Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s after midnight when his eyes start burning and Newt slams his laptop shut, places it on the coffee table, and slumps down on the couch, cocooning himself in the frayed duvet. He just wants to sleep (he  needs  to), but there’s this persistent nudge in the back of his mind that keeps reminding him that he should spend at least one hour more on his writing. He should, but he cannot, not really – the fatigue is just too overwhelming, and he has to get up in a few hours.

The man turns around on his stomach, pushing his face into the armrest (he needs to buy some cushions), and sighs deeply. Before it happened, he could not wait to graduate and get his BA degree. The idea of starting his master’s degree and working at the same time seemed like the cliché dreams-come-true bullshit, which Newt was so excited about even before he got out of his shithole of a small British hometown and moved to  an actual city  - to  a university  in the US-freaking- A. He wasn’t that excited anymore. Not when he had graduated, got the BA, and started working. He was exhausted. It wasn’t and is not a dream-come-true situation, and Newt sighs, yet again, squeezing his eyes so hard that there's a dull ache in his brow. He should have known, he should have tempered his excitement – he should have realized that when he got a call with the confirmation that he had been hired in the museum, it wasn't going to be exactly what he wanted to do from the very start. That it wasn’t going to be easy, writing the MA thesis, attending occasional lectures, and working at least 7 hours a day (for not the greatest salary either, may he add). It’s tiring and exhausting, and sometimes seems impossible and pretty much inhuman to manage, and Newts grits his teeth so much that in addition to his brow, his jaw clicks unpleasantly and hurts as well before he finally drifts off to sleep.

♣

“Thank you for visiting and we certainly hope to see you again,” Newt tries to say loud enough for everyone to hear as he maneuvers between the teenagers over to their teacher to shake his hand. The man thanks him and says his goodbyes before rushing the group to the exit. Newt watches them until they disappear behind the automatic door and makes his way to the staff quarters quickly, before the security guard – Mason – has time to chat him up.

It’s past 1 pm and he’s hungry and tired, and buggin’ upset. Loosening his tie before his hand even touches the doorknob, Newt storms into the room and throws himself down onto the nearest chair, closing his eyes.

“Well, aren’t you cheery this mornin’, blondie?”

“Shut up,” Newt mumbles sleepily. Not bothering to crack one eye open, he massages his temples until the unpleasant pressure in his head disappears a little. “And don’t call me that.”

“Yeah, yeah. So what’s up with you today?”

Newt hears shuffling and finally finds the strength to open his eyes and look at Minho, who leans over the table towards him. There’s a sandwich in his hands and his laptop sits by the edge of the table – how Minho manages to work even during lunchtime, Newt will probably never understand. He doesn’t ask, though, because the sandwich has been already pushed his way and Newt grabs it hungrily, sinking his teeth in the fresh, soft bread and, oh. Minho is the best at making sandwiches, and why does he always forget about that?

The man answers only after he’s eaten half of the offered lunch, ignoring Minho’s expectantly raised eyebrows for the whole time.

“I had high schoolers today,” Newt replies eventually. He really doesn’t want to talk about this, knowing that just the memory of those uninterested, ignorant brats will give him a headache.

Minho’s frown softens a little; he runs his hand through his hair (he kind of needs a haircut, Newt notices, as the usually perfected spikes slump to one side a little) and grabs a second sandwich, this time keeping it for himself. “Tough guide, I guess?”

“You have no bloody idea,” Newt huffs, shaking his head. Up until now, he believed that elementary school kids were the worst – not interested in the slightest, easily distracted, difficult to maintain – but today’s tour might have been successful in changing his mind. He has never dealt with such an ignorant and cheeky band before. “Like, mate, why do they even bother coming here if they clearly don’t care?”

“Obligatory classes, probably,” Minho shrugs. “What did they do?”

“Didn’t listen. Bothered. Laughed,” Newt’s fists clench unconsciously, because ignorant gits are at the top of his 'What I hate the most' list. “And there was this one bloody shank-“

“Oh, what about them?” Minho perks up, shuffling his chair even closer, interest visibly increasing. Newt wants to scream in frustration at first, but then he feels a spark of laughter bubbling in his chest because Minho is the best companion when it comes to dissing anything that Newt is angry at.

“He was like- bloody hell, half of the time I wanted to just punch him in the face. Ya know how I have to tell them the general bollocks, can’t get really into the proper art-historian analysis and such, yeah? ‘Hopper’s works are famous for the feeling of alienation’ and blah blah, pop-cultural rubbish and such. I mean, they’re just high school students who were forced to come here, alright, and yet there’s this little prat who goes all smartass on me, asking questions and pretty much telling me what I’m telling ‘em is general knowledge, and- bloody damned hell, I just  hated  that little bugger-” Minho bursts out laughing, eyes closed and toned arms clutching at his stomach before Newt can finish his ongoing rant. Minho laughs and laughs and laughs, and his laugh is so contagious that finally even Newt breaks into a small fit of cackles, if only for a minute.

“Freaking little shit. You had it good today, man, didn’t ya,” Minho wipes at the corners of his eyes and sits back, looking at his friend with a silly expression. “Was it really that bad, tho?”

“Yeah,” Newt nods, letting his eyes shut again and body relax, mimicking the man’s pose. “And there was this girl who somehow snuck a bottle of water and started drinking, and, god. I just wish this day were to be over now.”

“Yeah, well, four more hours to go,” Minho informs (Newt wants to cry a bit at that,). “Tell you what, man – I’ll drop by in the evening, we'll play some games, grab some beers and get  pissed , whaddya say?”

“Sure,” Newt nods, sliding down the chair so his neck rests more comfortably against the back. “But on one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you ever try to use bloody English on me again, Minho.  Pissed ? Really?”

A laugh resounds in the room and Newt notices with pleasure that it’s an awkward one.

♣

They forgot to close the curtains the day before and Newt groans exasperatedly when he feels sunbeams stubbornly trying to dart under his eyelids. He feels a bit ranky and not fully awake yet, but well-rested altogether, and not in as sour a mood as he was the day before. The man flips over on his back and straightens his slightly numb leg as far as the armrest lets him (he always ends up on the shorter end of his corner couch, since Minho  supposedly  needs more space for his stupid muscles and all; even though he’s not supposed to sleep with his legs curled, he doesn’t mind too much).

“Minho?” Newt croaks out, rubbing at his eyes. “You asleep?”

“Nah,” comes a muffled reply and a little rustling noise when Minho probably pulls the blanket off of his face.

“Will you make pancakes?”

“’Mmm… as long as you clean yesterday’s takeout.”

“Deal,” Newt sits up and looks around. Not surprisingly, the living room is a mess. Plastic cutlery and bags all over the table, cans, bottles, and a knocked ashtray. Newt spots only one gamepad – the other one was lost somewhere in the litter.

Not bothering to take a second glance at what awaits him, Newt drags himself to the bathroom for a quick shower to kill the remains (or beginning, maybe?) of the hangover.

When he emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later, Minho is already at the kitchen counter, mixing stuff he uses to make pancakes; Newt cleans up quickly (yet thoroughly) and soon enough the two of them are sitting on the pillows (Newt fetched from his bedroom the day before – he really needs some cushions) by the coffee table, mouth full of the dough.

“Thanks,” Newt mumbles, pushing his plate aside and leaning back. Minho finishes and grins at him widely.

“Not feeling moody anymore?”

“I guess,” Newt can’t really help but smile back. Even though most of the time he is (falsely) annoyed with Minho’s exaggerated self-confidence and stubbornness, he couldn’t wish for a better friend. When he’s agitated after a whole week of writing, studying, and working, a sleepover with junk food, some alcohol, and Xbox with his (best)friend is something that precisely puts Newt back on the right track. It helps. “Thanks, man, again.”

“No prob. If ya could just keep the mood up ‘til the meeting, that’d be perfect.”

♣

The air is a little bit too chilly when they stand close to each other, huddled and shielding themselves from the wind, waiting for the bus, but Newt thankfully manages to keep his previous sour mood at bay. Meetings on Saturdays aren’t something he’s too fond of – especially since they probably mean more work for him – but the fact that both he and Minho, who works for the museum mostly as a graphic designer, were called to come sparks interest in him. There’s probably a big project coming up.

Eventually, they enter the almost empty bus and sit next to each other, sharing Minho’s earphones right away.

“What do you think is happening?” Minho asks, switching swiftly to the playlist both of them are obsessed with right now.

“Not sure. Probably a new, big-arse exhibition,” Newt replies, closing his eyes and listening to the perfect bass guitar.

“Ain’t gonna like all these kid tours, are you?” 

Newt feels a nudge and nudges back, with more strength, earning himself a satisfying hushed yelp. “Not bloody likely.”

That’s it actually – what successfully tempered Newt’s excitement after he learned he got the job at the museum. He always thought he would be working as a curator – or, at least, working  with  one – doing something major, having a chance to be creative. He should have known that being hired in such a big museum at the age of twenty-four meant first plodding through being the designated tour guide and other minor tasks, pretty much anything but curating or setting up displays himself. While he knew he would need to gain more experience first, after five months of repeating the same well-practiced phrases to kids, usually aged from 7 to 18, he was disillusioned and got a little bored, if not irritated.

When they get out of the bus and rush two blocks farther towards the museum, Newt keeps close to Minho and reminds himself that one day he will get there and will be doing what he wants to do. He will.

♣

What’s weird is that they are called into the conference room, not the room that’s designed for staff only, where the workers eat lunch, make coffee, and hang out when they have a break. The conference room is bigger, more elegant – all chairs are from the same set and there’s no rubbish lying scattered around, no personal items, no forgotten books or newspapers. The museum uses the room when they organize projects that include lectures for guests or for important meetings, which has Newt wondering, when he sits with Minho by the round table if he should have put on something smarter – his usual work uniform, for example – than jeans and a rumpled button-down with sloppily (unevenly, he’s not even gonna lie) rolled up sleeves. Newt glances over at his friend and calms down instantly when he notices that Minho is wearing a Star Wars t-shirt.

The room fills up with more and more people until it is full of twenty or so of their co-workers, security guards, cleaners, and conservators. The director, Glenn, appears in the room and gets to the front, standing before a whiteboard. Newt sits a bit straighter, interest peaking. A fleeting thought that this might be about layoffs crosses his mind, but he tries not to focus on it too much.

“Hello everyone, and thanks for coming,” the man starts, obviously not intending to sit down. “I know we’ve just recently changed the timetable and we’re now supposed to be closed on Saturdays, not Mondays, but I assure you this meeting will be an exception. No need to worry.”

A wave of chuckles courses through the gathered, while Minho and Newt exchange knowing looks. When it turned out they would have free Saturdays, both of them liked the idea  a lot , especially since Monday shifts were usually shorter.

“The thing is,” the director continues, shushing the ruckus. “As you know, this year we will be participating in the Night of the Museums, which means more work for all of us. But-“ he puts his index finger in the air dramatically, at least in Newt's opinion. “-I’ve got some more news for you. In exactly two months, meaning a week after the Night of the Museums, we’ll be opening a new, long-distance exhibition. Which, I believe I don’t have to tell you, will require even more work from work of you – us. We’re currently working on having several beautiful pieces shipped to us for the time of the display, but, you all know very well, that our work won’t end on borrowing certain exhibits. I already grouped you – you can find the details on the sheets there-“ the man points at a stack of papers on the table, which is being already handed out around before Newt even had a chance to move. “We’ve still got time, but I suggest you talk with the group leaders right away since they have already been briefed about this. That would be all, guys. Any follow-up questions should be answered by your leaders, but if anything is unclear feel free to stop by my office. Thanks for coming, and see you – some of you, at least – tomorrow."

Chairs start scraping on the floor as people stand up when Glenn leaves and groups start forming.

“Meet you at the bus stop,” Minho pats Newt on the shoulder and scurries to the other side of the room, where his group is gathering. Newt gets up slowly, stretching his limbs carefully, and looks for the group leader. He spots the man by the door, waving at him with a smile. Newt smiles back. He is not yet sure how to feel about the exhibition. While he usually enjoys a challenge and this project seems like it might be a good routine breaker, Newt is not sure he will manage to juggle anything else time-consuming - his days are already as stretched as they can be. For now, the only consolation is that at least he will be working with Frank as his group leader, and for that, Newt actually feels quite excited. As soon as he started working at the museum, he viewed him as kind of a mentor – the man had past twenty years of experience, countless books and articles on his account, and his interest span was the same as Newt’s (hence Newt’s disappointment when he learned that the man wouldn’t be his supervisor for the first month when he started work at the museum). While he wasn't overjoyed about the prospect of additional workload, this could in the end prove to be somewhat enjoble.

“Hi,” Newt greets when he finally makes his way to the co-worker.

“Hello indeed,” Frank beams at him, clutching at another pack of papers. “Let’s wait for the rest of ‘group A’ and I’ll introduce the details to all of you, shall we?”

Newt nods, feeling his interest increasing even more. After five minus there’s him, Frank, Teresa, a guy whose name he can’t ever remember (Minho likes to, for some reason, call him “Louie”, though Newt has no idea why and he’s pretty sure that’s not the actual name) and a – new? – guy he’s never seen before. He would have asked, but Frank’s already talking, explaining details, and handing them even more papers and tables so it doesn't seem tactful; Newt’s eyes skim over the paper, catching the most important phrases and he thinks, wow, this may actually be cool?

“So, as you can see, we’re in charge of the ‘50s and the ‘60s,” Frank’s deep voice drills its way back into Newt’s consciousness and the blonde looks back up at the leader. “I know that, obviously me excluded, we have a young group here, but youth is our strength and I expect some awesome ideas from all of us. The director is quite confident in our abilities, too, and we got the whole second floor of the eastern wing for ourselves-“

The unknown boy abruptly moves, anxiously, drawing Newt’s attention and Newt frowns because-

“The whole floor? Are you kidding? Wow!” Newt would have agreed with the guy’s surprised tone (because that’s exactly what he’s feeling right now), had he not been so busy staring at him – he’s wearing a beanie and thick-rimmed glasses and there’s something just so familiar about him.

“Ya’re shitting me,” the words fly out of Newt's mouth before he can stop them. That’s him, that’s the-

“I am not!” Frank laughs, obviously thinking that Newt’s remark concerns the we-got-the-whole-floor deal. It doesn’t.

Frank keeps talking about something that Newt perceives now only as babble. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose, painfully so, because it’s him. It’s the brat from the day before who exasperated him so much, the… the high school student? Now how’s that even possible?

As on cue, Franks stops talking and moves over to the bugger in glasses, putting his hand on the guy’s shoulder.

“Oh, and before I forget,” he says. “This is Thomas, our new intern. I’m his supervisor and I hope we’ll all get along.”

Newt’s stunned and angry when they’re saying their goodbyes with the promise from Frank to start working together on Monday. He automatically wanders to the staff’s locker room to grab his coat and backpack, and hurries to the bus stop. How’s that even possible? They do not take underage interns. They just  don’t , and as far as Newt knows, the museum’s policy has not changed. You need to be a university student for the director to even consider the internship, AND you need to be majoring in something art-related, “You can’t be just a bloody high schooler,” Newt mutters to himself out loud just when he arrives at the bus stop, Minho already waiting for him.

“What?” he asks, confused, grabbing at Newt’s arms as their bus pulls over.

