DISCLAMER: I don't own Newsies. I do however own Dodgy, Sub-Jub, Flitch and Scourge. Even if Scourge was inspired by a character from a book, he's still mine! clings on to Scourge then suddenly realizes what he does in the story and backs off

WARNING: Slash. Don't like it? Don't read it. Also it's Angsty. Very. Angsty.

NOTE: Oi-vey. I was planning this to be rated T, but I think I got a little too carried away. laughs nervously Another one of my Newsies slash stories. This time it's Spot/Racetrack. Enjoy, but no flames.

Spot's Symbols

In Brooklyn, it is tradition that you take something from the person you killed. With Dodgy, it was a scarf. With Sub-Jub, a top hat. With Flitch, a locket. But all of Spot's things were different, they had meaning to them. A sort of death symbol if you will. The key that was tied around his neck symbolized the death of his freedom. The walking stick symbolized the death of his very first second in command. But there was one object that always haunted Spot the most. And here's why...

"I'se told you dat Hot Mustard Sauce was going to win," Racetrack grinned. Spot and Racetrack had just came out of Sheepshed races a location near Brooklyn and Manhattan. Spot stares at the ground with an un-readable look on, while Racetrack continues chatting happily on about a horse that had just won."I'se told everyone, but did dey listen?! Noooo! They were like, "Just ignore the guy because he's Italian!" Well, I'se showed them! While Captain's Dirt Jar was busy bustin' it's leg, Hot Mustard Sauce swooped in and took da lead. Now wes gots twenty bucks from dose boneheads who didn't listen to me. Five dollars from each of those bums! I can't believe our luck!" Spot shrugs and continues walking. Racetrack stared at him.

"And den, da greatest part was, was when all the horses started singin' and dancin' like Medda." Racetrack said. Spot shrugged again. Racetrack narrowed his eyes.

"Spot, I made out with Jack the other day." That got the Brooklyn leader's attention. Spot's snapped his head up so fast that it could have given any other person whiplash.

"What?!" Spot nearly shouts. "Racetrack how could you? I'se thought you–" Racetrack smiled and kissed Spot on the cheek.

"Finally got your attention," Racetrack grins. Spot punched him on the arm.

"Don't do dat you moron! Damnit! If yous weren't my boyfriend I'se would have soaked ya already! I'm stressed out enough as it is." Spot growls. Racetrack looked at him.

"Really? How come Spot?" he asks. Spot looked up at the sky as light snow fall from the sky. He folded his arms and sighed.

"I-It's nothing," Spot shivers.

"Come on Spot, you can tell me. I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Listen, I'se gotta go now. I've got to...handle something." Spot turns to leave but turns back and pulled Racetrack into a long passionate kiss.

Spot's tongue entered Racetrack's well explored mouth. Racetrack moaned softly and ran his hand up Spot spine and into his golden blond hair. It seems like hours before Spot slowly, and reluctantly, pulled away. He pressed his forehead against Racetrack's forehead.

"Good bye, Racetrack," he whispered. He let go of him and headed down the road to the Brooklyn bridge. Racetrack didn't know why Spot was acting as though he was about to leave forever. It wasn't like him at all.

Why hadn't Spot told him what was wrong? They always told each other everything, and now Spot had decided to keep something from him. Racetrack stood and watched the Brooklyn leader leave until he was just a small spot. What ever was going on, Racetrack needed to find out what was wrong with his boyfriend. The Italian boy shivered as he pulled his jacket closer to him and started to follow Spot.

oXoXoXo

Racetrack continued to follow Spot until he reached the Brooklyn bridge. Racetrack hid behind a building as Spot joined a tall Brooklyn newsboy. The newsboy looked up at Spot and saluted. Spot rolled his eyes.

"Flitch, I'se told you a thousand times. Just cuz I'm da leader of Brooklyn and yous my second in command, doesn't mean yous gots ta salute every time I'se go somewhere."

"Heh, sorry boss," Flitch dropped his hand and laughed nervously. "I'se forgot."

"Did yous find my money?" Spot asked. Flitch lifted up a small sack and handed it to Spot. "Dis feels a bit heavier dan da last time I'se held it." Flitch grinned.

"I'se added some of me own coins into it. Yous was a little short on gettin' a dollars." Then Flitch stared at Spot seriously. "Did chu tell him?" Spot sighed and shook his head.

"I'se couldn't. He was too happy to get worried about me," Spot muttered. Flitch's eyes widened.

"But boss!" he protested. "Dis was your last chance! What is Race gonna do when he goes ta Sheepshed races and realized that chu ain't dere?!"

Ya Spot, Racetrack thought as he got a little closer. What am I'se gonna do? Spot looked up at Flitch and gave him one of his famous glares. Flitch backed up a little.

