weird or awkward or creepy but…just hear me out. Please. I’ve seen you since freshman year, when you waltzed into cross country tryouts, all pomp and swagger. I don’t know if you realized it, but I noticed you that day. And the next, and the next, and the next. I’ve known you since sophomore year, when you broke the school record in the 5K, and we were screaming our heads off as you finished the race. You didn’t notice me then, not really, but you said something to me at least. I’ve liked you since junior year, when we were chem partners for all of two labs before we blew up a bunsen burner and then got separated. I’ve liked you since sophomore year, when you got interviewed for the paper and you were smiling so wide I thought your face would explode. I’ve liked you since freshman year, when you ran a sub-5:30 mile for the first time and you looked so comically surprised we all laughed until our stomachs hurt. I’ve liked you from the moment I first saw you, but you still probably can’t figure out who I am, can you? Please proceed to letter two →’

Spot blinks at the paper. The letter writer is correct - he has no freaking clue who could have written this letter. Clearly they were a cross country kid, but that only really narrowed it down to, oh, about 50 kids. Though there weren’t that many seniors, so maybe more like 15. And then…who had he had chem with? He groaned. His memory was sketchy at the best of times, now, with his head reeling from this note, it was practically nonexistent.

He sets the first letter aside, preparing to unfold the second one, when the warning bell rings. He jumps, having completely forgotten he was in the middle of the crowded hallway, reading love letters that were shoved in his locker, instead of walking to class. Hastily, he folds back up the first letter and puts the stack into his backpack, grabbing his gov textbook before he slams the locker shut.

God, what a way to start the day.

-----

By third period, Spot is entirely fed up with Valentine’s Day. Granted, his patience was at the end of the line already, but with each passing minute, he can feel his mood getting worse and worse. None of it is helped by the fact that they distribute candy grams during class, so every period is punctuated by a bumbling teenager handing out cheap chocolate and flimsy cards.

He takes the time during one of these lulls to pull out the letter again, skimming the first one before he unfolds the second. This one is much shorter.

‘I know you can never back down from a challenge, so I have one for you. If you can figure out who I am and meet me at the stage by the end of the Valentine’s Day Bash, I’ll- Well, I don’t know what I’ll do. It all depends whether you run away screaming when you find me, I guess. Anyway, your first clue: You might call this a place where windows to other worlds open. Once you’ve made your way here, proceed to letter three →’

Spot almost drops the letters. Of course he knows where the letter is telling him to go, those are his words. Whoever is writing these letters knows him well; they accurately pegged his never-give-up attitude and his unwillingness to let this remain a mystery, they knew his personal artist statement essay well enough to quote it at him, and they know - or guessed - something that not a lot of people knew. Spot is a sucker for scavenger hunts. Spot is also a sucker for libraries (something that most people don’t consider, immediately brushing him off as “just another jock”). And this person was just taunting him now, begging him to figure out the puzzle and…date them? Be their Valentine? He wasn’t really sure what the end goal would be, and neither was the writer, but he did love a good challenge, and anyone willing to try this hard couldn’t be that bad.

Okay, he thinks. Bring it on.

-----

The campus library is a large, open room, packed with tables and tall mahogany shelves. The librarian, an old, stingy man who would shush anyone who wasn’t dead silent, keeps the room in perfectly peaceful condition. Running his hand through his hair, Spot walks casually inside. He does homework here a lot, so he’s no stranger to the space, but something about the mysterious letter writer telling him to come here makes it feel more sacred, somehow.

He pulls the next letter from his pocket:

‘Good job! Hopefully you realized right away that I was just quoting your essay. That was a brilliant essay, by the way. Well deserving of the best work prize. Now that I’ve got you in the library, I want you to look around. Do you see what I see? (Besides the capitalistic, money-grabbing, single-people-exclusionary decorations, obviously.) I see the books you helped fill the shelves with, when you organized the book drive our sophomore year to replace the books after the library sustained major flood damage. I see the mural that you petitioned for last year, when you argued with the principal and the school board and the state department of education that the existing painting was not inclusive of all the diverse populations in our school. I see the table where you always sit, headphones in, foot tapping, when you do your homework. I think you of all people should know where else you do your homework. When you get there, please proceed to letter four →’

Spot feels…interesting. This person really knows him (and Davey, apparently). But to notice all those things, to keep track of everything Spot has done in an almost reverential way, it’s sort of cute. In a slightly creepy way.

