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The strike had not worked. Brooklyn hadn't come, and Race was crossing the bridge with all the anger he was capable of mustering as the joints protested in pain, and the scrapes burned with clotted blood. He was about to risk the place he won in Sheepshead races just to get Spot to pull his head out of his ass and face things like the man he forced himself to be and the king he had proclaimed himself to be.
However, the docks were deserted. And he wasn't in his room. So Race checked the tide, and when he realized it was low, he went to the only possible place Spot Conlon would hide on such a day. Some neglected, rotten wooden docks had a dry ledge that only appeared on nights when the moon wasn't out to raise the sea.
In the shadows, stood a king far from his court. Race knew that Spot heard him coming, because he saw how minimally the staff he was using moved to his side. It was ready to strike if he considered it an enemy; so he deliberately leaned to one side, so that even if he failed to see it at all, Spot could tell it was not an enemy. Calmly, he climbed onto the rickety board where Spot was already perched and they stood silently watching the sea break beneath their feet.
—Don't come. —He said softly, barely a murmur over the surf.
—I had a deal with Jack. —Spot mumbled. —Sorry about your crutches-boy.
Race felt all the anger he'd gotten throughout the day coming back in full force. His brain decided to remind him of all the emotional blows and physical pain. He took a breath, ready to yell a little at Spot. But he didn't make it, when Spot's voice filtered back over the gentle swell.
—I don't expect you to understand. If you're going to hit me, I won't retaliate. But, I can't just chase dreams and stars like you. There are things I simply can't do no matter how much I want to. I won't dive headlong into anything.
He noticed, next to him, was not Spot "The King of Brooklyn" Conlon. There was Sean. The boy who one night on that same dock, and on that same rotten board, had told him in a faint sound, his name. Race had been beaten after helping 3 of his girls with some drunks on their way to his side of New York. Spot said it softly, slowly, and staring off into a dark horizon.
Soon, Race, he realized with a belated revelation that as much as he looked like a strong, invincible guy, Sean was nothing more than a waif like himself, Sean was a lot like Tony himself. The fire in his heart calmed, and looking at his eyes, his curled eyelashes and the curve of his tired back. He wanted to know more about him. Not just his profits and sales; not his loyalties, not the secrets of the city. He wanted to know what candy he ate if he had pennies to spare; he wanted to know what made him squint when he laughed; he wanted to know if he would have a quiet or loud laugh, or if he would make strange noises when he was too funny in some situation; he wanted to know what would make him cry until he couldn't cry anymore, what would make him wake up excited on a bad night.
He wanted to know about Sean. But he was terrified to know if the answers would give him those rampant tachycardias and blushes he couldn't contain sometimes when he was around him. There was an apparent difference between Tony and Sean: Tony if he would dive in head first and then find out if he could fly.
—What do you dream about? —he asked softly.
Sean just looked at him in confusion.
—At times like this, in the dead of night while the whole world's in slumber, what is it you dream of ?
Sean just kept looking at him.
— What is it you wonder ?
—I'm not understanding, Tony.
—Just… I don't know. —For a moment, he realized he had to be honest about himself before he could ask Sean for the same treatment. — Do you have a mother, far across the sea, longing for her baby wondering where he must be ?
Sean looked at him in silent shock. The boy was too smart and intuitive, he knew what he was asking and what he was giving. A loose piece of his broken history. However, Tony thought for a moment that he had nailed down his death sentence and that despite Sean's calmness, at some point he might knock him off the board and fit the end of the cane into his skull, or that sharp razor he always brought to cut pieces of fruit.Still, he only looked straight ahead again.
— I am alone here. With no family. —Sean brought a hand to his sternum where his key rested and played silently with it for a moment — under lock and key .
Tony looked out at the wide, endless sea, wishing he knew where Sean really was at that moment.
— Do you have a sister? Someone you can tease? —Tony offered again, and with a slow gesture, Sean denied.
—You do? someone you belong to, someone who you please .
—Not anymore. Not that I can be sure of.
— Do you have a home? do you have a name ?
For the first time, Sean turned his head all the way around so he could look at him, and Race felt much closer to the boy illuminated partially by the dim glow of the stars.
—I lost them both long ago, and yet I don't want just anyone to be able to meet Antony Higgins Riordano.
For a moment he really saw Sean. He really understood. Looking into his eyes he could see only one thing: pain .
— In so many ways, you're a lot like me. —Tony's comment earned a weak, sad smile, dulling the tired look further.
—No, Tony. You're alone here with no family . I'm under lock and key .
The questions stung on Racer's tongue, they wanted to get out with all the speed he was flaunting, yet he was aware that he couldn't; not without risking whatever was going on right now. Quite honestly, Tony would rather lose a hand than do that. Sean lost himself within the horizon again, with a look of longing he had never been able to witness. Race looked down at the wet sand, where the waves lazily touched it.
A soft, gentle, fearful weight fell on her shoulder, and before he could process it on a more conscious level, he slipped her arm in a calm, slow gesture across Sean's back, settling in close to his hip. They both breathed slowly, gauging the tension. As if walking on the most fragile glass thousands of feet above sea level.
Slowly, like everything else that night, they began to relax. The sound of the sea, and the crickets in the distance was all that could be heard; and yet, the irrational fear that Sean might hear his racing heart trapped him in a spiral that he didn't really want to get out of, because that meant losing the magical contact they were getting.
Against all odds, he discovered with a warm and pleasant surprise that Sean could actually speak even quieter. Not the hissing tone he used to threaten people, not the soft mumble he occasionally let out when he wrote and wasn't sure of the spelling of a word. No. It was a light, fluffy, almost sad tone.
— You know, I've lived my whole life not knowing for sure if someone's out there for me . —He paused, and Tony watched him out of the corner of his eye consider— if there's ...
But he didn't complete it, and just played softly with his hands near Tony's.
— ... something more — he offered in the same confidential tone. Sean nodded. —I can understand that
—Despite always being surrounded by people ? —Sean barely straightened up to look at him.
Tony turned away, allowing himself to be shipwrecked by the intensity in his eyes.
—They never stop to see the lonely boy before them . —He replied meekly.
He felt the faint warmth emanating from Sean's own body, and in a selfish gesture, he gave himself the luxury of looking down at his lips and admiring for a solid moment. Sean took his hand, barely holding it, as if afraid. If Racer were a little more aware of his surroundings, and not so enraptured, he might have taken exception to the shy, nervous gesture of someone who was nothing more than a solid fortress who felt not the slightest fear in the face of any kind of threat. But Tony was too busy worshiping Sean.
—Then maybe you're right. Yes, if y ou're a lot like me .
Nothing else mattered.
In a couple of hours they would be Racetrack and Spot Conlon again. Two people with opposite histories, with different lives and distant responsibilities. But for the moment, they could afford to be Antony and Sean.
Maybe in the future, Tony could talk about the desperate father who stowed away with his family on a ship from Italy, how only he and an overly brave girl made it. How he lost her, not knowing what became of her, and how because of that he got his new name.
Perhaps in the future, Sean would tell him about the silver cradle he was born into and the suffering it brought him. How he found his freedom in occasional hunger, hard sheets and musty rooms. How he ceased to be a captive prince and became a free king.