This time they don’t have the luck to sit down, so they stand all the way back to the stop near Newt’s apartment; Minho supports Newt from one side when he sees the blonde grimacing when the bus drives over a rut and he steps too heavily on his bad leg. They talk quietly, supposedly about the upcoming exhibition, but truth be told, it’s mainly Newt complaining about the new guy who wasn’t supposed to be there. Newt knows he’s probably overreacting (a bit,  only  a bit) but Minho listens to him nevertheless and actually agrees with him that there’s something fishy about taking a high school student in for an internship. Eventually, Minho decides he’ll stay until Monday (he’s got his drawer at Newt’s place either way) which is a welcome distraction.

Chapter Text

Monday rolls in faster than Newt would want it to, even if neither he nor Minho had a shift on Sunday (which they spent in Newt’s apartment – Newt trying to write his thesis and Minho lounging on the couch for most of the time). Before he knows it, Newt’s sitting in his usual bus, nursing a coffee to-go between his hands; it feels odd sitting alone, having spent almost three days with his best friend, but Minho has classes and his shift starts later.

When Newt finally stumbles out, into the frosty November air, his mind wanders back to Saturday’s meeting. He’ll meet him today, won’t he? He’ll be forced to work alongside that weird, annoying guy, and he won’t have a say in this.

“Bollocks,” the man utters under his breath (he should stop – he seems to be developing a habit, and the last thing Newt needs is strangers looking at him like he’s some kind of a psycho), throws the empty cup inside the nearest rubbish bin and pulls his scarf down, lighting a cigarette. He doesn’t smoke, not really – but there’s always a pack of those in his pocket, in case of emergency, he likes to call it. Sometimes a few puffs are enough to lessen his nerves.

Greeting Mason on the go, Newt enters the building and rushes to the locker room. It’s only 9 am, but they’re supposed to meet Frank before they start their own scheduled activities, and Newt supposes that the sooner he’s over with it, the better (though by no means can he wait for another kid guiding).

Untangling himself from the scarf, Newt throws his coat and his backpack haphazardly inside the locker, puts on the blazer – which is the first half of his working uniform – and sets on unknotting the tie (the second half). His fingers slip and he cannot seem to get it right, but when he finally manages to smooth down the garment, he can’t tie it back properly.

“Bloody sodding tie,” he groans out loud, wishing for a mirror to help him see.

“Good morning to you too,” shots from behind his back and Newt jumps up with a yell, startled, his tie falling to the ground. Heart thumping against his ribcage and in his ears, Newt quickly picks up the tie and twirls around. There’s this boy, the intern, standing by the doors, and smiling at him cheekily. He’s got that stupid hat and those hipster glasses on and an unzipped puffy jacket and his cheeks and nose are rosy from the cold. Newt scowls at him.

“I wasn’t talking to you, greenie.”

The new guy barks out a laugh and moves closer to one of the lockers, which was probably designated to him by Frank. Newt still scowls, watching intensely, when the guy unpacks and puts on his own blazer and an already neatly knotted tie.

“So,” the guy starts, sweeping the beanie off his head and running a hand through his hair. Which, Newt notices, is not stupidly gelled up like it was when he visited the museum on Friday. Without those overly-styled, dorky spikes Newt remembers him to be sporting and in those glasses, Newt notices he looks older – not exactly like a high school student. “Name’s Thomas. I guess we’ll be colleagues now.” He stretches his hand out for a shake, but Newt only raises his eyebrows and finally goes back to tying his own tie.

“Oookay then,” Thomas retreats and laughs, but incredulously doesn’t seem put off by Newt's calculated unpleasantness. “So what’s your name, teammate?”

“Ya know,” Newt tucks the tie under the blazer and clips it to his shirt. “There’s this marvelous thing called an ID. I’m sure you've seen. Everyone is required to wear one and, oh, look - you have one too. I suggest you use this knowledge.”

Thomas looks at the rectangular badge on the left side of his chest, then at Newt’s. He doesn’t falter in embarrassment, though, which has Newt reeling in silent anger.

“Newt it is, then,” Thomas states simply. “So, wha-“

“Look,” Newt interrupts him. “I don’t really have time for your bollocks. We’ve got to meet Frank in ten minutes and my biggest dream certainly isn’t to babysit a high school intern. So, see ya, lad.”

Newts makes his way to the door thinking that that should do it and that he will be left alone, but in a split second, Thomas is next to him, shamelessly walking alongside. Newt grits his teeth in annoyance but decides not to speak. Not. A. Single. Word.

“I’m not a high school student, you know,” Thomas says as if they never stopped talking – as if it was a pleasant conversation. As if Newt wasn't being a little rude shit to him just now.

“What…?”

“I’m not from high school. I wouldn’t get the internship if I were, now would I? I thought you knew that, working here, and all-”

“I knew that alright,” Newt spats, eyes sending daggers at the still-smiling newbie. “I just- you were bloody here on Monday, with a high school teacher and all!”

“Yeah, well…” Thomas chuckles, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I kind of… tagged along. No one really minded and I wanted to check where and with whom I’d be working. I’m 23, senior year of bachelor’s AH studies.”

“...can’t fucking believe it,” Newt grumbles, rubbing both of his brows with the heels of his hands. He hears Thomas laughing, and he wants to just punch him in that stupid face of his, but they finally make it to the staff room where Thomas graciously says ‘bye’ and moves to Teresa, who he starts chatting with right away, if only to maintain the facade.

♣

It’s a few hours and three school trips later when Newt catches a glimpse of Frank showing Thomas around the floor he’s already on. They walk past where Newt is sitting on a lone chair, not having anything more important to do for the moment; Thomas beams at him and Frank nods, not stopping to talk.

“…after you’ve learned what is where, I’ll be taking you to see how to talk to art history students tomorrow. I know you are one, but there’s a difference between being lectured and lecturing, right?”

The pair disappears behind the corner and Newts stares after them, mouth agape and fists clenching and unclenching on his knees. First day and the new guy already gets to learn how to talk with people that actually give a crap about art?

♣

“And you know what  I  had to do on my first day here?” Newt stomps angrily around the room, taking advantage of the fact that there’s only him and Minho inside. “I had to fucking clean up the conference room? And I already got my BA, where is justice in it?”

“Calm down,” Minho shrugs, finishing his salad quickly. “I guess it all depends on the supervisor, man.”

“I wish I had Frank as my supervisor, then,” Newt huffs, sitting down next to him. “I- really, I’m just. I’m just so angry lately.”

“Noticed,” Minho nods but there’s no venom in his voice, for which Newt is grateful. “You just need to chill out, Newt. Stop getting so twisted ‘bout this guy.  And  the projects.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll try,” Newt sighs and smiles when Minho offers him the rest of his lunch. Truth is, Newt doesn't fancy himself to be rude or annoyed all the time - he is not an easily irritable person and he likes to think that he is generally a pleasant and kind person. And it's very difficult to admit to yourself that you might have taken on too much to handle

They’re silent when the room fills up with some more of the co-workers and Newt relaxes, sipping his latte slowly, enjoying the chatter of his colleagues. It’s not like he can change anything – he doesn’t have a supervisor anymore, he does not need one. Even if the greenie has more significant opportunities than Newt has had, he will be supervised all the time, since it’s an internship. At least Newt is an independent worker now

However annoying he is, when Thomas enters the room sometime later, Newt discovers that he doesn't actually wish him bad.

“So how was the showing around, Tom?” Newt hears Teresa ask.

“Really fun. Definitely better than those tours for high school students,” Thomas replies cheerfully and smirks when Newt glares at him.

Okay, so maybe he wishes him bad, just a little bit.

♣

If Newt thought he was busy, the next two weeks prove him wrong. He doesn’t have time for pretty much anything that is not related to work or uni – he cannot even do the laundry, let alone tidy or cook something that's not preprocessed. He considers it a success when he manages to grab 5 hours of sleep. Caffeine-driven, he’s coursing between the university, the library, the museum, and the apartment if he’s got time – sometimes he just crashes at Minho’s, who lives closer to the museum.

When it comes to his MA thesis, Newt sometimes feels as if he fell into a black abyss, with no chance to get out of it. It’s November already, yet he only has the first chapter done. It’s like he cannot write anymore – he’s got general ideas, knows what he wants to write about, but he can’t find the motivation or the right words. Newt has developed an awful pattern – he comes back from either work or university, he sits down in his (or Minho’s, in that matter) living room, opens up the Word document, and stares at the last paragraph for approximately fifteen minutes; after he’s done staring, Newt closes the laptop and wallows in self-pity for a while, which sometimes includes Minho’s encouraging words (“You’ll make it, Newt. You’re an awesome student, you know that.”) or Minho’s constructive nagging (“I swear to god, man, if you don’t start writing right away I’ll kick first your ass, and then you out”). The nagging is what helps, Newt has to admit. Then, he opens up his work and forces his brain to work, which results in at least  some  writing, though usually stylistically incorrect the first time around.

The constant trips to the library don’t help, even if Newt’s doing research for his thesis. The books he needs are usually not allowed to be carried out of the campus, so he has to read inside, taking notes, or taking pictures of every page so he can read later at home. The fact that the library is at the far end of the campus doesn't help at all either.

The work is hectic and pretty much everyone, with the director himself included, is losing their shit  and  their cool; it’s a 70% possibility that you’ll intrude on one of the group meetings at any given time, in any room that’s usually used by staff only, so Newt has learned to hang out in the locker room, even during lunch breaks, or eating out. That is if they’re not huddled out somewhere with Frank, Teresa, Thomas, and ‘Louie’, planning, sketching, making phone calls, and stressing each other out.

As hectic and stressful as it sounds, the whole commotion can be quite enjoyable, even if he’s still forced to guide school trips with occasional sneak peeks at Frank showing Thomas how to do things Newt dreams of doing – taking part in international conferences being the freshest example.

“Hey,” Minho’s head appears from behind the door when Newt’s already sitting down near his locker during the lunch break, ready to eat his poorly made sandwich (two slices of bread and butter, oh well). “Get dressed, we’re grabbin’ some food out.”

“Oh thank god,” Newt's ready in 5 seconds, following Minho out into the frosty air, securely tucked in his woolen scarf. “How are the posters going?”, he asks, knowing Minho has spent the whole night buried in sketches and scraps of paper, with his graphic tablet almost on fire because of how intensely he worked.

“I’ve got the biggest one almost done, I guess,” Minho answers, grabbing the sleeve of Newt’s coat and pulling him quickly through the pedestrian crossing. His pace is mild so Newt doesn’t strain his limp, but he has no idea where they’re going – if they eat out together during work, they always go to the nearest café, which is literally opposite the museum. Yet there’s Minho today, turning right and leading Newt farther than usual. “We just have to sort out the resolution and all that jazz with the printing company. Too bad we still don’t know which exhibits we’ll be getting for sure, would help a lot if I could start designing for the specific floors.”

“My group should be getting the final decisions sometime next week, so I’ll let you know as soon as I know,” Newt assures, frowning when he notices dark circles under Minho’s eyes. He feels bad because he’s usually the one complaining and cursing, forgetting that others have it rough too. He decides to cook supper today.

“Thanks, man,” Minho smiles at him and turns left, apparently towards a little restaurant that Newt sees for the first time.

They enter and a wave of nice, warm air hits Newt’s face; he can smell fresh croissants and green tea. The monster in his stomach wakes up and grumbles at the mere thought of food which is something more than a sandwich, and Newt is so, so glad they came here.

Minho’s already ahead, roaming between the tables and obviously heading for one in the far corner, away from the counter and the doors that probably lead to the kitchen. Newt follows quickly, taking the outer layer of his autumn clothing off and when he comes closer, his mouth opens involuntarily. Minho by the table already occupied by Teresa. And Thomas.

“Hi guys,” Teresa beams at them and Thomas nods when Newt finally, though no less reluctantly, takes his seat beside Minho. They’re definitely going to have a serious talk later, Newt muses, and reconsiders cooking tonight. It’s not like he doesn’t like them – Teresa’s smart and pretty and has got a great wit, and they’re good friends, actually (but not to the point where they would hang out together), but Thomas… Thomas is just  Thomas , a greenie that has had better opportunities than Newt from the start, a greenie that’s impossibly cheeky and smiley at the same time, a greenie that everyone obviously loves and a greenie that gets all the attention Newt is childishly jealous of. “We got you coffees first.”

Thank god Minho’s social skills work better because Newt is silently fuming right now, fumbling with the edges of his sleeves, forcing himself to stop acting like a prat.

Their drinks arrive eventually and thankfully Teresa pulls out a stack of papers from her bag and puts it on the table, to show Minho the progress ‘group A’ has made so far. They all worked their arses off on those plans, the whole of the group, so Newt joins the conversation, explaining along with the girl and Thomas what will their floor look like. Thomas is in the middle of explaining what the western wall will be like when a waitress appears, carrying at once four plates of steaming food.

“Oh, we’ve ordered your food, too,” Teresa says when the girl places the dishes down, after Newt hastily sweeps all of the sheets off of the table and hands them back to her. “I’ve got you scrambled eggs on bacon and some toast. I hope your English heart will take it, Newt?”

Minho laughs and Newt cackles, answering “We’ve got bacon in England too, T.”

“So you’re English?” Thomas pipes up suddenly, his brown eyes (surprisingly not obscured by the hipster glasses) boring into Newt.

The man swallows a mouthful of eggs and looks at him incredulously.

“Are ya bloody serious right now?” because, really.  Really ?

“Well, I thought you fake your accent to appear cooler,” Thomas replies so seriously that Newt starts wondering if he’s trolling him or not. Newt counts to three at first, and then to five, just to be sure he doesn’t snap.

“Yeah, well. I don’t,” he’s quite surprised with how civil his voice sounds. For whatever reason it comes very hard for him to decipher whether Thomas is teasing and speaking out of his arse or not.

There’s barely any time left when everyone’s finished with their food, so they all gather up their belongings, pay, and make their way back to the museum. After spending time in a warm room and filling his stomach with delicious food, Newt feels as if the temperature has dropped a few degrees when they’re rushing down the sidewalk. He stumbles a bit and grabs Minho for support.

“What’s wrong?” Minho steadies him, eyes full of concern.

“Just the leg. Acts up some,” Newt waves a hand but hooks his arm with Minho’s. There’s this weird feeling that spreads in Newt’s chest every time he has to ask or just needs help from Minho. He is undecided – on one hand, he would like to be independent, without the constant threat (because that’s pretty much it, isn’t it? It’s not exactly fear, but it’s  threatening ) that his bloody limb will give out suddenly, without random shots of pain. But, on the other hand, there’s something so comforting in just the awareness that there pretty much always is someone trusted he can lean on, who will help him no matter what. They can tease each other all the time, and they can argue ten times a day when they meet up, but Minho is the best friend Newt could ever wish for. Minho is his greatest support.

“What’s with your leg?” Thomas slows down and picks up their pace, looking over the pair.

“Nothing,” Newt huffs, stubbornly not looking at the younger boy, fixing his eyes on the back of Teresa’s head in front of them instead. It’s not his business, not yet, and probably not ever.

“No, seriously. I was wondering, I saw you lim-“

“Slim it, Thomas,” Minho cuts off sternly before Newt even has a chance to think of a remark. Newt is grateful and decides that Minho definitely deserves a home-cooked supper.

