3 Words 8 Letters- A Spot Conlon Fanfiction

~Chapter Thirty Two~

"Two days."

"Two days?"

"Yes, two days."

Spot let's out a quick, shaky breath as he takes off his cap and squeezes it in his hand.
Two days.
That's when we go to Boston.

"Spot, seriously, you seem-- off," I squint, giving him a sympathetic look.
He stares at me blankly with his mouth partially hanging open. It was very out of the ordinary seeing Spot like this. Nervous instead of confident, shaky instead of bold.

I raise an eyebrow.

"Sorry, I guess I'm just nervous," Spot gulps.
"About?"

There was a short silence.

"Th-The trip to Boston."

He hesitated, he stuttered, he looked to the right for a mere milisecond, he bit the inside of his cheek, the grip on his cap grew tighter, and his pupils dilated.

He's lying to me; but I nod at him anyway, letting it slide. He'll tell me eventually.

A gust of wind escapes through the crack under the door and hits our skin, the stinging feeling of cold, frigid air piercing my skin.

I like cold weather; however, Spot was shivering. He seemed pale, and his bottom lip quivered like he was forcing back a sob.

Does his dream have to do with this?

I scoot closer to him, and his face immediately falls on my shoulder. We don't say anything, and it stays that way.
My mind drifts to Manhattan.
I wonder if they're okay, if Jack is still leading them well. I wonder if Blink can keep up with Mush and if Race is still so energetic and giddy.

You would think all there characteristics would never go away, until you leave them yourself.

What if they're not okay, what if Jack just quit being there leader? What if Blink couldn't keep up with Mush, and my own brother's body is at the bottom of the Brooklyn Bridge? What if Race just lost it and turned into sad sack, leaving the Newsies and his old self with them?

I bite my bottom lip and the thought of those horrid things. That couldn't possibly happen, right? It's so odd not having to hear them bicker and bark from the moment the wake up to the second they close there eyes. Sometimes I swear they nag in there sleep.

I miss them; a lot.

Alas, it's too late to turn back now, even though I wish we could just go back in time and found a way to make sure this never would've happened. It makes me so angry and so helpless, but I don't show it.

Suddenly, Spot stands up abruptly and throws his cap furiously on he ground, punching the wall in front of him. He didn't punch a hole, I know he made sure not to, and I was unfazed by it. I kind of saw it coming, I had that small feeling he was going to do it.
It was crawling all over my skin, the anxiousness to know what Spot was hiding.
It couldn't have been another girl. I know him, he wouldn't do that; and he's been with me for a while, and I haven't seen him go anywhere.

He looked so tired and stressed, and it's not because of the trip to Boston. I never even had the mere thought that anything could tire or stress Spot, but it seems I was wrong. This "thing" must be very serious, and it must have hit him hard in a way that he can't repare himself automatically like he can usually do.

An enormous gust of wind blows, the air swiftly traveling through the cracks from the walls, windows, and doors.
A large crackling sound was heard, and I jerked my head to the area the sound came from.

It was a small, wooden desk.

One of the legs broke, and I could tell it was a very weak and worn down desk to begin with. A large stack of papers proceeded to tumble down the desk and slide on the floor.
It consists of mostly letters, partially crumbled up from how old they are.

Ink from a pen was dripping down the desk, a single drop plopping on the floor and seeping through the cracks.
I slowly crawled over to the clutter of letters, and picked one up carefully for no damage to be done.

I could hear Spot's footsteps creeping up behind me as he looked over my shoulder.

The letter was folded into the sections, the back facing up, leaving me to see no words, but a blank sheet of paper.
I slowly unfolded it, and it revealed a letter written in black ink.

I scanned over it, trying to ignore all the spelling mistakes.

Dear Avery, August 18, 1889

I found a place up in Westchester. It's not all that great but it's good enough. Manhattan was great and all that, but it was getting boring and I figured it was time to move. I don't know why I'm writing to you, you must be annoyed. You never respond anyway, you just send all my letters back. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. Maybe you can come visit me? Or I could come visit you? I would really like to see how little William Jr is doing.

            Yours truly,
                          William

My eyebrows were furrowed as my eyes scanned faster and faster on the last few lines.
"Wha--"

Before I could say anything, Spot immediately snatches the letter out of my hands, leaving my palms empty in the blink of an eye.

I turned back at him, and his throats was tightened, his hands were clenched, and his eyes were red and filling with tears.

And he collapsed on the ground in a crying fit.

☠️🗝☠️🗝☠️🗝☠️🗝☠️🗝☠️🗝☠️

OMG IM SO SORRY I HAVENT UPDATED IN LIKE FIVE THOUSAND YEARS IVE BEEN SUPER BUSY AND AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

luv u