"Look," Spot growled. "Don't yous tink I'se realized dat? It's betta off dis way. Besides, wes don't know whats gonna happen. For all wes know, Scourge might not come anyways. He was always stupid."

"Or he does come and see dat chu still short."

"Race and I'se won twenty bucks at the races." Flitch scratched his head.

"So, yous owes Scourge seventy five bucks. Yous gave him thoidy- five foirst, and now yous gonna give him twenty one. So...dat leaves us...uh..." Flitch started using his finger. Racetrack rolled his eyes and walked up to the two boys.

"Nineteen." Racetrack said. The two boys jumped and looked at Racetrack. "Yous nineteen dollars short."

"Race," said Spot. "W-what are you doing–"

"I'se needed to find out wat was wrong with my boyfriend," Racetrack interrupted. "Hi Flitch." Flitch gave Racetrack a grin. "Spot, why didn't yous tell me yous owed some guy some money? I'se could have given yous some." Pride fired up in Spot's eyes.

"Brooklyn doesn't accept charity from nobody else besides Brooklyn," growled Spot.

"Ya, and apparently Brooklyn doesn't accept smarts neider!" Racetrack spat back. The two boys stared at each other in silence before Spot turned away. Flitch lifted his head back, stuck his tongue out and started trying to catch the falling snowflakes. Racetrack sighed, walked up to Spot, and wrapped his arms around him.

"Well, what are wes waiting for?" asked Racetrack. Spot back at him.

"Yous ain't goin'," Spot said.

"And why not?"

"Race, yous don't know Scourge. He could stop a speeding train, freeze a river with one look, kill a giant with just one swing."

"Isn't dat David and Goliath?"

"Yous missin' da point hun." Racetrack pulled the Brooklyn leader closer to his cold body.

"Spot, I'se can't just let you go and kill your self. Maybe I'se could soften dis guy up or somethin'." Spot sighed and looked at Flitch, who was still catching snowflakes with his tongue.

"Yous are quite da flirt," Spot smiled. Racetrack nuzzled Spot. Spot pulled away from Racetrack, a determined look in burned in his eyes. "Flitch, let's go!" Flitch made a gaging noise, probably from choking on a snowflake, but followed Spot on to the Brooklyn bridge.

oXoXoXo

"You're late Dot." Spot, Flitch, and Racetrack stopped at the middle of the bridge. A black haired boy, with sharp blue eyes was waiting for them. He's wearing a loose, black, jacket and had his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Hello Scourge," Spot said calmly. Scourge looked straight at Racetrack. The Italian boy shivered. Spot was right about the freezing river look.

"Who's da Italian geek?" he hissed folding his arms.

"This is Racetrack," Spot replied. "My...friend." Scourge sniffed.

"Oh, yeah. Da udder fag," Scourge spat on the bridge. Racetrack was about to insult the boy back before he said, "So, Dottie. Yous gots my money?" Spot flinched before walking up to Scourge and handing him the small sack and twenty dollars. Scourge snatched it away and started counting it. He pauses as he looks into the sack. He lifts his gaze up and quickly grabs Spot by the neck, dropping the money he had in his hand. Racetrack felt his heart jump up to his throat as Spot let out a surprised gasp like whimper.

"I'se tought I'se told ja that it was seventy-five! Not fifty-six!" Scourge hissed. Spot grabbed on to Scourge's hands, that were tightening around the small Brooklyn leader's neck. Racetrack raced over to Scourge and Spot.

"Whoa! Easy big fella," Racetrack said calmly. He pulled out the twenty dollars he won at the races. "Look, I've got da rest right here. See? Dere's even an extra buck, for all da troubles. Spot just gave me it ta take care of it for ya." Scourge stared at Racetrack, then at Spot.

"You're a bad liar," Scourge growled. "I'se had enough of your bull Dot. I'se gave you nearly a mont ta get da rest of da money. All ya get me is fifty-six." Scourge tighten his grip on Spot. Spot lets out a terrified whimper and shuts his eyes.

"Aw, is the poor little baby Dot from Brooklyn gonna cry now? Cry, baby, cry!"

"Spot Conlon...obeys...no one!" Spot hissed. Scourge then let Spot go. Spot falls on the floor gasping, and coughing for air. Scourge turned and walked off a little. Then he let out a soft whistle from his teeth. As if on cue, two boys slink out form the shadows. Both had a blackjack in their hands.

"I'se ain't gonna let yous go now Dottie," Scourge hisses. "Yous couldn't pay off da stuff yous gambled..." A knife quickly shoots out from Scourge's jacket. He lifts the blade and allows it to glisten in the moon light a bit. "...So be it!"

