Ain't It A Fine Life, Carrying The Banner!

Drabble 8- "Wanna bet?" (Sprace.)

"Boys! That was the morning bell, let's go! Up, up, up!"

Race groaned at the loud wake-up call from the bottom floor of the lodging house, where he knew Jack was probably standing, hands on hips and already dressed. His head was pounding, he felt a little sick, and he had little to no recollection of anything that had happened last night.

He vaguely remembered kissing someone and could only hope that's all he'd done to her.

He opened his eyes- and froze. Curled up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around his neck, was Spot Conlon. His own arms were draped over Spot's waist, and there was a definite lack-of-shirt thing happening here.

"Uh... Spot?"

Spot opened his eyes with a groan. "What the... Oh. G'mornin', Race."

"Any reason we're in bed together?"

Spot thought for a moment, glaring at the sun that was coming through the window. "I dunno, but I'm hungover as hell, so I'm guessin' we was drunk. You complainin'?"

If he was being honest, Race wasn't complaining. He'd thought he'd been dreaming at first, given that he'd been harboring a crush on Brooklyn's leader for a long time.

"I ain't complaining."

This earned him a wide grin. "Me either."

Both stood and collected their shirts from the floor, attempting to look a bit more put together than they felt. As they came into Newsie's Square, Jack whistled loudly and grinned.

"How ya holdin' up, boys?"

"What the hell happened last night?" Race groaned, leaning against a wall.

"Spot bet you that you couldn't out-drink him, and you took the bet like an idiot. I picked your drunk asses up sometime after midnight and got you back. Sorry, Spot, I didn't feel like carryin' you to Brooklyn. I don't even want to know what happened in that room last night."

Race blushed, and thought hard through his headache. He had a faint recollection of Spot sitting next to him, holding a drink with a smirk and saying, 'You wanna bet?'

Spot looked equally thoughtful. "Hmm." He stood and stretched. "Well, I best be gettin' back to Brooklyn."

"There's no way you can get back to Brooklyn before the headline goes up," Race said, raising an eyebrow and putting his cigar between his teeth.

"Wanna bet?"

Both grinned. "Yeah, I do."

"Bet you a date tonight I can."

Without another word, Spot turned and took off running.

Race turned to the other newsies, a red flush creeping up his cheeks as they fell out laughing. "Shut up, Jack, I don't wanna hear it."

"S-spot... And race??" Crutchie couldn't seem to stop giggling.

Race gave a nod, pulling his hat lower over his eyes.

"Damn," Jack sighed. "I'm out fifty cents."

He looked up sharply at the clink of coins being passed from hand to hand. Crutchie slipped them into his pocket with a pleased grin.

"Had nothing but faith in ya," his friend said with a wink and a smile.

'Manhattan seems to have a gambling problem,' Race thought. 'And his name is Spot Conlon.'