♣

Newt doesn’t have to show any more students around that day, so he spends the rest of his shift wandering aimlessly around the building, stopping at his favourite pieces and talking to the individuals that came to visit if they’ve got any questions. Right when he decides to see what Minho is working on at the moment, he gets a text from Frank calling him to come to one of the staff rooms to work out one of his newest ideas.

Turns out it’s a simple idea how to change the space of their exhibition but somehow all of them get so creative that his shift prolongs to past 7 pm instead of 6; when they are finally finished Newt is again hungry and his bladder is full and killing him so he scurries to the toilet as soon as Frank waves them off. When he makes it back to the locker room he’s probably the last of the workers to leave (besides night security guards), so he grabs his things and throws them on on the go, mind already wandering to Minho’s apartment and the supper he is going to cook.

“Hey,” a voice scares him when he’s jogging down the outdoor stairs and Newt looks around frantically, eventually spotting Thomas waving at him to slow down. Newt grunts, and does not.

“Hey,” the greenie repeats with a little pant in his breath when he catches up to Newt.

“What now?” the blonde asks, aiming for the bus stop, not really caring if Thomas has to go to the same stop (which he probably does not, because Newt has never seen him there).

“I just,” Thomas mumbles and hangs his head low. Newt does a double take because it has to be the first time he sees the guy acting anything but confident.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” Newt feels his brows rising up.

“For being nosy. I was just curious, didn’t mean to pry into a business that’s obviously not mine,” Thomas explains and looks up at him. And he seems sincere and that has Newt perplexed. He definitely didn’t expect something like  that  (he didn’t expect anything really). Meeting with the whole of group A excluded, today was their first long-ish encounter, so it isn’t like Thomas is obliged to feel bad about anything. They’re not mates, are they?

“And for being a twat,” Thomas adds after a while, quickly, probably thinking Newt’s silence is the result of his anger (it isn’t, but Newt is not going to admit it out loud). “Really.”

“Yeah,” Newt breathes out, tilting his head to the side and staring at Thomas with his brow furrowed. Why does he feel so stupid all of a sudden? “No need to apologize. I was kind of a twat, too.”

“I guess,” Thomas chuckles lowly, shuffling his feet, obviously feeling better. Newt just stares, mind momentarily blank because he did not expect for something like that to happen. “So we’re good?”

“I do believe we are.”

“Okay then,” Thomas grins and glances quickly at the road. “Sooo… you need help getting on that bus or something?”

“Oh my god,” Newt pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head abruptly,  what’s wrong with this guy ? “It's a limp, not a death sentence!”

“Sorry, sorry,” the boy laughs, yet again, creating small puffs of steam hanging in the air between them. “You don't want to tell about it, do you?”

“Continue not being a twat and maybe I will,” his bus pulls over and Newt gets in with a smirk, leaving a surprised Thomas on the curb.

Chapter Text

Minho’s working again when Newt finally arrives at his apartment, so the blonde doesn’t say much and sets off to work, roaming around the kitchen as quietly as possible. Newt’s not an exceptional cook, not really (he would not call himself even a decent one) but Minho’s fridge in comparison to his own is always blissfully full since his best friend is on the healthy side – vegetables, fruit, running, and doing sports (which oddly doesn’t stop him from eating fast food and drinking with Newt on quite a regular basis), so he’s sure there will be something edible to make.

When the chicken breast is sizzling in neat pieces on the frying pan, Minho appears in the kitchen and sits down.

“You done?” Newt asks, wiping his hands on Minho’s pink (and frilly) apron, moving over to finish the salad.

“Yep,” he answers. “It smells nice, you know.”

“You bet,” he smiles lightly under his nose, pleased with himself.

“Also, Thomas’s asked ‘bout you.”

Dropping the spatula before turning around, Newt looks at Minho, surprised. “What? When?”

“After lunch,” the man replies, his board shoulders raising in a shrug. “Wanted to know about your leg again. Told him off. Asked what time your shift ended, but I told him I didn’t know and that you were comin’ to mine either way.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Newt murmurs softly. “He talked to me, though.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah, after I’ve finished work.”

“Did he say sorry?”

“How did you know that?” Newt asks as Minho stands up and shuffles over to the stove to steal a piece of chicken. It’s still undercooked, but Newt’s too curious to shove him away; instead, he just stares.

“He just looks like the apologizing type,” Minho turns towards him, mussing his hair with his hand. “Look. He’s a good bloke. Nice. Stuffs nose into not his business alright, but still okay.”

The chicken sizzles louder and Newt pushes Minho to get to the frying pan. Yeah, okay, so maybe he is. Maybe. Why does Minho care so much? 

The man feels the prickle of his friend’s piercing gaze on his back as he fills two plates with food and chucks ice cubes in the glasses filled with coke. He answers only when the dinner is served and they’re sitting together at the small round table in Minho’s kitchen.

“Yeah, maybe he bloody is nice.”

“Man, look,” Minho heaves a sigh, but doesn’t stop stuffing his mouth with Newt’s supper, which makes him look caricatural. “Just give him a chance. No need to be so mean. He’s quite smart, too, knows art and stuff.”

“Okay, okay,” Newt surrenders finally. It’s not like he hates the guy or anything. He is under the impression that they made amends in the end, which he guesses should be enough for now - at least he's planning on behaving more towardly. “Shit, Minho. Maybe you’d like to give him some cuddles?”

Minho’s eyes widen at first but he bursts out laughing nonetheless.

♣

They end up sprawled across Minho’s mattress (he doesn’t have a bed), both working for the next few hours – Newt on his MA thesis, and Minho on his own, too. The writing flows quite nicely and Newt finishes only when the physical tiredness gets closer to the winning side, the letters on the screen of his laptop swirling and blurring and coming back into focus annoyingly. He saves the file and the backup, and the backup of backup and closes his computer to roll on his back.

“Whoever ever told me that majoring in art history is a good idea should burn in hell,” he says, rubbing at his tired eyes. He waits for a reply, but it doesn’t come; Newt lifts his head a little and sees Minho asleep with his forehead planted on the palm rest of his laptop.

“Seriously,” the blonde tightens his lips to prevent a fond smile from creeping on his face (he fails - miserably). Moving gently and as silently as possible, he saves all of Minho’s work and puts everything aside. The light’s already off so he only grabs a pillow and stuffs it under his head, falling back down, bringing the covers along, covering both himself and Minho. They’re lying across so Newt’s feet dangle to the floor, but he’s already used to it – crashing at Minho usually ends up in sleeping in weird positions in weird places, more often than not together. He should probably be bothered by that, but they’ve known each other since he moved from the UK, there’s probably nothing he doesn’t know yet about his best friend.

Minho’s soft snores usually do wonders in lulling Newt to sleep, but even though his eyes are closed and he’s extremely overwhelmed with drowsiness, he cannot seem to fall asleep just yet. Maybe Minho’s right. He could use some new company probably. Newt has acquaintances and colleagues, but Minho is his only  friend . He gets along well with Teresa and other of his co-workers, with fellow art history students from his year, like Charles and Brenda, but it’s on a loose basis only. Occasional texts, from time to time only - and mostly about uni or shifts, or whatever other stuff that you talk about with people that are not quite yet friends. Newt knew it wasn’t going to be easy when he moved from England, but the lack of talent in getting friendly with others was not an actual burden. Maybe he should think about changing that.  Perhaps .

♣

Newt should have known that Thomas apologizing and hearing the confirmation that they, indeed, ‘are good’, will bring some kind of a shitstorm. The younger man, apparently, is one of the kind that doesn’t know the concept of personal space  or  of getting to know each other slowly , or  of being tactful. The next day that they see each other at work Thomas is all smiles and chatter, and he’s not even sarcastic or ironic at that (Newt had no idea such changes in one’s personality could occur). And what’s perhaps the most strange, Newt does not mind at all. He’s not buzzed with irritation anymore and the quality of their work improves – though it could be his imagination, he is not sure. They share a few nice talks over the next few days, whether the two of them only or with others, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Thomas soon becomes an addition, a surprisingly pleasant one, to Newt’s life, a new factor in what he associates with working at the museum.

There’s still some time left until the Night of the Museums and the exhibition, but as it nears, the pace of the work speeds up visibly and there isn't a day without people running around the building back and forth, slightly panicked over whatever they’re supposed to be doing. Newt’s not gonna lie –  it’s a mess . He’s stressed out but at some point, the director asks him to help in the office, since with the upcoming events the museum’s line won’t stop ringing; so Newt is done with the school trips for the time being and he likes it. Maybe sitting at a desk overflowing with various papers and documents, and sharing a room with a middle-aged secretary isn’t the most exciting, but at least he gets a chance to see how the whole process looks from scratch.

As days flow by, Newt is sure that what he wants to do in life has to be connected to art, has to be connected to organizing cultural events – has to be connected to what he loves. He has grown accustomed to the paperwork, the planning, the organizing, and even to Emma, the secretary, and her constant not-so-serious nagging, and even to the fact that she, for some reason, calls him ‘Newton’. He accidentally acquires a new routine, one that he is fond of, even though he knows it won’t last forever. Newt spends most of his shift at the office with only Emma, but every day he eats lunch with Minho, Teresa, and Thomas, who usually tag along. All of this, and also the fact that he doesn’t have to babysit underage visitors, and the regular meetings of group A provide a constant wave of calmness to him, even if work is piling up. It’s perfect.

♣

Newt blows the smoke out through his nose and observes leisurely as it vanishes into the chilly air. Tension in his shoulders scorches him a little and he moves them awkwardly around, his coat rippling a little at that, the cigarette dangling in between his index and middle finger. It’s been a long, long day, full of paperwork and lots of writing which also included his MA thesis - when he had time. His leg feels stiff - he didn’t have time to get out of their room properly; he skipped lunch and with Frank and the Louie guy out of the town for exhibition business, the meeting of group A was canceled.

When he feels heat grazing his fingers, Newt throws the cigarette to the ground and steps on it, before picking it up and tossing it into the rubbish bin next to him. His bus is supposed to come in the next fifteen minutes, so he considers going for the tube; the route is longer, but at least he wouldn’t be freezing his arse off, waiting in the cold. Before he has a chance to make up his mind about that, though, a figure jogs towards him. It's Thomas.

“Hi,” he says, getting nearer and stopping next to him. He’s wearing a silly ushanka hat with little white stars patterned on the woolen part and red fur on the inside, framing his face. Newt looks at it in awe, marvelling at how visibly it clashes with Thomas's almost neon-green puffy jacket.

“Hi,” he greets back finally, trying to pry his eyes away from the man’s terrible choice of clothing.

“Didn’t see you at lunch today,” Thomas inquires, obviously oblivious to how ridiculous he looks.

“I didn’t really have time to eat,” Newt says and his stomach grumbles (fortunately quietly enough for Thomas not to hear), as if a confirmation. Quite frankly, he’s knackered and dreams of his apartment, and his bed and a cup of tea and ab-

“Wanna grab a bite?” Thomas interjects, snapping Newt out of his thoughts. His first instinct is to laugh, but he stops himself. Thomas is serious. Isn’t he?

“I- well, I was going to. Actually- Um,” Newt stutters out unreasonably, because what is this? Not something he excepted, that’s for sure.

“I was going to stop by McDonald’s either way, so you could come along,” Thomas explains, his eyes boring into Newt’s expectantly.

If Newt is to be honest, McDonald’s sounds perfect, especially when he is sure that there’s nothing edible left in his fridge. But it’s already late and cold, and his leg is being a persistent reminder that he should not move much more this evening.

“Or we could come to my place,” Thomas continues. “I’ve got some roast beef left. And I have a new idea what to do for the display but I’m not sure how to sort it out, I could use some help.”

Oh. When was the last time he ate roast beef? Newt cannot remember - probably back in England.

“I don’t know, man, it’s late and all…” Newt hesitates. He doesn’t know where Thomas lives and he doesn’t know Thomas  that  well. It could be awkward. And uncomfortable. And he would probably have to strain his leg on his way back.

“I can drive you back home,” the man assures and Newt thinks he sees his eyes flicking for a split second to Newt’s leg as if Thomas knew what he’s worried about (which isn’t that surprising really, considering how Newt stands, visibly putting the weight on his good leg), but he’s not entirely sure if it isn’t just his imagination.

“You drive?” Newt finds himself asking instead of declining. The roast beef is calling him, pulling at his brain so persistently that he almost stops stalling and agrees.

“Occasionally,” Thomas shrugs. “It’s my dad’s old car, but it’s too expensive for me to drive every day.”

“Oh. Okay,” Newt nods and that’s all it takes him to follow Thomas to the tube, and ten minutes later they’re standing in the packed carriage, holding on hangers, Thomas waffling on about everything and anything.

♣

Thomas lives quite far from the tube station they get out on, but their pace is mild so the walk is nice and bearable. And not as awkward as Newt thought it would be – Thomas seriously has some social skills there.

Turns out the boy lives in a small block of flats, on the second floor, which is also the last one.

“It might be a little messy,” Thomas warns sheepishly, fumbling with the keys when they’ve made it up the stairs. “I hope you won’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Newt assures when Thomas opens the door and gestures for him to come inside. He’s not an overly neat type himself, so he honestly doesn’t mind. He takes a look around and notices, a bit startled, that the flat looks more like a loft, or maybe an attic-turned-apartment. It’s not big altogether, but spacious, a living room joint with a small kitchen area; there are two doors in the opposite wall which presumably lead to the bedroom and the bathroom. The furniture doesn’t match – seems like it’s Thomas’ thing – but Newt sees no mess whatsoever. The only thing seemingly out of place is a lone sneaker near the sofa.

“It’s nice,” he comments, more to himself than to Thomas.

“Thanks, I put some work into that,” Thomas smiles and shrugs his outer clothes off,, tosses it on a chest of drawers (instead of hanging it on the hanger just above it), and waits for Newt to take his coat off as well.

“Make yourself comfortable, I’ll start on the food,” Thomas instructs and skips towards the kitchen, turning the TV on as he does.

Newt moves over to the couch and sits down, but cocks his head to the side to look at the younger man.

“Do ya need some help there?”

“Nope, I’ll manage,” Thomas moves fast and sure, which has Newt wondering if he’s a good cook. He is, probably – unless his mother made the roast beef or something (because fetching a roast beef from his parents's house - wherever Thomas's folks lived - seemed too troublesome). “What would you like to drink?”

“There’s no need real-“

“Oh, wait, I’ll make you this pineapple tea I bought recently, I swear to god it’s the best one I’ve had in some time. Your British taste buds shall be pleased!”

When he gets the tea (which really is excellent), Newt is curious about the place so he asks and it turns out Thomas renovated the attic himself. It was already divided into a flat but in very bad shape, so Thomas had to smooth out and repaint all the walls and the ceiling, repair the floor, and refresh the bathroom and the kitchen. He worked for four months before going to university, 12-hour long shifts, so he could spend all of the earned money on repairs. From what Thomas said, ¾ of the furniture was second-hand and the rest were I-don't-need-it-anymore-so-you-can-have-it gifts from the man's family and friends. Thomas did not work anymore and he wasn’t paid for the internship, but he had a uni scholarship that was enough to pay the rent, bills, and for a living. Newt is pretty bloody impressed.

