A/N: These chapters are four moments in the love story of Spot and Styx. I hope you enjoy them. Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies, Spot Conlon, Matchbox20's song "The Difference." I just borrow them :)

Happenstance

Day breaking on the boulevard

Feel the sun warming up your secondhand heart

Light swimming right across your face

And you think maybe someday

—Matchbox20: "The Difference"—

It was cold in the morning before the sun rose, but Styx didn't mind. She was used to it. It was her favorite time of day, when the sky was pale and colorless, just before it burst into flame—gold and red and pink and blue. It was when she could see the fog rising off the harbor, glittering as it waited for the sun to rise and tear it to wisps, winding between the buildings. She loved to watch the shreds of fog, long pale fingers of mist, stretching across the golden sun, reaching for warmth it was always denied. Every morning it was carried away on the wind before it could grasp the rays of molten gold flowing from the sun.

Sometimes she felt like the fog: always reaching, always swept away before she could touch the warmth she wanted. She could not reach the love hidden deep inside him no matter how hard she tried. His sun was too bright, too warm, and he burned her away before she had the chance to reach him.

It was cold in the morning before the sun rose, but she didn't mind. She climbed to the roof anyway, ignoring the last few stars that remained resolutely in the predawn light. She curled up against the chimney, wrapped her arms around her knees and watched the sun rise over Brooklyn, wondering how long it would take for that golden, morning light to dry her tears.

-----

It was cold in the morning before the sun rose, but Spot didn't mind. He was used to it. It was his favorite time of day, when the sky was pale and colorless, just before it burst into flame—gold and red and pink and blue. It was when he could see the smoke rising from the chimneys, dark against the paleness of the sky, smothering the light in black clouds. He loved to watch the columns of smoke, thick snakes of cloud, streaking across the golden sun, staining across the perfection it was always denied. Every morning it blotted out the new light, covering the beauty with dirt and grime, not allowing the sun to shine through.

Sometimes he felt like the smoke: always reaching, always smothering the light in her before she could truly shine. He kept overshadowing her, her perfection and beauty, no matter how hard he tried not to. His darkness was too solid, too consuming, and he marred her perfection before he had the chance to admire it.

It was cold in the morning before the sun rose, but he didn't mind. He climbed to the roof anyway, ignoring the last few stars that remained resolutely in the predawn light. He sat on the top rung of the fire escape, leaned on the half-wall that encircled the roof and watched the sun rise over Brooklyn, wondering how long it would take for that golden, morning light to dry his tears.

-----

Every morning they sat not ten feet from each other, crying in the dawn. Each of them was able to stop the pain of the other if they'd only known it was there.