Drunken Lights and Warning Bells

Chapter 3: Cuddling.

Spot Conlon wanted him around. Spot Conlon. Wanted him. Around.

Race still couldn’t wrap his brain around it, couldn’t understand why, why Spot fucking Conlon was suddenly okay with him being around. He decided  not to question it. Just like he wasn’t questioning the too casual brush of Spot’s hand against Race’s back, or the grin, or the chuckle, or the fact that Spot Conlon had brushed past him like he was just another person in his territory. That was the weirdest part. Usually the Brooklyn newsies would swerve around him like he was a diseased rat. So when Spot had brushed past him, like it was normal? He had to swallow back a squeak of joy. He touched the shoulder Spot had brushed - He says shoulder, but it was more like just above the elbow, Spot wasn’t that tall after all - and quietly hummed. He was leaning on the ledge of the roof of the lodging house. He blew smoke out of his nose, sighing softly as he stared at that stupid bridge. He’d been wondering if Spot was ever looking back at him every time he’d looked at the bridge. There were so many things wrong about what he was feeling. The giddy joy of being accepted as “just another Brooklynite” was. Exhilarating. The fact that the King of Brooklyn just saw him as another one of his subjects? Oh, he liked that.

But then were the nagging thoughts, the ones that only slipped through when he was alone. The ones like how Spot’s hand had been an unexpected but welcome touch, how it sent shivers up his spine from both fear and excitement. It wasn’t a secret that Race was more into men, just look at him, but the fact that Spot Conlon had gotten that reaction out of him? It scared him of what else he’d be able to get out of Race. He took the cigar out of his mouth and put it out on the edge of the brick ledge and proceeded to head back down the steps.  Jack was asleep, but energy was still burning through Racetrack as he carefully walked through the halls and out the door. He knew the route to Brooklyn like the back of his hand, like he knew his horse’s limits. He charged across the near empty bridge, brushing past the few people walking nearby. He needed a drink, and Brooklyn was the only place that knew how to make a real drink. He liked Manhattan just fine, liked that it was the capital and that made him feel like the King of New York, but they couldn’t make a drink for shit. Brooklyn, run down and filled with tons of illegal speakeasies, knew what it was doing. So, when it was dark, he slipped into one of the speakeasies. It reeked of sex and alcohol and smoke, but that just made it more appealing. The place was far from sparkling clean, but it had a homey feel to it, like you could stay here as long as you wanted without judgment.

He sat down, pulling an ashtray over and he lit a cigar, one of the more expensive ones he’d stolen one night, and lit it, watching as the smoke mixed with the other trails in the air. He liked the sting of smoke entering his lungs, liked the feel of it burning down and then back up as he took drags and let them out.  He’d come here to forget, maybe get someone close enough for him to  reject so he could walk away untouched, like he was truly a king. He’d come here to forget about a certain short Brooklyn king with an attitude and a black and red striped shirt. Had come to forget about what that toned body would feel like sliding against his own lean body, had come to shut all those down.

So why was he staring at the exact thing he came here to forget?

Spot Conlon was sitting on one of the many couches, legs spread and arms leaned over the back edge of the couch, head low and still glaring, but eyes slightly vacant, like he too was trying to forget. Easy, but on edge, as Spot was always around Race. He caught Spot’s eye and quickly looked away, hiding his face by staring at the drinks at the back of the bar instead. Too late, he could hear those well-worn work boots practically stomping towards him. A seat scraped, a glass was slid across the bar ledge, and then silence. The room was still loud, but the silence between Spot and Race was eternal, it felt uneasy and stretched on too long for Racetrack. He glanced over at Spot, who was staring at the glass in his hand, eyes no longer glassy, but bright and alert. Now he was on edge. “I thought ya only sold,” Spot muttered, barely audible against the smooth music fluttering through the air. Race scoffed, taking another drag from his cigar. That was his answer, all he wanted or had to say. Spot looked at the cigar before chuckling and looking away. “That’s gonna kill ya, ya know.” He said, leaning back slightly. Race chuckled at that, shaking his head. “And that ain’t?” He answered, motioning towards the glass of what he could only assume was whiskey. “Eh, I’ve had worse. ‘Sides, there’s far worse I could be doin’,” He responded. “What? Like that new shit they came up with? What was it uh…” He thought for a moment, nothing coming to mind. “Heroin? Yeah, like that,” Spot answered for him.

Race raised his brows and nodded, not really sure where to go from here. The ravenette lifted the glass to his lips, and Race watched as he drank, noticing how his adams apple bobbed, how he closed his eyes and breathed through his nose as if it burnt him to drink like this. Race quickly looked away when he went to set the glass down, definitely not marking how his lips shone with liquor in the dim lights. “So, you’s a regular or what? Ain’t no one show up and get a drink they’s gonna down in one go,” Race said, motioning to the now empty glass. “A regular, a passerby, it blurs together these days.” Spot answered with a shrug. Race hummed, putting his cigar out. “So, what now? We’ve both come here to forget, ended up finding the thing we were going to forget, had a conversation, and… Have no idea where to go from here.” Race mumbled, rolling his head to look at Spot. “We could.. Cuddle?” Spot answered with a confused look. Race almost laughed. Spot Conlon was suggesting cuddling. “Y’know what, sure,” He responded.

Cuddling.