When Thomas serves the dish Newt stares at it for a moment. It looks. Well, it looks posh. And smells even nicer. They dig in with only a soft TV hum as background noise and don’t speak up until they’re both finished with their food. Thomas presses Newt not to do the dishes when the blonde offers, and they lounge on the couch. Newt feels stuffed and warm and pleased, and, actually, quite comfortable.

“Man, I’m dead tired,” Thomas sighs at some point, hugging one of the cushions to his chest. He looks exhausted, Newt admits in his mind. The man seems smaller than usual, limp, delicate dark circles standing out under his eyes. “Who would have thought students could be this exhausting?”

“You’re showing the school trips around now?” Newt asks, taken aback.  Guess I missed out some?  he thinks, knowing it’s mainly because of his stay in the office. Now who would have thought?

“Yeah, sometimes,” Thomas nods. “I mean, nothing serious obviously and usually under Frank’s supervision, but, dude. Those little brats? Freaking exhausting.”

“Not so funny anymore when on the other side, is it?” Newt can’t stop a small sneer, remembering how Thomas was pestering him before he even knew the guy. Not so cheeky anymore when the tables turned, good that.

“Hah, yes, about that,” Thomas laughs quietly. “Never apologized for that. Sorry, Newt, I really am. That was a dick move.”

“I should not agree, out of pure courtesy. But it was, so I’m not going to,” Newt smirks and they stare at each other for a while before laughing out loud simultaneously. “Bloody shank.”

“You know, I sometimes think I could use a dictionary to fully understand what you’re saying,” Thomas frowns and Newt has the urge to punch him in the arm but decides not to, not knowing if they’re on that stage yet. They’re probably not. “Anyways. I understand now why you could have your panties in a twist. Those popular opinions about certain pieces hurt my heart.”

“I know, right?” Newt agrees, sitting more upright, sensing an interesting conversation coming up. Which is precisely what he would like right now. “Not something you studied about, is it?”

“Not at all,” Thomas mimics his pose, probably involuntarily. “Almost had a heart attack when I heard the teacher telling high schoolers that Hockney’s Melrose looked like a kindergartener’s drawing. What a disgrace. Not something you’d like to hear about your favourite painter.”

Thomas’s already finished speaking, but Newt doesn’t say a word, just stares at him.

“You like Hockney?” 

“Yeah. Don’t you?” Thomas is confused, Newt can tell by his raised eyebrows. He’s not surprised.

“He’s my favourite, too, actually,” Newt mumbles, trying not to sound too happy. He's not sure why he is reacting like that - it might be that for the first time, he actually sees the chance to befriend this guy. A wide, bright grin spreads over Thomas’ face.

Chapter Text

Before he knows it they’re immersed in a long and deeply theoretical conversation, full of random exclamations and vigorous nods. Newt feels happy and comfortable and completely at ease, and even if he wanted, he wouldn’t be able to will his mouth shut. At some point the topic moves from David Hockney to others; Newt finds himself telling Thomas about England and his studies, and since Thomas is in the final year of his bachelor’s degree, he gives him (friendly) advice, too. There’s a flush of excitement creeping up on his cheeks – Newt would normally feel embarrassed, but Thomas is just such a good, good listener; he understands and agrees but expresses his opinion, Newt is just a bit mesmerized.

It’s lots of time and two re-runs of Mr. Bean later when Newt realizes it’s already half past 11 pm. He springs to his legs suddenly (and hisses inwardly, stepping too heavily on the bad one), startling Thomas along the way.

“I should go. It’s late.”

Thomas looks around a bit lost but when his eyes finally land on the clock above the TV set, he stands up as well.

“You could stay longer, you know,” he says slowly, looking at Newt apprehensively. “I am not throwing you out or anything.”

“I know,” the corners of Newt’s lips tug higher, forming a small smile. “But we’ve got work tomorrow, and I still should write some more.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” Thomas moves quickly, throws on his jacket slips on his shoes, and waits for a slightly perplexed Newt to follow. “I’m still driving you, though.”

“You better,” Newt snickers but only for the sake of it. He dresses and after Thomas locks the flat, they go down the stairs and outside the building. “Wow, mate, it’s freezing.”

“Good thing we’ll be driving, right,” Thomas jogs towards what apparently is his car and turns around to wink at Newt, sending him a little smirk.  This guy, seriously?  Newt gapes for a few seconds before catching up to him.

“It’s nothing special,” Thomas says, opening the door of a navy, old-ish Toyota and gesturing for Newt to get in, which he does, eager to escape the coldness. “But it works.”

“That’s what counts, really,” Newt agrees. He always wanted to have his own car, but he didn’t get a driver’s license back in England, knowing that if he moved to the US he would have to learn again how to drive, with all the differences (and the steering wheel on the left). And then fate wasn’t too keen on the idea, crushing his dream even before he finished high school and presenting him with a leg that wouldn’t do well in a car. “I’m not big on cars either way.”

“Me neither,” Thomas chuckles and gets in. “Seatbelt, Newt. It’s useful sometimes though, so if you ever need a lift, just let me know.”

“I will,” Newt nods even though he knows he most certainly won't, because it would be just embarrassing. He fastens the seatbelt and lets his back dip into the seat when Thomas turns on the heating and he sighs contently.

Thomas asks him about his address and sets up the navigation device (“I drive too rarely, don’t know the streets and all that bulls- but I’m a safe driver, I promise!”) and then they’re silent for the first ten minutes or so. Tiredness slowly engulfs Newt’s body, but it’s not too overwhelming and kind of pleasant – the one you feel after you’ve eaten too much and had a lazy day (his day wasn’t lazy altogether, but the evening definitely was). He lets his eyelids slip closed and hums quietly with Thomas’ car radio, not exactly fighting the drowsiness.

“Hey,” Thomas interrupts his peaceful thoughts sometime later and Newt shifts a bit to look at him. He’s focused on the road ahead of them and doesn’t glance at Newt, who’s pleased with it, since he probably looks quite stupid in his hunched position. Newt notices a constellation of moles on Thomas’ neck and cheek and has a weird need to poke at one of them, just to see what the younger man’s reaction would be. But that could be dangerous.  We’re in a car, for god’s sake . “I don’t have your number, we should fix that?”

“Oh my god, we should, shouldn’t we now?” Newt mocks a fake horror. The other boy laughs loudly for a bit, so persistent that Newt joins him eventually. “No, but I’m serious,” Thomas continues when the laughter dies down. “I’ll tell you my number, you save it and then text me, okay?”

Newt only shakes his head and fishes the phone out of the pocket of his coat, waiting for Thomas to tell him the numbers and saving the contact simply as “Conner Thomas”.

“Okay, now text me,” Thomas says when Newt puts the phone away. “No, seriously, Newt, text me.”

“I did,” Newt lies smoothly because Thomas looks funny when he’s flustered. He doesn't know what came over him suddenly but he doesn't fight it.

“No, you didn’t, you horrible liar. I didn’t hear the ringtone. Newt, I’m serious. Send me a message,” he sounds so exasperated that Newt already is bubbling with laughter quietly. The fact that Thomas cannot even look at him, stubbornly keeping his eyes fixated on the street adds to the blonde’s jocoseness. “Newt, reall- you send this message this instant or you’re going home on foot.”

“I’m on it, I’m on it!” Newt lets go, cackling loudly and sending the text for real; Legolas’ ‘They’re taking the hobbits to Isengard’ resounds from the dashboard recess – Newt’s goggles his eyes at it, then at Thomas’ now weirdly stiff frame and back at the dashboard. There’s only so much he can take before he erupts into a fit of uncontrollable giggles that go on and on and on until he manages to croak out:

“Are… you even… serious?!”

Thomas doesn’t laugh and Newt’s pretty sure he sees a dark blush on his cheeks.

“I’m a big fan, okay,” he sputters indignantly, jutting his lower lip out. Newt groans and covers his face with his palm.

“I can’t bloody believe ya, Thomas.”

“Well, you should get used to it, I’m not letting you go easily,” Thomas shrugs and smirks when Newt doesn’t reply, too startled.

“Yeah, well,” Newt coughs, not happy to be on the receiving end now. He hasn’t laughed so much in one day like this in a long time. He quite likes it; what he doesn’t like is the smug (knowing?) leer on Thomas’ face. He tries to regain control and peers over at the navigation device. “Why are we taking so long?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas answers, his voice weirdly strained. “I’ve never been to your place before, you know that.”

Newt knows that but he also knows all too well that the ride would take probably 20 minutes up most – traffic and traffic lights included. But it’s past midnight already, greens all the way, no traffic whatsoever. The blonde studies Thomas for a while and decides that damn, the guy must be lying.

“Thomas.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t ya?”

“On purpose? What- what would I be doing on purpose? No. Definitely not. No, look, we’re almost there, look.”

If Newt wasn’t entirely sure before, he is now. Thomas’ beating around the bush is the most obvious sign and Newt can’t comprehend how the guy doesn’t realize how obvious he is. He’s trying to prolong the ride, which, somehow, doesn’t irritate Newt that much. He’s quite flattered, actually. Blame the fun he’s had and the longest shucking passionate conversation with Thomas. He could get used to that, hanging out with Thomas and all. It has been –  nice .

When they – finally – pull over in front of Newt’s apartment complex, he’s reluctant to leave the car. He feels quite sheepish and there might be a note of awkwardness swirling somewhere around him when he unfastens the seatbelt and puts his hand on the door handle. The fact that Thomas doesn’t say anything doesn’t help.

“So, ugh,” Newts starts.  Great, mate, that was bloody smooth . “Thanks for everything, Thomas. Like, really. For the supper and the, um. Fun after. And for the ride.”

“No prob, man,” Thomas smiles at him warmly, eyes crinkling and it’s only then that Newt notices he hasn’t got his hipster glasses on (and probably didn’t wear them all day). It suits him better. “I’m not that much of a dick, am I?”

“I thought we established that some time ago,” Newt smiles back; cannot help himself not to.

“Better to find out from experience,” Thomas laughs softly. “Anyways, it was great fun today. Hope we could repeat it sometime?”

“Definitely,” the determination in Newt’s voice is so strong that it startles even him himself. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime.”

A few lingering seconds later Newt opens the door and gets out of the car. When he’s halfway to his apartment complex, he looks back involuntarily – Thomas’s still there and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!” he yells out and waves at Newt vigorously.

A grin splits the blonde’s face and he calls back “Goodnight, Tommy!”

♣

A shower, three pages in the MO Word document, and half a cup of tea later Newt still tries to hide a smile (and erase the nickname accident from his memory). His considerations about the implied reader keep him on a good track until his phone buzzes and he reads the message (‘a dot, newt? did you really send me a fucking dot?’).

The man doesn’t reply and turns back to his laptop, but now with a wide grin apparent on his face.

♣

“I saw Thomas befriended you on Facebook,” Minho inquires, his voice muffled by a thick scarf wrapped – literally – around his head. It’s a weekend, and two of them are enjoying a free Saturday, walking down an alley in a park, dead leaves rustling under their feet; the air is crispy and pretty much freezing, but Newt quite likes it.

“He did,” he agrees after some time. “Told him it was a stupid idea since I don’t use that buggin’ account. Seriously, I logged in for the first time in like six months, only to accept his invitation.”

Thomas could be bloody stubborn if he wanted to - Newt learned quickly it was better to agree to whatever he came up with right away if you didn’t want to be on the receiving end of constant whining. He also liked to text. A lot. Newt didn’t even want to think how much higher the bill he would have to pay this month.

“Ooooh, so ya talked to him, huh?” Minho smirks dangerously, poking Newt in the side. The blonde glares at him and bumps back into him, pretending that he did it only to avoid and make more place on the path for a person jogging towards them. “Are you besties now?”

“You’re my bestie,” Newt answers matter-of-factly, but he admits quietly there’s something about it. Thomas has been talking to him a lot lately, about the most stupid and trivial things, too. It’s odd since Newt’s only text buddy up ‘til now was Minho. He was weirded out at first, but now it’s like it has become a habit, not a bother. Getting a text randomly that says ‘i ran out of bread’ without capital letters and with all kinds of strange emojis included (Newt has no idea what the majority of them are or mean) is a normal thing for him now; Thomas doesn’t seem to get tired even when Newt doesn’t reply to half of the messages he sends. What is even weirder is the fact that there’s still a trace of irony and sarcasm lingering between them, and Newt finds himself telling Thomas off more often than he tells off Minho – which is quite a thing, considering Minho’s unusual type of humour and the fact that they’ve been friends for several years now and counting. 

The friendship with Thomas is something different, something that Newt cannot quite put his finger on yet. Or ever, for that matter. He would lie if he said he didn’t enjoy it, though. His life maybe isn’t  that  much different or better, but it seems kind of healthier now. Minho likes to say that Newt doesn’t have to feel like a socially disabled loser now and Newt usually slaps him for that across the head or pinches his forearm until it bruises, but he agrees. If someone were to ask him, he’s ready to admit he needed that, however cliché the statement might sound.

“Thomas is someone else, then?” the question is like whiplash, slapping Newt across the face, making his head snap back to his friend. Minho’s eyes seem bigger than normal, staring at him without blinking, demanding the – obvious, really, what is he even thinking – answer.

“Are you on acid?” Newt deadpans, unbelieving. “You are my best friend. Thomas is my friend, why would you even think he’s someone more important?”

The man gapes at him for a moment, before he raises his hands defensively and shakes his head. “Mate, chill out! I wasn’t jealous-“

“You should be, slinthead, we’re best mates, okay,” Newt interrupts, grumbling grudgingly so as not to turn out as a complete moron.

“-I was just suggesting, you know. That could be good.”

“Good? What?”

“For you to, ya know. Like, get to the next level. With Thomas.”

“Are you bloody serious?” incredulous, Newt’s eyebrows wander so high up that he feels like his face stretches as far as it can, as he observes Minho to see any signs of mockery. He finds none.

“I just thought since he’s already made an impact on you,” Minho explains slowly as though he was talking to a child. “That you actually let him be yer friend – which, by the way, I should tattoo an ‘I told you so’ on your forehead because I shuckin’ told you he was a good guy – that you could take a chance.”

“I cannot fucking believe you,” Newt rubs his forehead with the insides of his palms furiously. He didn’t expect something like that. He didn’t expect to have a talk about his (nonexistent) love life and Thomas at the same time . Un-fucking-believable . “I would never think about Thomas like… like that. I don’t do relationships.”

“Does he know that?”

“I sodding swear to god, Minho, if-“

“Slim it, blondie, just kidding. Perhaps. Just consider it sometime, maybe.”

“I’m going home, Minho.”

♣

Newt doesn’t really go home but they’re mostly silent until they part ways some time later. They don’t exchange a single text, or a phone call, or a Skype message, or  nothing  for the next few days; Newt starts to feel bad for snapping, which for him isn’t that often. He knows Minho is probably just waiting for him to calm down and text him first but he can’t bring himself to do it. Newt realizes he was (still is) unfair because Minho was just kidding, messing around, but it seemed so abstract back then that Newt really believed his best friend to be out of mind. Minho didn’t do anything wrong and he feels upset about the cold war he’s started with his snapping without thinking rationally beforehand. It’s kind of overdramatic, but sometimes Newt despises how he is – the amplitude in his attitude towards people; being nice to strangers and acquaintances and then getting snappy and annoyed with people he’s friends with. He should work on that. (Newt cannot pretend, though, that Minho’s seemingly innocent ‘Does he know that?’ swirls somewhere around his mind, reappearing atop other thoughts in the most inappropriate and unexpected moments.)

