A/N: This is a companion piece to my other oneshot "Solitaire." This is Spot's nocturnal musing on his despite for Race. It's not necessary to read Solitaire as well, but I would highly recommend it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Disney's boys, I only exploit them.
Spot Conlon was no pansy.
So maybe he wasn't a skirt-chaser; maybe he liked kissing boys better, but he was no dickless fucking pansy. He was the man-the man to know, the man to work for, the man to be. Girls and boys alike lined up just to have a chance with him, not that he ever chose any of them. He could not allow his personal business to be known, even in Brooklyn. And really, it wouldn't be an issue if it weren't for Racetrack.
Racetrack fucking Higgins, with the Italian features and the perpetual cigar; the gambling addiction and the wiseass humor. Spot just could not work out what was so alluring about him, but regardless, he wanted Racetrack Higgins more than he'd ever wanted anyone, ever. And that was a huge fucking problem.
He was Spot Conlon, Brooklyn personified. He couldn't be running around getting soft, especially not for a boy and ESPECIALLY not for Manhattan. His boys needed to know he was strong, stronger than love was. Love was nothing to him; emotions weren't worth his time.
So why did his heart start beating faster every time he saw Higgins? Why did his mouth become dry when they spoke, and why did his stomach flip flop whenever their arms accidentally brushed?
Spot Conlon was a brilliant politician, even at fifteen. He knew how to appeal to the population and he knew how to keep them in check. And falling in love was not part of the equation. His boys needed inhuman strength. They needed to believe that he was better than them, that they needed him. Higgins was a weakness, a vulnerability he couldn't afford.
Spot had a decent poker face, second only to Racetrack himself. It was part of being a good politician. Spot was such a good liar that he could fool himself. If he said it well enough, even he could start to believe that he liked being alone. He was independent, didn't need anybody at all. He was never lonely; loneliness was for the weak and the scared.
That didn't stop him from dreaming about Racetrack's Italian good looks; what it would be like to run his fingers through that curly hair, brush across those defined cheekbones, how that succulent mouth would feel against his own, what it would taste like...
But dreams were only dreams. It's not like he could control what they were about. He could only wash his sheets in the early hour of the morn, far before any other boys would wake. He could only continue to deny the most obvious of knowledges.
Spot Conlon didn't have a lot of experience with love. His mind considered himself to be above such matters, even if his heart and his groin didn't always agree. He had to stay strong for Brooklyn, for his boys. He didn't know how to fall in love, how to embrace his emotions, so he fought them. He squashed them under his boot and threw them in the East River.
Spot Conlon was no fucking pansy. Sure, he liked boys, but he didn't submit to any of them. His pride blocked him from happiness, from human nature, and so his heart fought back; filling his nights with dreams of longing and lust.
Spot Conlon was in love with Racetrack Higgins, but he didn't know how to love.