It’s lunch time, so Spot decides not to make his way to the next location quite yet, and heads back into the hallway to eat his lunch, mulling over the mysterious words. The beginnings of a suspicion are creeping into his mind - really, this person has narrowed down the list of possibilities immensely - but he isn’t sure enough to even say it out loud. The Valentine’s Day Bash ends at 8 (heaven forbid the school dance ends late on a school night), so he has around 7 hours to get to the bottom of this. A quick flick through the remaining letters tells him there’s five total, with two more to go.

He leans back against the wall, sighing. At least this makes for an interesting Valentine’s Day.

-----

‘Mr. Denton is everyone’s favorite teacher, I know why you’d spend a lot of time here. It’s nice. I had Mr. Denton for AP Lang last year. That’s not a very good clue- You’ve left your mark all over this room. You’ve left a mark on a lot more places and people than you’ll ever know. Me included. I know you don’t really know, but you’ve shaped your friends to be better. I remember when you and Jack couldn’t stop fighting. You got suspended- what, five times? You almost got expelled. And then, all of a sudden, Principal Pulitzer tried to shut down the arts program. He tried to stop the newspaper (and his own daughter), shut down Ms. Medda’s theatre program, cut the art classes. And you stood with Jack. You stopped smacking the crap out of him every time he so much as looked at you, and together, you brought back the good classes. I guess what I’m trying to say is: Thank you, Spot Conlon. Thank you. Please make your way to the absolute best place on campus and proceed to letter five →’

This letter had some valuable clues in it, only strengthening Spot’s growing suspicion. The first tip off was how familiar the writer was with Jack: he was named as simply ‘Jack’, not ‘Jack Kelly’, or ��that kid you fought with all of freshman year’. They were close enough to be on a first-name basis with Jack, and had a front row seat to the freshman year drama (for the record, Spot had only been suspended four times, but he had been on the brink of expulsion for sure). The second clue was the gratitude. Yes, most students hated Principal Pulitzer and didn’t agree with his decision to cut the arts program, but the people who were most appreciative were the art kids. Theatre nerds, band kids, art freaks…Spot knew he also fell under this category, at least in secret, and it had been cool to see how happy those students were upon finding out that their program was being reinstated. So the letter writer is an art geek, an athlete, a senior, and friends with Jack.

Yeah, Spot has a real good idea of who it is now, and he can’t say he’s upset in the slightest…

-----

Ms. Medda’s theatre isn’t actually Ms. Medda’s, but it might as well be. The much-loved theatre teacher was well known for “adopting” any kids who seemed even the slightest bit lost, and helping them discover themselves through the power of music and art. She’d taken Jack under her wing immediately, and in sophomore year, when Spot had become closer with the artist, she’d taken him in too.

Her other “adopted children” include Crutchie Morris and Racetrack Higgins, who form the backbone of Jack’s extensive, heavily nicknamed, friend-group-slash-found-family. Then, of course, there is Katherine - principal’s daughter, reporter, Jack’s ex-girlfriend who happens to still be very good friends with him - and Davey, who had been the ‘new kid’ until recently but had instantly been folded into the group.

They all hung out in Medda’s theatre during breaks, before and after school, and whenever they could, really. There were usually a lot of them in there at any given time, but today Spot has gotten lucky and the only people inside are Davey and Katherine; the latter of whom seems to be interviewing the former.

“Oh, are we in your way?” Kath asks, grabbing Davey’s sleeve and practically dragging him to his feet. They exchange a look before hurrying out of the auditorium with quick, halfhearted waves over their shoulders, already resuming the interview as they walk away.