Sitting in the office is unbearable when Newt knows he hasn’t spoken to his best friend in almost four days, and the fact that the meetings of group A have become more frequent with the deadline coming up (meaning Newt interacts with people other than Minho  a lot ) adds up to his guilt even more. When Emma gets out for lunch break Newt closes the segregator he’s been working on for the past thirty minutes and decides to go and apologize, because, really. He’s at the door when they fling open and Thomas’s there.

“Hi,” he smiles at Newt. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a coffee with me and Teresa?"

“Sounds nice, but I can’t,” Newt shakes his head and pushes at the boy’s chest lightly so he moves out of the way. “Gotta find Minho.”

“Ooh,” Thomas follows him, looking ridiculously similar to a lost puppy, but Newt has other things to worry about right now. “Still not talking?”

“How do you know that?” a frown makes itself presentable on Newt's face for sure as he glances at Thomas.

“You’re not the only one I keep in touch with,” Thomas shrugs with a small smile. “Anyways, he’s in his room, won’t be joining us today. Good luck.” He pats Newt on the back and disappears behind the door leading to the locker room, leaving him alone again.

Newt makes the rest of the way along the corridor in a few nervous skips, knocks quickly at the right door, and enters without waiting for confirmation. The room is small – more like a janitor’s closet or something, and looks like it too, full of papers and cardboard tubes and two small desks pushed to the opposite walls. The one on the right is empty, Minho’s fellow graphic designer gone or absent (Newt’s not sure) while the one on the left is occupied by Minho himself. The man looks up from his computer, a French fry dangling comically between his lips.

“Hello,” Newt says stiffly, pushing the door closed behind his back. Minho munches and swallows with difficulty, then stares.

“I just,” the blonde starts slowly, but then reconsiders and makes up his mind.  Shuck it . “Sorry, Minho. I was being a prick.”

His friend stares some more, making Newt unbelievably giddy then sighs and runs a hand through his thick hair.

“I wasn’t exactly nice, either,” he heaves out a breath finally, but when he looks up at Newt again, he’s smiling. “ I’m sorry, too.”

Cursing himself for being a moron and not setting things straight earlier, Newt allows himself to smile and he knows they’re good. He steps farther and takes the unoccupied chair; without a word, Minho hands him a plastic plate with a mound of fries. They eat in silence until Newt finishes up and points his gaze back at the boy.

“Thomas knew we had it… rocky.”

“I might have talked to him,” if he didn’t know better, Newt could have sworn Minho’s blushing. But that’s not Minho’s thing, so he’s probably slightly bothered at the most. “Told you he was a good bloke,” Newt nods only and Minho continues. “Which is why I thought we should hang out.”

“Hm?”

“Drink some, maybe light up your hookah or something?” Minho looks at him with something akin to hope in his dark eyes. “We ain’t be having time in the next few weeks, so why not? We could ask Thomas.”

“That’s…” Newt huffs out thoughtfully. Besides the fact that he feels that he owes Minho for the cold war in the last four days, the idea sounds quite appealing. He could use some fun of this kind. “Pretty fine, I guess.”

Chapter Text

That’s how Newt finds himself cleaning up his apartment right after he finishes work and one lecture on the history of artistic doctrines. He picks strewn articles of clothing up, vacuums and mops the floor, then empties the garbage bin, knowing very well it will probably fill up pretty quickly. He hadn't even turned on his laptop today – as soon as he entered his apartment, he decided that one, writing-free day wouldn't do much harm.

Minho sends him a text that they’ll come as soon as he finishes his own classes and Newts throws himself on the couch. So Thomas will be there, too. He wasn’t sure, leaving everything to Minho – buying snacks and booze included, but since his friend has used plural, it’s pretty obvious. Newt isn’t exactly excited, but he guesses that someone could possibly describe him as pumped up. Well, okay, maybe he IS excited, Newt muses reluctantly, sinking deeper into the pillow he (again) dragged with himself from his bedroom. He just needs a few drinks and that's all.

An annoyingly persistent noise jerks Newt up – seconds? – later and he literally needs a moment to localize where he is and what’s going on. When he finally recognizes it’s the sound of the doorbell, the man pushes himself off of the couch with some trouble and lazily shuffles to open the door.

“Ya had a nap, you lil’ wanker,” Minho exclaims accusingly as soon as he sees him; Newt steps back as his friend ushers Thomas inside, both of them loaded with plastic bags full of stuff.

“Accidentally,” Newt agrees, his voice a little hoarse. He doesn’t know how he fell asleep since he’s not a person who sleeps easily during the day - and with his current fully packed schedule and frequent all-nighters, it’s even more unusual. “Geez, how much did you guys buy?”

“A lot,” Thomas sends him a toothy grin when he’s done putting his horrid jacket and even more horrid hat aside. “We’ve go-“

“You tell him, I need a wee,” Minho says quickly and trots to the bathroom, leaving the two alone in the small corridor. Newt helps Thomas with the bags and leads him towards the kitchen, the younger boy trailing behind him with a curious expression apparent on his face.

“Anyways,” Thomas continues when they’re unpacking the shopping. “We’ve got vodka and three six-packs of beer and chips, an– wait, you British lot call it crisps, right? Ridicu- oww, okay, okay! So, chips, peanuts, coke, some soda, cookies…”

Newt doesn’t bother saying anything, just quietly acknowledges Thomas’ babble after swatting him across the head, taking the products from him, and pouring them into differently-sized bowls. “What’s that?” he asks finally, noticing a bag which’s contest Thomas refrains from giving him.

“It’s our dinner, Thomas is gonna cook,” Minho replies, emerging from the bathroom and joining them in the kitchen. He leans back against the counter, obviously with no intention of helping them. Newt looks at him, then down at the ingredients, and finally at Thomas.

“Are you sure?” he frowns. “We’re not here to bloody force ya in the kitchen, you know.”

“Worry not, it’s a rice casserole, takes up half an hour max,” Thomas assures with a smile. Newt is skeptical at first, but it seems genuine so he lets it be. After that, Minho takes matters into his own hands and decides, before they even have a chance to speak up, that they’re drinking beer and will be using strawberry molasses first.

They take the food (and the drinks) back to the living room and set it all on the low coffee table, leaving an empty spot in the middle for the pipe. Newt smirks at how mesmerized Thomas looks, observing as he and Minho prepare the hookah, pouring the water and lighting the round coal. He’s staring, wide-eyed, probably trying to memorize everything, as if it’s the first time he’s going to smoke.

“Did you do it before?” Newt asks when it occurs to him that Thomas smoking hookah for the first time might be the point. Which means it wouldn’t be good to force him to smoke.

“I did,” Thomas nods. “I’ve never seen someone lighting it up, though.”

“So you’re okay with it?” Minho asks, throwing a fast, knowing glance at Newt, apparently picking up what the blonde is thinking about. Newt contains a groan. He should have known Minho would fuck up and forget to tell Thomas that, hey, they’ll be smoking, and probably not tobacco and molasses only. What if he was against it altogether?

“Man, I’m 23,” Thomas laughs; Newt studies him carefully, but doesn’t catch any discomfort. Which is good. “I’m not an innocent special flower or anything like that, chill.”

Minho sighs out, relieved, and beams at him happily.

“Good that. Wasn’t sure how to break the news that we usually like to mix in some pot.”

He sounds so sincerely comforted now that Thomas bursts out laughing and Newt follows not long after, and they’re still laughing their arses off when Minho adds some pot to the strawberry-flavoured molasses - not too much, though - just enough to feel a bit of a difference.

It’s three beers each and two packs of crisps later when Newt finally believes that Thomas is okay with that kind of stuff. They all moved to the floor at some point, leaning against the couch and sitting close around the hookah that they put on the floor. Minho keeps exclaiming every once in a while, making Newt jump up in surprise – they’re playing random car racing and Minho is the only one taking the game this seriously. With his born competitiveness kicking in, he’s sitting on his knees, bent slightly forward, literally clawing at the pad, his eyes glued to the screen. Newt is entirely relaxed and thus doesn’t specifically pay attention to the game, playing only for the sake of it. The booze is working and so is the smoking, and it makes him feel lazy but not unpleasantly so, though the man still feels energetic, even if he’s been lounging in the same position for an hour. Thomas’ behaviour is pretty similar – Newt notices he doesn’t play seriously either, his eyes half-lidded when he puffs out perfect rings of white smoke, the pad in his right hand and the pipe in the left (the perfectly round smoke rings are the final sign that assures Newt that Thomas has done that before).

Newt puts the pad away, ignoring Minho’s protests, and turns more toward Thomas, taking the pipe from him. He inhales deeply until his eyes lose focus and dizziness clouds up his mind, then exhales slowly, watching the vanishing swirls of the smoke.

“How do you do that?” he asks Thomas. The brunette looks over at him for a few seconds but doesn’t stop playing.

“How do I do what?”

“Those smoke rings,” Newt waves a hand in the air but has a little less control over it than normally, so he gives up after a moment. “I can never bloody do that.”

Thomas shrugs but also pauses the game, which has Minho grumbling at both of them (“Making me play with the computer, some great friends you are") as he changes the settings of the game. “You have to know how to.”

“So there’s like a technique?” Newt is genuinely surprised. (Or just stoned, he can’t tell for sure.) “Didn’t realize. That’s probably why I never managed them.”

“Probably,” Thomas snickers, barking a short laugh at him. He pries the waterpipe from Newt’s languid fingers and puts its end near his mouth. “You have to inhale and then when you exhale, you’ve got to do it from the back of your throat. Kind of like you were coughing?” he puts the pipe in his mouth and breathes in deeply; his lips form an o when Thomas is ready to puff the smoke out and he does it slowly, demonstrating to Newt how it should look. Newt is hypnotized, looking at Thomas's lifted chin and his craned neck with a prominent Adam’s apple and veins, and eventually, a perfect circle moves past his lips and Newt is awed and hazy at the same time.

“See? You try it now.”

Newt tries and fails, which isn’t that great of a surprise really, and then tries again and fails for the second time. He cackles at his failure merrily and Thomas joins him, but Minho interrupts them, “Hey lovebirds, you could kind of get a room - but I’m hungry, so, Thomas, if you could get moving…?”

“Right,” Thomas raises to his feet, a ghost of a smile still on his face, and moves to the kitchen. Minho scoots over to Newt, studies him carefully for a while, and then almost yells.

“Damn. You’re wasted, Newt.”

“True,” there’s no point in arguing when Newt feels this prickling sensation coursing through his body, the one that usually appears when he drinks (and smokes, for that matter) and his eyelids feel heavy and he cannot concentrate. He’s completely at ease at that, which is good. Minho takes the hookah pipe from him while Newt slips a little bit lower, leaning heavily on his friend. They sit like that, Newt’s head resting on Minho’s muscled shoulder, the pipe coursing between them in clouds of white smoke. Minho is speaking and Newt replies absentmindedly (probably gibberish, too), until he realizes he should probably help Thomas since  Thomas  is the guest.

“Gonna check on Tommy,” the blonde murmurs, scrambling to his feet and leaving Minho and the water pipe to themselves.

His step is wonky and not thanks to the limp this time, but he makes it to the kitchen in one piece. Thomas is fussing over something on the counter, the oven warming up or already warming  something  up, Newt cannot tell.

“Do you need any help?” he asks, standing beside the younger man and gluing his eyes to what turns out to be a salad that Thomas is mixing.

“I’m already done,” the man replies, pouring the dressing in and setting the bowl aside. “Ten minutes more and it’s ready.”

“Awesome,” Newt smiles lightly, turning around and leaning on the counter the way Minho has done before. “Sorry for being a shite host, though.”

“Nah, you’re not so bad,” Thomas chuckles. “For real, though, I said I would cook, so I did.”

“So you did,” Newt repeats under his breath and notices the nice smell in the air the smell that’s not the strawberry smoke). Lured by it he gets closer to the oven and squats down to look through the glass. He can see the casserole dish but it’s covered with a lid, so he can’t see the food itself. “It smells good.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

When Newt’s stomach twists in anticipation he stands up and wobbles, but Thomas’ arm reaches out to steady him.

“You’ve had it good, haven’t you,” Thomas smiles, his hand never leaving Newt’s forearm. The blonde is grateful 'cause the dizziness comes back and he has to close his eyes for a second before he can focus on anything again.

“My eyes,” he gestures helplessly, trying to explain his state. No one has seen him like that besides Minho, should he be ashamed? He should, probably, but Newt remembers that Thomas is his friend now, too, so he supposes it shouldn’t matter. “They’re-“

“What’s wrong with them?” Thomas squeezes his forearm for a second and is that a hint of concern in his voice?

“They’re okay, it’s just,” Newt sighs resigned,  how can this guy not know what I mean ? “They kinda feel like they’re not mine.”

“Open,” Thomas commands shortly and Newt does what he’s told, only to find the younger man closer to him than expected. Thomas’ hand leaves his forearm and moves to Newt's chin. Newt holds his breath as the man keeps his chin between his fingers so he can’t turn his face away, then peers into his eyes. After what seems like decades, Thomas moves away and Newt can finally breathe again.

“Your eyes are fine,” Thomas states. Newt might be drunk but he can see that he desperately tries not to laugh. “You’re just stoned.”

“I know I bloody am,” Newt hisses grudgingly. “That’s what I was tryin’ to say, okay? They just can’t focus on anything.”

“Whatever you say,” Thomas is clearly mocking him and that makes Newt so,  so  mad. He rubs at his brow, totally exasperated.

“Like you’ve never felt that way?”

“No, not really. Not that I can recall,” Thomas answers, leaning back at smirking cheekily at him. There’s only so much Newt can do before he punches him, and Thomas is crossing the line already.

“Right, how could I forget, this is what the hipster glasses are for, hm?” Newt spits out, poking him in the arm. Thomas flinches back with a yelp and a low chuckle before he replies.

“These?” the boy taps the black frames with one finger. “They’re fake. All plastic.”

This has got to be the stupidest thing Newt has heard in the longest time. He stares at Thomas incredulously, carefully studying the pale face (and lots and lots of moles) that’s partially obscured by the ugly-arse glasses. They’re so pretentious – Newt can’t wrap his head around it – why would anyone want to wear this hipster brood if they didn’t have to?

Abruptly, he steps closer to Thomas who tenses visibly, startled by his sudden movement. Newt bites at his lower lip and ponders for a moment if the idea isn’t too invasive or something, but concludes that even if it is, Thomas will have to live with that. He reaches up and tugs the offensive gasses off of the man’s face, then runs his hand briefly through Thomas’ bangs, smoothing them to the side. The heel of his palm grazes Thomas’ forehead on accident – his skin is cool and his hair is  soft , and Newt’s not sure where those thoughts come from, but he breathes in deeply, the pleasant smell of the food mingling with the scent of Thomas’ cologne, overwhelming him and pairing up with his dizziness. He lingers for a moment, absentmindedly looking at Thomas who looks back, confused, before he retreats half a step back.

“That’s so much better,” Newt states finally, his voice quieter than he expected it. “Tommy, all handsome and stuff.”