Scourge whipped around and charged at Spot. The two boys follow him waving their clubs in the air. Spot jumps up to his feet and head butts Scourge. Scourge falls back and dropped the weapon. Flitch let out a war cry as he charges himself at the tallest one of the boys. Racetrack got pinned down by the other boy.

Spot held Scourge down starts throwing punches at Scourge. Scourge grabbed Spot's fore arms and twisted around so that the Brooklyn leader was under him. Spot felt his nose and face start to bleed from the various places Scourge was punching and scratching at. Spot used his legs to try and push the taller boy off of him. No luck. Scourge then leaned over to one side and seized his knife.

Spot gritted his teeth and hissed with pain as he felt the sharp object stab his shoulder, then it lashed out on his face. Scourge picked Spot up by his shirt and pulled back the hand holding the knife.

"Leave Spot alone you son of a bitch!" Racetrack howled as he jumped on Scourge. Scourge throws Spot several feet away and starts pulling Racetrack off. Spot lands roughly on the ground and lays there for a minute. Then he quickly turns around and screams.

"NOOOOOO!" Spot watched in horror as Scourge pulled Racetrack's head back, and plunged the knife deeply into the Italian boy's stomach. Racetrack let out a small gasp and hunched over. Scourge gave a sick smile and started swirling the knife around Racetrack's insides. Then he pulled his knife out and let Racetrack fall to the ground. Spot shoots up on his feet and races over to his fallen loved one.

"Spot!" Flitch calls, busily occupied with one of the boys. The other boy is knocked out cold. Flitch twist the boy's arm so hard, that it snaps. The boy howls in agony and races off. "That's for Racetrack you sick piece of shit!" Flitch then races after him. Spot kneels beside Racetrack.

"Race," he whispers. Racetrack starts coughing up blood. "Race... don't..."

"Such a pitty," Scourge hisses from behind. "True love always seems ta have it's down falls. Like Romeo and Juliet. Would you like that Dottie?" Spot glared at Scourge's shadow. The knife raised above his head. "I'se could end you're life like your fagot boyfriend." Spot shot up and hurled himself at Scourge.

"BASTARD!!!" he yowled. He seized Scourge's knife and pulled it out of his hands. Before Scourge could do anything, Spot shoved the knife in Scourge's chest. Scourge's eyes widened and he gasped. Spot pulled the knife out again and then shoved it up the other boy's throat. Blood spilled out from the fresh wounds and from Scourge's mouth. Spot pulled out the knife as Scourge gasped one last time, before falling to the floor, dead. Spot panted heavily. Then he slowly dropped the knife, and rushed back to his dying boyfriend.

"Race," Spot lifted Racetrack's upper body and held him in his arms. "Race, I'm sorry!" Racetrack smiled weakly at him. He lifted his hand and touched the Brooklyn leader's face.

"Spot," Racetrack whispered gently. "It's not...your fault. I'se wanted ta...come."

"But if I'se should have said no! I'se should have just told ya what was goin' on, den...den none of dis would 'ave 'appened!"

"No one...can stop fate...Spot. Dere's nothing...yous can do now. I'm...leavin', Spot."

"No! You'll get betta! Flitch will come back wit help! I'll never do dis again! I'll tell yous everything dat happens! Just...just please don't die!" Racetrack blinks sadly but smiles.

"I'll be with yous, even if you can't see me."

"What do you mean if I'se can't see yous? I'se can always see you."

"Spot...never stop lovin' again. Let you're heart...guide you. It whispers. So listen...closely." He pulled Spot closer to him and they both kiss again. Spot slowly pulls away. Racetrack closes his eyes and sighed. "Don't...forget me." Then, he died in Spot's arms.

"No...no! NO!" Spot threw his head back, tears streaming down his face. "RACETRACK!!!" He held Racetrack's limp body closer to him. He never wanted to let him go.

Once Flitch came back with Jack, David and some of the police and Manhattan newsboys, he still didn't let him go. He just couldn't. He didn't care if everyone saw the toughest guy in New York cry. He didn't care if the world ended right there and then. All he cared about was the fact that the closest thing ever to him on this earth, was dead.

oXoXoXo

In Brooklyn, it is tradition that you take something from the person you killed. With Dodgy, it was a scarf. With Sub-Jub, a top hat. Flitch, a locket. But all of Spot's things were different, they had meaning to them. A sort of death symbol if you will. The key that was tied around his neck symbolized the death of his freedom. The walking stick symbolized the death of his very first second in command. But there was one object that always haunted Spot the most.

The knife, that clung tightly against the Brooklyn leader's waist, symbolized the death of his love.

Racetrack.

THE END

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