Spot sighs, suspicion all but confirmed. There was only one person who would go through all the trouble to involve every member of their ‘family’ in a scheme like this on freaking Valentine’s Day. And to his surprise, he feels a slight flutter in his stomach, a small smile threatening to take over his face. Someone wanted to do this. Someone planned this out, talked to the other kids, planted the letters…all for him. Yeah, it felt pretty cool.

Pulling the last letter from his pocket, Spot takes a deep breath and unfolds it.

‘So you’ve probably guessed who I am by now, and if you’re reading this letter, I’ll take it as a sign that you don’t hate me, at least. You’re willing enough to go through with this. Trust me, my feelings won’t be hurt if you show up and tell me you don’t want…any of this. I’ve liked you for the longest time, and I guess I’m just hoping that my feelings aren’t entirely unreciprocated. But if they are, that’s totally fine too. Again, no hard feelings. Just wanted to get that out there. Anyway, if you really do want to go through with this, you’ll probably know where to find me. Spot Conlon, will you be my Valentine? If so, meet me at the stage by the end of the Valentine’s Day Bash. I think you’ll know who I am.’

-----

Spot doesn’t like Valentine’s Day, and he doesn’t like dances. So he honestly doesn’t know why he’s here, standing awkwardly in the cafeteria while generic pop songs blast over the speakers. To meet his not-so-secret admirer? To tell them that maybe he is interested? To figure out where to go from here? He’s not exactly sure.

He stands by the food table, nibbling on cookies and sipping his soda, until Jack pulls him onto the dance floor. Never one to turn down a party, Jack is one of the few members of the group who actually looks like they’re having a good time. And for a little bit, Spot forgets that he had been having a bad time, forgets why he’s here, and just lets the music take him away.

Time passes quickly after that, and soon there’s only half an hour left until the party stops. The instructions hadn’t mentioned an actual time, but Spot figures that this is probably a good time to head out. He says goodbye to Jack and slips out the door, heading not into the parking lot, but farther into the school. He makes it to the theatre in a few minutes, and sees the door propped open with a ball of crumpled pink paper stopping it from locking.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and pushes open the door. The sliver of moonlight he lets into the dark theatre illuminates a figure leaning on the edge of the stage. Spot’s heart catches in his throat. This is really happening.

“Hey,” he says, taking a few more steps into the room. He fumbles on the wall for the light switch, squinting when the lights turn on in a blinding blaze of white.

“Hey,” Racetrack Higgins replies, pushing off the stage, his lanky form unfolding to its full height. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“I had to,” Spot teases gently. “I needed to find out if I was right. Also, you know I can’t turn down a scavenger hunt.”

Race laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know a lot of things about you. Not- not in a creepy way, of course,” he adds.

“Of course.”

“Well…”

Spot shifts his weight, nervous despite himself. He’s known Race for a while now, having moved in the same circle since sophomore year. But this is different; more intimate, more nerve-wracking. “Well, you asked a question in your last letter, and I wanted to answer in person.”

Race bites his lip, looking just as anxious or even more. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to say yes, Race. Yes, I would love to be your Valentine.”

“Even though you hate Valentine’s Day?”

“Well, I might have a reason to like it a little more now…”

Spot runs his hand through his hair before closing the distance between them. Race sucks in a breath, but doesn’t move away.

“I can’t believe I never noticed,” Spot breathes.

“You’re not the most observant person,” Race quips, his lips twitching.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Make me-”

And then Spot’s lips are on Race’s, and Race is kissing him back, and oh lord he understands why the cliche is fireworks because it feels like everything is exploding around him in bursts of color and light. They break apart for air, still so, so close and perfect and calm.

“Yeah,” Spot whispers. “I think I like Valentine’s Day now.”

“Me too,” Race says.

Then he takes Spot’s hand and they slip out into the night, on the most beautiful, most perfect Valentine’s Day.

#newsies

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emwritesstuff05 · 12 days ago

Text

wrote a little something hehehehe

I’m working on my first real, full length fanfic (basically a self indulgent self insert xOC story in the MCU bc I’ve been obsessed lately) but I got distracted…

so I present

Pinch Me (Spot Conlon x Racetrack Higgins)

“WHERE’S YOUR IRISH SPIRIT?”