“You think I’m handsome?” Thomas asks, seemingly bemused. But Newt knows he needed a moment to recover from his shock and he feels triumphant, even though the gesture was spontaneous and wasn’t meant to cause any reaction. He looks at Thomas for a while, eyeing him up and down; at his defined jawline and long neck, at his strong arms visible thanks to the rolled-up sleeves of the t-shirt he’s got on, and at the skinny jeans and decides that, yeah. Thomas might be quite a looker.

“Of course he does, don’t be so modest, shank,” Minho pops up into the conversation, entering the kitchen. He’s smiling goofily and his eyes are sparkling crescents and Newt’s glad he’s not the only one who went a little overboard. “You’re a beautiful little boy,  Tommy .” The stress on the nickname doesn’t miss Newt’s ears. He knows it’s aimed at him and he guesses he will have to remind Minho that he might be stoned, but he is not stupid. “Anyway, huns, where’s the food?”

♣

After they eat the whole casserole at once, Minho says Thomas has to catch up and they move back to the living room taking the, nicely chilled by now, Absolut with them. They ran out of both the molasses and the pot so they stick with drinking, finishing their beers, and starting on the vodka pretty quickly (which can’t be that great of an idea in the end). It’s all nice and cheery and Newt enjoys himself a lot, sprawled comfortably on the couch, a glass in his hand as he watches Minho and Thomas battling against each other at some war game Thomas brought with him. He can’t tell what time it is, yet he keeps sipping his perfectly mixed drink (Minho is the best at these, Newt has to give him that), even though he knows there’ll be work tomorrow and that he will be obliged to wake up not only Minho, but probably also Thomas. But if he has to be honest with himself, he doesn’t give a damn. Limiting his life to only his work and his studies like he had been doing for the past few months wasn’t the best idea. He likes it now.

“Ya, my dear young friend, suck balls at this,” Minho announces after their sparing is finished, putting the pad away and hoisting himself on his arms on the couch next to Newt, who hunches a bit, allowing the man to throw an arm around his shoulder. There’s a slur in his friend's voice and if the sudden need to touch anyone near wasn’t a clue, it is a sign that Minho is very drunk. Newt knows better than to resist a drunk Minho and allows himself to be half-cuddled. He doesn’t do such things too often, but Minho, with his liking for what he calls skinship and what supposedly is a part of his culture, is the touchy-feely type more than he’s not, so Newt’s quite used to random slaps, or high-fives, or pats or hugs. He doesn’t mind.

“Everyone sucks balls at  everything  when they’re playing with you,” Thomas says matter-of-factly and also sits on the couch, cradling a little back and forth when he tries to reach his glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” Minho laughs and gulps from Newt’s drink, who digs his elbow into his ribs for it. Minho only laughs some more and shifts, accidentally leaning on Newt’s bad leg. Needles of sharp pain wander down to his toes and Newt jerks up, hissing louder than he intended (he didn’t intend at all). “Shit, sorry Newt, damn it! Sorry, are you okay?” Minho is looking into his eyes now, face contorted in concern, studying the blonde for any signs of anything really. Newt pats him on the shoulder and pushes lightly because Minho is too close for comfort, with his breath reeking of pure alcohol and heat radiating off of his body.

“I’m fine,” the man assures, guiding Minho back into the backrest, Minho's arm still firmly placed around him. “Really.”

“Okay,” Minho murmurs, but Newt can say he feels bad either way. “Really sorry, bud.”

It’s a matter of seconds when his head rocks and Minho goes limp, snuggling to Newt and snoring obnoxiously.

“That’s it for Minho,” Newt informs, not containing a fond smile that blooms on his face when he looks at his friend.

“He won’t wake up?” Thomas asks, probably a little freaked out by the whole display.

“Not a chance,” the blonde responds, giggling quietly. “He’s a deadweight once he hits sleep after he’s been drinking.”

“Do we move him to the bed?” Thomas’ eyes widen at the mere thought and Newt can’t blame him for that. Minho’s not too tall, but he works out and that's very visible.

“No way in hell, Tommy. He’s all muscle. We should leave him here,” Newt untangles himself from the heavy limbs of his friend and Thomas rushes with help. They move Minho over, putting a pillow under his head and tucking a blanket around him, and that’s the natural finish to their party.

“We should probably go to sleep, too,” Newt says, looking around at the mess (and not minding it in the slightest so far), wobbling a little as he feels the alcohol still coursing through him.

“Do we sleep in your bed?” Thomas inquires with no venom or disgust in his voice. And thank god for that, because Newt isn’t sure he would be able to manage an I’m-not-sleeping-in-one-bed-with-anyone conversation while intoxicated.

“Unless you want to sleep on the shorter end,” he replies, pointing at the messy part of the couch that’s not occupied by Minho, but by the remains of their snacks which look suspiciously sticky (Newt recalls someone knocking the coke over).

“I’ll pass,” Thomas says, turning the TV set off. “Does your leg still hurt?”

“’lil bit,” Newt replies and almost immediately is steered out of the living room towards his bedroom (he’s grateful for that), Thomas taking care of turning off the lights.

♣

Newt opens his eyes to darkness and for the first few seconds is confused about his whereabouts, but eventually finds out he’s in his bed, comfortably snuggled to his blanket.

“Tommy?” he whispers lazily, letting his eyelids droop once again. It’s warm and cozy but there is a helicopter in his head like it usually happens when he’s drunk, but fortunately, it doesn’t cause nausea.

“Yeah?” the man replies, his voice coming muffled from the other side of the bed, where, Newt supposes, he’s probably lying with his face down on the pillow.

“I can’t remember getting ‘ere,” Newt confesses happily because it hasn’t happened to him in a long time. He likes it and he likes it that he could trust Thomas with putting him to bed. So far only Minho has had his back like that.

Thomas starts laughing and Newt feels the mattress shaking a little, and there’s a funny, fuzzy feeling spreading through his chest. “Let’s say you were far into your own world, Newt,” Thomas says breathily after he’s done laughing. Newt wills one of his eyes to open and peeks over the folds of the blanket between them. The man’s head is turned towards him now, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I did not sing, did I?” Newt murmurs, smiling back.

“Nope.”

“Thank god,” he heaves out a long breath, the sleep already taking control over his body.

“Newt?” Thomas asks after a while of peaceful silence. Newt’s not even annoyed, but for a moment there he can’t find the right words to answer, mind already too fuzzy with slumber.

“Yes?”

“Were you serious about the glasses?”

Newt thinks back to the moment in the kitchen, trying to rationally compare Thomas’ face with and without the horrid gadget, up close, the way he had seen it when he took them off of his nose. “One hundred percent,” he confirms after a while.

“Okay,” Thomas huffs and shifts a bit. “I just-“

The sleep is almost here but Thomas stops weirdly and that makes Newt a tad bit more sober, only to keep the words flowing,

“Hm?”

“There was this… person. They told me I looked better like that so I got used to the glasses.”

“That’s stupid,” Newt muses, not caring if he’s being mean.  That is stupid . No one should be obliged to change only because a person they care for wishes for it, and that’s what Newt believes in wholeheartedly. That might be the reason why he has never been in a relationship longer than three months, but he’s too drunk and too interested in Thomas’s words to dwell on that matter right now.

“I guess. Would you date me with or without the glasses?”

Newt finds enough strength to prop up on one elbow and look down at Thomas, lying there in the darkness, waiting for an answer.

“Why won’t you find out?” he mumbles with a slight, lopsided smirk that appears as soon as Thomas’ face goes from surprised to dumbfounded. Newt laughs to himself and turns around, covering himself up. He’s not big on teasing and there is no real meaning behind these words, but it somehow fits with the atmosphere and the moment, and Thomas was just pretty much asking for a remark of this kind. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

Chapter Text

What is weird is that Newt wakes up not to his usual alarm – which is a hard-to-miss, nicely cut version of Chop suey – but to a rambling noise coming somewhere from his flat. He needs some time to let his stomach settle a little before he sits up groggily, rubs his face, and looks briefly at Thomas, who’s lying dangerously close to the other edge of the bed, one of his hands dangling to the carpeted floor. They still have got some time so the blonde decides to leave him for the time being and rises to his feet. Newt’s bones pop loudly (and quite painfully, too) when he drags himself out of the bedroom. There’s a headache pounding around his skull as if his brain, in turn, decided to throw a party, which has Newt groaning at the stupid thought and the dull ache when he enters the living room. There’s yesterday’s mess but there’s no Minho.

“Minho?” the man calls out softly, looking around with furrowed brows. There’s no answer at first, but then another fit of rambling noise reaches his ears and Newt turns towards the bathroom.

The door is slightly ajar and when Newt pushes at it, it reveals a shirtless, sweaty Minho, kneeling on the tiles and hugging the toilet bowl with one arm.

“Not… a word,” Minho manages to croak out, voice extremely hoarse before he dips his head again, and the sound of someone releasing the contents of their stomach reaches Newt’s ears. He sighs and goes back to the kitchen for a glass of water and a clean, small towel that he wets under the tap before returning to his best friend to take care of him.

After approximately half an hour Minho has shoved everything out of himself and they’re sitting, both pretty dazed, on the couch, trying to motivate themselves to at least  move .

“When do we have to be ready to leave?” Minho asks, resignation apparent in his tone, but before Newt can reply there’s a shriek coming from his bedroom accompanied by muffled music. Thomas emerges from the room, white as a sheet, holding Newt’s ringing phone as far from himself as his reached-out arm allows him.

“Who the hell would set something like that as their alarm?! It scared the shit out of me, man!”

Minho and Newt burst out laughing as Thomas throws himself on the couch beside them, shoving the phone grudgingly into Newt’s hands, gurgling to turn the alarm off. When Newt does they’re back to staring at nothing in particular, the three of them, but this time Minho and Thomas are speaking softly. They’re both quite peachy, surprisingly – Newt wonders if he’s the only one with a raging headache but doesn’t spoil the mood, instead setting on listening to their hushed voices, which are actually pretty comforting.

Minho is the first to call dibs on the shower and when he’s back in the bathroom Newt and Thomas clean up briefly, pack the litter into plastic bags, then sweep the floor.

“Should we make breakfast?” Newt asks at some point, grateful that the pain in his head finally subsided. He doesn’t feel bad exactly, but he’d rather not risk filling his oversensitive stomach with anything, or endanger himself to stronger smells.

“Nah, I don’t think I can eat just yet,” Thomas yawns, wandering around the room and searching for his things. He looks utterly disheveled, hair standing in every possible direction and pajamas rumpled, with bags under his eyes and his moles more prominent than usual. He smiles at Newt apologetically while scratching at his belly, and the blonde has to admit it’s an adorable sight. “But go on if you’re hungry.”

“No, I cannot eat yet either,” Newt shakes his head, chasing the stubborn thoughts about how endearing Thomas looks away. He spots the glasses clutched in the man’s left hand and practically skips towards him, prying his fingers open and, yet again, stealing the awful thing away. “And I was bloody serious about these.”

“Were you?” Thomas beams stupidly but doesn’t fight him. “I was serious, too.”

“About what?”

“With my question when we were in bed,” Thomas replies slyly and Newt cannot stop the heat that suddenly floods his cheeks and neck. He fumbles with the glasses in between his fingers, clears his throat but can’t build up the power to move back.

“What happened when you were in bed?” Minho asks as he steps into the living room, bringing a gust of warm air and a gentle smell of soap with himself. Newt feels a lump in his throat but Thomas laughs only, slaps Minho’s arse, and walks into the bathroom, giggling a “That’s for us to know and for you to find out, Min,” as a reply.

Minho raises his thick eyebrows and looks pointedly at Newt, who’s at a loss for words.

“What actually happened?” he asks, poking Newt accusingly in the shoulder. “What is  Tommy  talking about, Newt?”

“Nothing, really,” Newt spits out too fast, causing a knowing smile to slowly appear on the man’s face. The level of embarrassment starts to swallow him and Newt curses in his head because there’s no reason to feel awkward. But he’s not very fond of how Thomas seemed to have picked up the habit of teasing in such a short time, making him considerably uncomfortable indeed.

“Riiight,” Minho muses, letting the matter go but still giving him that clever, cunning look. “But he’s a  Tommy  now, huh? Man, did he grow on ya.”

“Yes,” Newt mutters to himself more than to Minho, spinning the thought over and over in his head. The glasses draw his eyes again and after a moment of consideration, he breaks them in half. “Yes, he did.”

♣

Two days later Newt still suffers from the aftermath of his massive hangover that probably mingled somewhere along the way with a – mild, but still – cold. His eyes are unpleasantly puffy, watering constantly to the point that he has to wear sunglasses in bloody November. Courses of pulsing pain appear randomly in his temples, last a dozen minutes at least and he feels beat overall. He wants to just lie in and stay in bed for the whole day, enjoying a lazy Saturday like he usually would, but Frank ringed, calling in a meeting for the whole of ‘group A’ and Newt heads out, slipping on a thin layer of ice as soon as he gets out of his apartment building. It’s only 8 am – the temperature during the night must have dropped below zero and the hoarfrost hasn’t disappeared completely. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the city is  clogged , the citizens not prepared for such weather. Newt’s trip to the bus stops takes him 6 minutes at most but he already sees the horrendous traffic – mind that he doesn’t live in the city centre – that goes on and on along the streets, making thousands of people late for school and work, or whatever duties they have to fulfill.

His bus is late, almost 15 minutes. Newt feels shrill shivers wandering down his spine and makes up his mind to take the longer route by the tube, hoping that the tracks haven’t frozen during the night.

By the time he gets off the train, his limp is so heavy that he almost gives up and has a fleeting thought that maybe he should consider using a walking cane in extreme scenarios. The only thing that keeps him going is the prospect of fresh coffee that Newt is going to brew for himself once in the museum, and the fact that he’s not late – he still has time before the meeting starts.

One of the security guards opens the back door for him, Newt gets in as quickly as possible with a curt nod. After he leaves his winter clothing in the locker room he practically jogs to the staff room, throwing the door open forcefully. But there’s already someone at the coffee machine.

The swearword is halfway out of Newt’s mouth when he notices that that someone is actually Thomas and he thanks all of the gods that have ever existed for that.

“Can I have one, too?” he asks without a greeting, shuffling closer and stopping next to the man. Thomas smiles at him as a means of hello and nods, and Newt swears he could just bloody kiss him for that at the moment.

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you, ohmygodddd,” when Thomas hands him the mug and starts preparing the second coffee for himself, Newt heaves out a long breath and sinks his lips in the hot beverage, burning his tongue in the process, but gulps down half at once. “I needed that.”

“I can see that,” Thomas grabs the sleeve of Newt’s shirt and pulls him towards the table, where they sit down. “You don’t look very well. Still hungover?”

“And sick a bit, I guess,” Newt answers. All three of them were pretty lifeless the day before, turning on something like a zombie mode, if he’s to be honest; but he can see that Thomas has fully recovered by now. He looks at the younger boy and thinks, wow , how weird is that ? That one meeting, one party-of-a-kind could do so much ice-breaking. Thomas is a friend, like  fully  and  for real  – he’s not only Newt’s friend now, but also Minho’s. And even if Newt considered him his friend for some time already, he can’t deny that something skyrocketed last night. Nothing important happened, but their acquaintance bears a bigger – significance, maybe? He has to admit, although reluctantly, that he’s fond of the idea. (And of the younger bastard himself, too.)

Thomas’ hand lifts to Newt’s forehead, checking for a fever, but finds none. “At least you’re not feverish.”

“Yeah.”