The cry echoes around the house, bouncing off walls, through windows, and finally to the ears of one Jack Kelly. He’s finishing his morning routine, carefully running his hands through his hair and making sure there’s no leftover drool on his chin. But today there’s another step in the process: green. Instead of the typical red bandana around his neck, he ties a bright green one on, checks his reflection in the mirror again, and makes his way downstairs.

He finds a scene very similar to what he’s been envisioning; his adopted family all gathered around one another at the bottom of the stairs where they seem to have been cornered. Standing above them all is Racetrack Higgins, a tall lanky boy with a mess of unruly hair and a truly hideous green outfit.

“You’re not even Irish,” Albert calls out, only to get shushed by Mush, who yanks him to the back of the group.

“It’s Saint Patrick’s Day,” Race says emphatically, spacing out his words to deliver them with maximum weight.

“It’s a school day,” Miss Medda calls, sweeping into the room and shooing Race away from the stairs. “Go put some green on and come get ready for school!”

Race sighs, his reign of terror temporarily over. Then, before anyone can stop him, he’s jetting through the crowd of boys, pinching anyone who isn’t wearing green. “Seeya, suckers! Maybe next year wear some color!”

-----

“Ow! F you, Higgins!”

“I’m wearing green!”

“Uh uh uh, get away from me!”

“HE’S CHASING MEEEE!”

The afterschool chaos is just as bad as the morning, but since Medda isn’t there to stop him, Race is terrorizing again. Jack walks through the front door and almost immediately gets trampled by Blink, Mush, and Buttons. Across the room, Specs and Henry are climbing the railing of the stairs, out of Race’s reach. Jack takes another tentative step, then has to jump backwards as Race chases Jojo across the living room, hand outstretched.

“You’re…not…wearing…greeeeeen!” he shouts.

Jack lunges, managing to grab Race’s arm and stop him momentarily. He struggles against the older boy’s grip, but Jack maintains his hold. Race turns on him, face falling as he realizes that Jack is indeed safe.

“Hey, Racer, you need to cool it. Irish spirit be damned, you’re scaring people. Who…did someone dare you to attack people?”

“No,” Race lies. Jack raises an eyebrow.

“Is it Spot?”

“No…”

The corner of Jack’s mouth twitches, but he keeps his expression neutral. Spot Conlon is Irish, he realizes. And Race had been harboring the hugest crush on him for forever. Ohhhh man this is good.

He releases Race (who immediately darts off and sets off another round of “HEY!”’s and “STOP!”’s in the other room) and pulls out his phone.

Kack Jelly hey spot u think u could come over to hattan house

Speck y

Kack Jelly no reason oh also dont wear green

Speck dont?

Kack Jelly dont

-----

When Spot knocks on the door of Manhattan House, it’s not without a healthy dose of trepidation. He isn’t the best of friends with Kelly, though they try to be civil for everyone else’s sake, but the request to come over not wearing green was an odd one, even for Jack Kelly. Jack opens the door quietly, beckoning for Spot to come inside.

“This place looks like a leprechaun threw up inside,” he says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “And not in a good way.”

“You’ll see,” Jack replies, sneaking past the stairs to a secluded alcove off the main entryway.

“Why am I here again?”

“You’ll see,” Jack repeats.

And see he does: no less than a minute after they’ve safely tucked themselves away, Race streaks across the main hall, in hot pursuit of Finch, who is desperately trying to dodge the other boy’s relentless attacks.

“I told you,” he yells, “I’m wearing green underwear! Do you wanna check?”

“A rule is a rule,” Race calls back. “And a pinch is a pinch!”

As they disappear from sight, Spot turns to Jack accusingly. “Don’t lie to me, Kelly. Did you invite me over here so that the demon could attack me?”

Jack holds up his hands in truce. “I did not. I invited you over so you could make the demon stop attacking.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen to me? You’re his brother.”

“Well…” Jack hesitates. He doesn’t want to give away Race’s secret crush, but he also needs Spot to help him instead of just walking out, which is what will happen in a few seconds if he doesn’t do something. He settles for: “Race isn’t Irish. But he’s taking real offence to anyone who isn’t, and I quote, ‘giving off the real Irish spirit’. I thought maybe someone with ‘real Irish spirit’ could help.”

Spot’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and Jack is grateful that the other boy is so perceptive. Hopefully this means he won’t actually have to explain it, because his younger brother’s relationships are not his problem. Until, of course, they are, and he’s playing matchmaker because a certain someone won’t stop pinching people. Ugh.

“Okay,” Spot says quietly. “I’ll try talking to him. No promises, though.”

“Thanks,” Jack says, patting him on the back. “Follow the screams and you’ll find him.”

Spot walks towards the back of the house, listening intently to the cries from the backyard. He’s not exactly enthused about the circumstances here, but this could maybe be the push he needs to finally tell Race how he feels. The yelling is louder now, more words like “this IS green” and “DON’T TOUCH ME!” becoming clearer.

Spot pushes open the back door, taking in the scene in front of him. Multiple people had apparently had the genius idea to hide out in the back, except it isn’t so genius now that Race has discovered them. It’s like a bizarre game of tag, with Race sprinting around the backyard as everyone else scatters to avoid being pinched. “IRISH SPIRIT!” Race howls.

Letting out a piercing whistle, Spot steps into the backyard. “Race, can I…talk to you for a second?”

All heads immediately snap to him, and he’s well aware of the whispers and the “oooooh”’s that are rippling through the yard. He beckons Race inside, a collective sigh of relief going through the victims outside as he closes the door behind them.

“Look,” Spot says, looking Race dead in the eyes. “I know they’re your brothers, but I really don’t think they like your ‘Irish spirit’. Pinching people is not what St. Patrick’s Day is for.”

“Right,” Race says sheepishly. He glances down at the floor, scuffing his shoe on the linoleum.

“Jack called me because he needed someone to reign you in. Because he needed someone who cares about you to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

“Aww, you care about me? I’m touched.”

Spot almost walks away right then and there, but he knows Race too well. The other boy is nervous. Terrified, even, and the only way he knows how to cope with it is to crack a joke. Spot’s words unnerved him, and it was a terrible, horrible feeling. So he steels his nerves, and takes a deep breath.

“Race, I really…I really admire you. You’re strong, funny, and even though you pretend you don’t, you care a lot about your family. Ever since I met you I’ve wanted to get to know you better; to become someone you care about unfailingly and unconditionally. So please, for my sake, can you stop pinching people in the name of ‘Irish spirit’? Because it’s frankly offensive to my heritage, and, more importantly, it’ll kill me if I fall in love with a guy who thinks that way.” He’s breathing hard at the end of his declaration, heart pounding out of his chest. Race is just staring at him, his blue eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “Sorry,” Spot mutters. “I didn’t mean to make it weird-”

“Can I kiss you?” Race blurts. “I’m not…I can’t make a speech like that, but god, I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

Spot’s eyes flick to Race’s lips. Then they’re moving, closing the distance in one fluid motion as their lips collide. And it feels like fireworks and rainbows and pots of leprechaun gold. They pull apart, gasping slightly for air.

“God, why didn’t we do that sooner?” Race asks.

“I was scared.”

“So was I.”

“Are you scared anymore?”

“Scared I’m dreaming,” Race breathes.

“You’re not,” Spot replies. “Am I?”

Their lips meet again, gentle but with an urgency, a yearning, from too many moments spent apart and too many months wasted.

“This has to be a dream,” Spot mumbles, his brain malfunctioning at being in such close proximity to this beautiful boy. “Pinch me?”

Race pulls away with a mischievous smile. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you’re not wearing green. I’ve been waiting to do this from the moment I saw you walk in.”

“OW! Jeez, okay, it’s not a dream then.”

“Of course it’s not,” Race says, stepping close once again. “You couldn’t dream up someone this perfect.”

“EW, GUYS, GET A ROOM!”

“I’LL GET YOU A ROOM, KELLY. IN THE MORGUE!”

#newsies

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