The door opens and Teresa enters, waving at them happily. She sits down on the other side of the table and looks briefly at Thomas, then points her blue eyes at Newt, who flushes, sensing what’s coming. That woman’s not careful with her words.

“You look like shit,” she says boldly. Thomas laughs out loud, patting Newt on the back comfortingly, while the blonde groans and hides his face in his hands. He doesn’t need to be reminded how badly his organism has reacted to the drinking two days before. “It’s even worse than yesterday.”

“Thanks, T. You look good yourself, too,” Newt grumbles, feigning offense.  That girl .

“Of course I do,” she flips her long hair back and chuckles along with Thomas, which has Newt fuming even more, Thomas’ caress on his shoulder blade adding more to the growing annoyance than to comfort.

“Anyways,” Teresa takes pity on him eventually, her voice switching to a more formal tone. “Do you have any idea why Frank told us to come? I thought we had everything sorted out so far.”

“Talked to him yesterday, he mentioned something about one of the last pieces being finally shipped,” Thomas says slowly. “I can’t be sure, though.”

“Would be good to finally approve the whole layout,” Newt nods. They have changed conception hundreds of times already, getting new ideas on how to build the whole space every once in a while. It was difficult to make the last changes when they still hadn’t heard from other museums, or when, for example, a museum suddenly changed their mind and wouldn’t rent a certain picture. They put lots and lots of work into designing everything, though they left a safe margin for eventual errors or changes. Newt wanted to just set to actual, physical work, especially since his stay in the office ended the day before, and he was supposed to be back to guiding trips and taking care of visitors ( damn it ).

“That would be perfect,” Thomas agrees. “It doesn’t feel like we’re moving forward when the only thing we do is draw those stupid plans.”

Teresa laughs and opens her mouth to say something, but the door flings open and the Louie guy (Newt will finally have to ask Thomas what his name is, since the man doesn’t wear an ID) enters, followed shortly by Frank.

“Hello everyone!” the group leader greets brightly and they settle around the table, scattering papers and plans and tables and even little plastic models as soon as they get to work. Newt wails inwardly, sensing it’s going to be a long-arse day.

♣

Two hours later Newt is stiff and tired, but they haven’t even moved to the most important part, meaning getting the confirmation of which pieces are available for them. He’s propped on one elbow, shielding his face with his left hand and gripping a pen in the right one,  pretending  he’s taking notes, when in reality he has lost track of the actual conversation. He feels a gentle nudge in the ribs and turns his head ever so slightly to Thomas, who mouths an ‘are you okay?’ at him. He confirms, though ‘okay’ is the last term he would use to describe his state. There’s no time to complain.

“…but what about the ceiling?” Teresa’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he sends Thomas a reassuring half-smile and tries to focus on her words. “Since we’re pretty much constructing the whole area it would be best to do something with that, too.”

“Good point,” Frank agrees, fumbles with his notes, and looks at them expectantly. “Any ideas?”

For a while, it’s only silence but then the so-called Louie speaks up. “We could recreate Duchamp, maybe?”

Newt frowns, not getting the man’s point. Neither Thomas nor Teresa says anything, while Frank waits for Louie to continue.

“What do you mean by that?” the blonde finally asks because the guy doesn’t seem to have caught the drift and doesn’t explain.

“We could hang something that will look like his sacks of coal under the ceiling. It will fill the space quite nicely,” the Louie guy explains, his voice confident as if he were proud of himself. Newt looks at him incredulously, because –  is he even serious ? The man looks about 26, maybe 28 years old, so he’s older than him, Teresa, and Thomas, and yet he spills out bullshit. The blonde can’t find the words to express his bewilderment.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas voices out before Newt does, weirdly strained. “But that’s just bullshit.”

Teresa’s eyes widen and move back and forth between Tommy and the Louie guy; Frank’s so surprised that he looks like a cat got his tongue, and Newt just wants to laugh because Thomas has said out loud exactly what he was thinking.

“How’s that bullshit?” Louie asks, brows furrowed and his tone raising dangerously. “At least that’s some idea, but what would you know when you’re just an inte-“

“Not a good one, though,” Newt cuts off, not only the older guy but also Thomas, whose back straightened up menacingly, really, and he’s ready to retort, and not with kind words probably. He glances at his younger friend, eyes sending a warning before he continues. “I mean, Duchamp exhibited the sacks in 1938 and we are, clearly, in charge of the ‘50s and the ’60s, so there’s no connection.”

“And we are not recreating surrealists, or did you forget?” Thomas asks, his tone more similar to a hiss. Newt needs to laugh, but he restrains himself, glaring at Thomas yet again; the brunette is visibly boiling with anger, waiting for another stupid word that will set him off. Newt lets go of the pen and lets his hand fall under the table discreetly, where it seeks the sleeve of Thomas’ button-down and grips at it, tugging warningly.

“Tommy’s right. There’s no connection – our exhibition doesn’t have a special direction or theme, right? It’s more of a profile through different currents in art, so since Duchamp’s exposition isn’t even from the same decade, I don’t think it’s a wise idea to include something like that.”

Newt just smirks when he feels Thomas’s burning gaze in the back of his head, and when he sees Teresa’s triumphant smile and Frank’s abashed grimace.

“Well, Luke,” the supervisor starts carefully (so that’s his name! Newt takes a mental note, at the same time musing that Minho wasn’t that far with making up ‘Louie’). “I think Thomas and Newt are right. So, um, anything else?”

“We could just hang white panels,” Teresa says. “It’s not like most people will figure out the reference, whatever it will be.”

“I think that’s quite good, actually,” Newt says quickly preventing Luke from saying something dumb again. “But we could somehow connect them with the ‘70s section to create some kind of a flow. I dunno…?”

“They could go with a text,” Thomas perks up, flinching a bit but not freeing his sleeve from between Newt’s fingers. “Maybe like, ‘white cube’ with an arrow pointing to the ‘70s area? It’d be intriguing for people who know what the white cube is, and also connected to when it surfaced.”

“And an implication to the conceptual art,” Newt adds, turning over, back to Thomas with a smile to see him smiling back widely. It feels –  nice  to have someone who agrees with him on so many matters that are important to him. A warm feeling spreads over Newt’s body, easing the crankiness; it’s brilliant to know that Thomas likes not only the same painters. He needed someone who would share the same interests. Of course, there was always Minho, but since he wasn’t majoring in art history specifically but in workshop graphics he wasn’t as interested in pure theory as Newt. Thomas’ eyes get even warmer, somehow, and Newt’s smile widens when he gets a feeling that the younger boy thinks the same thing. 

Frank’s eventual exclamation of approval ends their moment and the man says they should move to the storeroom to  finally  see the sent exhibits.

“Thanks,” Thomas says quietly when they trail behind the remaining three, a little bit slower because Newt’s leg acts up, even though he feels a bit better thanks to the heated conversation. “The guy’s got some nerve. And. It was total bullshit.”

“I know, bloody hell,” Newt laughs shortly just as silently. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Thomas’ smile is contagious and Newt’s spirits rise even more, so they giggle all the way down to the cellar.

Chapter Text

When they enter the storeroom it's dim, but there’s enough light to see stacks of paintings and sculptures that are not on display right now, kept professionally and carefully. Newt’s never been there – he didn’t need to, with the conservators and the security guards being the ones to, respectively, take proper care of the pieces and to move them if need be.

Frank ushers them to the corner where in special racks sit the shipped pictures; Newt quickens his pace, tugging Thomas along with him. His eyes roam hungrily over the exhibits which he would probably never have a chance to see in real life and he has to almost force himself not to start ripping the transparent packaging off. He barely hears Frank (“For starters only, we’ve got Vladimir Boudnik, Eduard Ovcacek, Robert Rauschenberg, Yoko Ono, Tadeusz Kantor… We’ll be getting the prints with the photographs of Fluxus’ first festival tomorrow, too, so we-“), he’s so mesmerized by the mere prospect of being able to curate those in a way that he doesn't pay attention.

Newt doesn’t say much when Frank has them sit down on the floor and starts listing every single item they will include in the exhibition. They start mapping out their floor, either confirming earlier ideas or rearranging them, often redoing everything from scratch, until almost two hours later they are officially finished. 

Newt’s neck prickles with pain from hunching over the plans and he’s glad when Frank finally calls it a day. They gather everything up; Luke’s the first to get (the hell out), Teresa following soon after – Newt has heard her mumbling half an hour before that she had a date. He stands up slowly, not to hurt his leg more, and asks Frank quickly if he can stay for a bit more. Frank smiles, pats him on the shoulder and agrees, leaving after Thomas.

Newt takes his time to inspect the shipped exhibits as thoroughly as the rack and the packaging let him. He feels an unhealthy flush gracing his cheeks as the excitement bubbles inside of him. This will be something, something big that he helps to create – something pretty much  dear  to him.

He takes his time walking around different rooms (he even peeks into the conservator’s lab – too afraid to go further) and eventually finds himself in the room with pieces from the nineteenth century. The unseen sketches and paintings, even those damaged, take Newt’s breath away. The ambiance is overwhelming – the sheer atmosphere of being in the presence of physical traces of past years, whether in the form of not necessarily successful sketches or drawings, is utterly mesmerizing; Newt’s breath hitches in his throat and he’s afraid to move. It feels almost as if he were in a temple, the experience almost on a spiritual level. He’s got to say, for the thousandth time, that he loves his work.

Newt stops before a small painting – or rather a copy, as far as he can tell. Even though it’s not big and on plain cardboard, and was made probably by one of the students from the art school that occasionally have classes at their museum, it has quite a strong impact on him. It brings back high school memories, back in England, when Newt was studying by himself (and for himself), rummaging through different albums with reproductions of various painters from various parts of the world. Suddenly he feels homesick, missing the place, his room, the fascination that wasn’t yet backed up by theory back then-

“This reminds me of one painter.”

Newt screams in surprise so loud, that he thinks for a moment that he spat his lungs out, and that his heart jumped out of his chest. Thomas laughs behind him, placing a comforting hand on the small of Newt’s back, and not saying anything more. The blonde turns on his heels towards him, scowling. “Do you have to bloody do that every time? Dammit.”

“It’s not on purpose,” Thomas shrugs, a smile still playing on his lips. He’s holding his clothes in the other hand, as well as Newt’s. “Anyway. Thought you were lost for a sec. I brought your things.”

“Thanks,” Newt says, absentmindedly fixing his eyes back on the painting and leaning closer to the touch. Thomas’s hand is like an anchor, keeping him glued to reality, not letting him slip back into the weird, unexplained vortex of emotions that had overwhelmed him the moment before. But the copy – it gives off something powerful - if the original is anything like the copy, then,  wow , Newt cannot even start to imagine how it would look like.

“The brushwork is excellent,” Thomas states softly after a while, again perfectly voicing out what Newt is thinking.

“Yeah,” Newt nods a bit, taking in every detail he can pick out from the thickly placed paint. The vibrant colours, luminous impastos, the depth –  all of it , it’s marvellous. “It reminds me of this painting- I don’t remember whose it was, but the title was Louvre at night, if I remember correctly.”

Heat engulfs more of him when Thomas leans closer, probably to take a better look at the painting over Newt’s shoulder. It’s comfortable, somehow; unnerving and peaceful at the same time.

“It’s Gierymski,” Thomas’ voice is oddly hoarse, hushed. Newt gives him a sidelong glance – his eyes are half closed and clouded, but he looks back at Newt without wavering, a soft, strange expression twisting his face. A single mole right under the lower lashline of his right eye draws Newt’s attention, hypnotizing him and forbidding him to move backward. “I was talking about him when I startled you.”

If he had to choose one word to describe what he’s feeling right now, Newt would have chosen awe. He wills his eyes away from Thomas and back to the copy that ejected the same associations in them, smiles (because why not), and mumbles “Yeah. Brilliant.”

They stare at the small cardboard for what feels like ages, not moving, eyes scanning the little piece. Newt’s headache has subsided somewhere along the way, he can’t be sure, and doesn’t really care; not when he feels at ease, comfortable and warm, halfway leaning on Thomas behind him, the man's hand a pleasant weight on his side.

“We should get going,” the statement is soft, breathy, and Newt closes his eyes for a moment, his brows furrowing because he knows the younger man is right. Thomas doesn’t move, though. Newt’s sure he won’t be able to be the first to break out of the trance they’ve fallen into. “Otherwise they’ll lock us here.”

“Okay,” he grumbles eventually, moving away reluctantly and rounding to take his coat. They don’t speak a word when they make their way slowly up the stairs, but Thomas hooks his arm with Newt’s, seeing the blonde struggling because of his limp.

“We did a good job today, huh?” Thomas inquires when he has escorted Newt to the bus stop. They’re standing under the booth, trying to escape the freezing wind. Newt still feels flushed and curses at his usually pale skin for making the blush stand out more. He pulls at his scarf, bringing it so high up his face that only his eyes are visible.

“We bloody did, Tommy,” his agreement is muffled against the wool which gets instantly disgustingly moist from the steam of his breath. However, the blonde doesn’t take it off, knowing that for some reason, he’ll be too awkward if he does so.

“At least it’ll slow down for a bit now,” Thomas shuffles from foot to foot, looking up at Newt hopefully. “Right?”

“I hope so,” the man laughs and after that, the talking dies.

They wait for the bus (Newt probably should tell Thomas it’s okay for him to go to the tube already; he doesn’t) and when it finally appears, Thomas jerks up. “So I’ll see you soon?”

“Yup,” Newt nods and observes as the younger one makes a weird move, reaching his hand out, but then apparently changes his mind; his hand lingers awkwardly in the air between them for a moment, before Thomas lets it fall back down to his side.

“Bye, Newt.”

“Text me later,” Newt says on impulse as a means of goodbye when his bus pulls over. He gets in and sits, looks at Thomas through the window. The man seems sheepish, standing stiffly on the pavement in that hilarious jacket of his, the tip of his nose pink from the frost with an unsure expression on his face. A sigh escapes past Newt’s lips and he shakes his head a little, sends Thomas a small smile and a wave, and then the bus is too far for him to see the younger boy.

His stomach makes a weird backflip and something like a lurch when Newt thinks back to the afternoon but decides not to ponder on it too long. The day was long and weird enough as it was, Tommy’s (and his own, too, to be completely honest) weird behaviour excluded.

♣

The words seem to be flowing from under his fingers as Newt types furiously away. He’s pretty much overwhelmed by exhaustion, but it – as well as the thermometer that showed he had a slight fever – doesn’t stop him from wrapping a blanket tightly around himself and sitting at the small desk in his bedroom, with his computer and an enormous mug of tea with raspberry syrup. When he starts the fourth page that evening, Newt decides that it might be thanks to the change of the environment – he uses the desk very rarely, usually opting for writing in the living room or sprawled on his bed. Yet today, he’s here, his legs cramped uncomfortably underneath the squeaky chair, and he doesn’t feel all that well at all, but the writing flows smoothly.

When Newt stops for a moment to gulp down some more of his tea, his cell vibrates under one of the books he brought with him; Newt smiles to himself like a teenager before he grabs the device. Normally, he would probably curse at himself acting like that – such embarrassing and utterly unreasonable behaviour – but the memories from the few previous hours flood his mind and he can’t see the point.

‘tell me the most strange thing about yourself’, the text reads and of course, it’s Thomas. Newt cackles to himself merrily before pondering for a moment and finally replying. He’s fast enough only to type half a word into his document until his phone vibrates again, but this time for longer, signaling a call. The man picks up kind of reluctantly, not knowing what Thomas would need to call him for. He hums only and waits for Thomas to say whatever he wants.

“You can’t be serious,” Thomas’ voice is muffled but chipper nonetheless, though Newt can hear a note of disbelief in it. He stifles a laugh, pushes himself farther from the desk, and leans more comfortably into his blanket.

“I am  bloody  serious, Tommy.”

“But that-“ the younger boy stutters, obviously dumbstruck. “That. How, Newt.  How?  I didn’t even think it would be possible! Hell, it is not possible!”

“Well then, here I am,” phone calls are better than texts, Newt reasons to himself - at least there’s direct contact and Newt doesn’t feel so stupid when he smiles to himself stupidly. Smiling to a text is so much more embarrassing.

“Newt,” Thomas exhales slowly as if he were trying to calm himself down. Which he probably is, given Newt’s past experience in that matter. “How can you not like chocolate?”

“I texted you it wasn’t like that,” Newt opposes, laughing softly because it always happens when he makes this revelation. No one can stay unfazed.“I like chocolate. I don’t like chocolate things.”

“Well then, you strange, strange British man, please explain to me how does this even work. Because I have no fucking idea,” Thomas almost exclaims. Newt pictures him lying on his sofa or something, one hand pushing the phone to his ear while the other one makes over-dramatic gestures in the air. “Like. Dude. What about brownies?”

“Nope.”

“Chocolate mocha?”

“Noope.”

“Chocolate cake? Cream? Milk? Shakes?!”

“These are the worst, actuall-“

“Okay, okay,” Thomas cuts him off, words coming out like little angry huffs and Newt holds himself firmly so as not to erupt into laughter. “But you can’t say no to chocolate ice cream, no?”

“How do I break this to you?” Newt mocks wonder. This is just too funny, imagining the frustrated and unbelieving Thomas somewhere on the other end of the line. “I don’t like chocolate ice cream either.”

“Maaan,” Thomas whistles loudly, the sound piercing through Newt’s phone to the point he has to move the device away from his face. “I just- man. Well, let me tell you something. There goes our first date, bam. Busted. You’re never gonna have that chance again, Newt. Sorry.”

“Our first date?” Newt’s eyebrows wander so high up his forehead that he almost starts worrying they'll get lost in his hair forever.

“Yeah. I know how disappointed you must feel right now, but, dude,” Thomas’ voice is tight with restrained laughter and Newt starts shaking himself from breathy giggles that he can’t stop from escaping. “You fucked up. No first date whatsoever.”

Newt can’t hold it anymore and starts laughing out loud, expecting Thomas to join him right away, but the younger man continues, unyielding. “We’re gonna have to move straight to the second date. Unless you tell me you don’t like Italian either, because then there’s no future for our relationship.”

“If ya don’t stop this instant I’m hanging up,” Newt manages a warning through mad giggles, his thesis (and his tea  and  his cold, for that matter), completely forgotten for the time being.

♣

It’s probably the longest phone talk Newt has ever had in his life. Thomas just can’t seem to shut up, babbling constantly and randomly changing topics and Newt finally loses patience and moves to the bed. He’s lying, folded in the covers like a pancake, hands underneath his head and Thomas put on speaker, the phone resting on his collarbone. He speaks and yawns and laughs, and curses from time to time, and laughs again, and even though it feels like razor blades are in his throat and as if someone were having a dubstep breakdown in his skull, Newt’s content. And happy. He tells Thomas to keep him from drifting off, but his eyes fall closed eventually and his responses resemble hums more than actual words; he almost misses when at some point Thomas whispers a soft goodnight and hangs up.

♣

Karma or whatever must have bitten him in the arse for getting wasted in the middle of the week and going to work hangover, because Newt doesn’t get better, seeming to have developed a real cold. He feels unwell to the point he has to call in sick, leaving his teammates to themselves until he’s better. The guilt eats him up from the inside – he’s usually not big on self-pity, but he can’t help thinking he’s a letdown, abandoning the work when there’s so much of it.

He doesn’t leave the house for three days in a row but forces himself to get out on the fourth, just to go and see a doctor (for the first time using his student insurance at that). As he suspected, it turns out to be mild flu with traces of too much stress (“You should slow down with your work and your studies, sir.”) and he needs to lie low for the next two days to get better.

When he gets back, Newt changes into his pajamas and fetches all of the bedding to the living room, along with his computer and a book (just in case). He builds a kind of a fort, putting pillows and blankets in the corner of the couch, and buries himself under a duvet between the makeshift, soft walls, feeling quite content actually. The TV’s on but the remote is nowhere to be seen so Newt settles on watching the channel that is currently on – at least three-quarters of the shows on are probably the most stupid he has ever seen in his life, but the blonde doesn’t budge and stays – not moving at all, almost lifelessly – in one place, sipping at the tea he’s brewed before.

At noon, during the lunch break, Minho pops up, bringing Newt the medicaments he has asked him via text to buy (he couldn’t be bothered to stop at the pharmacy on his way back from the doctor and Minho was happy to oblige) and dumps them on the couch along with some fruit and snacks. Which, Newt has to admit, is pretty sweet, because he didn’t ask for anything else. He touches the back of his palm to Newt’s forehead causing the man to fume slightly because he’s not a kid to have others fussing over him  this much . A lecture mashed up with a string of obscenities follows – Newt doesn’t pay much attention to it – then Minho grabs the excuse from the doctor to show it to Newt’s professor at the university and heads out after he quietly half-embraces Newt (or more, hugs Newt’s head to his belly over the backrest of the couch). “Teresa said she’ll come over after work!” Newt hears him yell before the front door closes with a loud smack.

Panic sets in and Newt looks around his den because there’s no way in hell he’s ready to have a girl come over. Visiting his place.  Seeing the mess . Newt groans out loud and slides deeper under his cover, refusing to get up. All hells may break loose but he won’t get up – Teresa will have to deal, somehow.

♣

Around 6 pm Newt gets up, with his stomach grumbling so loud he can’t hear the TV clearly, deciding to use some of the stuff Minho bought him and make some grub. He’s in the middle of cracking an egg into the pot of already boiling (instant) ramen when the doorbell rings abruptly a few times.  T .

The man shuffles over to open the door and as soon as he does his arms are full of Teresa, lots and lots of black hair, a furry coat, and a scent of floral perfume, and Newt feels kind of inundated.

“Hey, little crank,” she greets happily after she’s done hugging him – for the first time, too. Teresa scoots over and Newt stares ahead for a moment, agape, before Thomas appears before his eyes with a hello.

“This is… too much,” Newt mutters to himself, completely overpowered, and scurries inside the flat, back to the living room, where he flops on the couch, face-first. Laughter resounding from the small corridor makes him growl in his throat. He’s not sure he can deal with both Teresa  and  Tommy without having learned beforehand he’ll be the host for both of them (when they are going to make fun of the fact that his cold started with a hangover).

A few minutes pass and Newt can feel the couch dip a bit under additional weight next to him and a feathery touch appears on his shoulder blade.

“Teresa is finishing your soup,” Thomas’ amused voice comes from above and Newt tries to shake his hand off of his back, but the younger man keeps it there stubbornly, adding a little pressure and rubbing, millimeters only, back and forth. Newt wants to sit up and face the reality but he keeps half-lying, face still buried in the duvet, for some reason. “How are you?”

“Sick,” he mutters grudgingly. “You brought work, didn’t ya?”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” a bark of laughter shakes Thomas’ body; Newt feels it vibrating down to the couch. He sighs deeply, scrunches up his face for a split second, and sits up, the younger boy’s hand sliding down his back; Newt leans on it because he can and because he wants to, and that’s that, really. Thomas looks quite bewildered but shrugs it off and tugs Newt a little closer, palm resting on the blonde’s waist. Well, that’s certainly a first for Newt, but it feels good and Thomas doesn’t snicker at him, so it’s all good,  probably?  “But it’s not too much, just some more plans and we started dividing the actual work among us  during  the exhibition. And its opening.”

“Are we grouped for the Night of the Museums like we are now?” Newt asks, letting his eyes droop completely again. He feels sleepy and warm, Thomas a reassuring pressure to his left side; there’s a delicious aroma coming from the kitchen – maybe having the two as visitors isn’t that bad after all. (Not that he had any say in this.)

“We’ll tell you after you eat,” Teresa states forcefully, her sudden appearance in the room – with a tray clutched in her small hands – making Newt open his eyes again. Her eyes switch between them for a moment and the blonde can pretty much sense the tribes in her head going on overdrive, not knowing what’s going on. Since Thomas doesn’t move a centimetre even and Newt’s incredibly comfy and doesn’t give a buggin’ damn because there’s indeed  nothing  going on, he does not do anything about it. “Though I hope you do realize that you shouldn’t eat, well.  Anything  instant, Newt.”

Newt’s ready to respond but rumbles only under his nose when Thomas’ arm disappears from his back as the younger man rushes up to help Teresa settle the dishes down.

“Are you eating with me?” he asks, despite knowing that the three of them will most definitely not fill their stomachs with one small bowl of instant soup.

“We’re good, had a bite on our way here,” Thomas shakes his head and after that there’s silence, interrupted only by Newt obnoxiously slurping in the eggs.

Thomas and Teresa are still sipping on the coffees the girl has made for them when Newt finishes his supper. A surge of energy courses through his body, a nice side-effect to not being hungry anymore. He wraps himself in the duvet and falls back into the little den in the corner of the couch. The conversation starts naturally, and quite naturally moves to the most important topic and soon enough Newt’s head is buzzing with information, his brain turned to the ‘working mode’.

“The workers that Frank hired have finished all wooden easels,” Thomas says at some point, but Newt can’t pay too much attention to what he’s saying. Instead, he just observes how the younger man lounges on the couch – one of his arms lying along the backrest, with one leg curled underneath the thigh of the other; Thomas’s expression is lazy and relaxed. He’s comfortable and anyone could see that. And it makes Newt quite happy. Thomas’ eyes shift over to him and a cunning smile blossoms up on his lips. “So you’ll be missing out on the painting we’re gonna have to do tomorrow.”

“I’m devastated,” rolling his eyes for a more dramatic impact, Newt extends his hand from under the cover and punches him in the arm. Running around with a dripping brush wasn’t exactly his biggest dream (though he admits it could be fun to do something more physical for a change, even if it were only painting the easels). “Ya gotta deal without me.”

“I’ll deal alright,” Teresa snickers as Thomas laughs and pokes back at Newt’s arm. “But the question is – will Tom?” her eyes are piercing, as if they were drilling into the two of them, demanding a certain response. Newt points his gaze at the younger boy who shrugs only and smiles at him cheekily.

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Thomas makes a show of scooting closer to Newt, his hand crawling along the armrest to sneak between the pillows and rest on the nape of Newt’s neck. “I just can’t live without him, can I?”

Newt almost misses Teresa’s burst of laughter, but her reply – that he omits completely and definitely. Thomas’ fingers are long and kind of bony, but there’s a pleasant tingle right where they come in contact with Newt’s skin, and he lets himself get engrossed in the sensation – he’s always had a soft spot for anyone playing with his hair and Thomas’ hand feels just right, easing his tension and making him feel less ill and enjoyably sleepy.

Their words don’t reach him anymore and Newt zones out so much that he’s on the border of zoning off when a shuffle gets his attention. Teresa is standing up, gathering her things. “I need to get going, Newt. But I think Tom should stay with you for a while, you don’t look too well again.”

“Okay,” Newt says, restraining a frown that could give away his confusion. He feels fine, actually, thanks to the meds and the food, but he could use some company, and since Thomas doesn’t look like he’s eager to leave, he decides to take advantage of that. He supposes it was his spacing out that made Teresa think he was feeling worse. “Thomas?”

“I’ll stay,” the younger man nods and makes the tiniest move to probably show Teresa to the door (Newt cannot even care he’s being a shitty host  again ) but the girl halts him with her hand in the air.

“I know my way out,” she smiles slightly, waves them goodbye, and disappears out of the living room. A few seconds later a soft click of the front door closing announces her final departure; Thomas tilts to the side a little and his eyes examine Newt’s face for a while. The blonde stares back.

“Do you need anything? Medicine, tea, food?” Thomas puts a little pressure on Newt’s neck as if he wants to force a genuinely honest answer out of him. Newt huffs, not able to stop a little chuckle at how everyone seems so concerned with his health; he’s quite flattered. It was the first time Teresa had visited him, and she’d almost  cooked for him , for god’s sake. If that’s not something, Newt doesn’t know what is.

“Nah. I’m okay. Ya sure about staying here? It’s past 8, man.”

“Positive,” crossing his legs on the couch and pressing more firmly into the cushions, Thomas answers as if the change of position carries more finality than his words do. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. And, anyway, T told you I can’t live without you, didn’t she?” he bites down on his lower lip and looks at Newt with a smug smirk, his eyes mockingly sultry. A small caress on Newt’s neck has him reeling in laughter, Thomas following soon after. “I think she ships us,” Thomas croaks out eventually, voice hoarse from all the laughing. Newt has no idea what he’s on about.

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, you know,” Thomas falters for a second, and is that a pink tint gracing his cheeks now?  Well, that’s new , Newt muses inwardly, but doesn’t help Thomas in any way and just stares at him expectantly. “Like, um. You know-“

“I  don’t  know, Tommy. That’s the point.”

“Like. Hm. Did you read Harry Potter? Like, people ship Harry and Hermione. Or Hermione and Draco. Or Harry and Draco. Like, together.”

Realisation downs on Newt and his eyes widen considerably but he doesn’t quit staring at the other man. He’s weirded out, okay, but he doesn’t see why Thomas would go all bloody flustered about something like that.

“We give the right impression for that, yeah?” the statement’s daring when it leaves Newt’s mouth but he doesn’t falter, just wriggles around a bit, giving Thomas a sign that he’s talking about the younger man's hand, still resting on his neck.

“You’ve got a point,” Thomas whacks him with said hand lightly, but finally laughs. His hand slips away, though, and Newt whimpers pathetically in his mind when Thomas places it a little farther on the backrest of the couch. It really did give Newt some kind of relief. “Nevermind, though. I don’t mind.”

“Me neither,” Newt wills his eyes to pry away from Thomas’ hand – his fingers are long, veins standing out on the smooth skin a little more than normal. It’s a man’s hand, definitely, not too pretty, but captivating in a way, and Newt has no fucking idea why he’s thinking about it so much right now.  Bugger .

“I like hanging out with you,” Thomas voices out after a while, with a level of seriousness that wasn’t there before. Newt’s surprised not by the revelation because, please, he might be stubborn but he’s not oblivious, but by the sudden change in the man’s attitude and the atmosphere altogether. They hold something similar to a staring contest but with no actual meaning behind it. Newt relaxes and just looks back into Thomas’s brown eyes and smiles to himself lightly because why not if he’s feeling quite cherry? “For real.”

“I’m glad, Tommy.”

“I like you, Newt.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“No. What if I were?”

Chapter Text

When Newt finally gets back to work (after spending the evening – and half of the night, really – with Thomas, who eventually called a cab to go back home after they’ve watched The Return of the King; after following two days of agonizing boredom, interrupted only by the writing of his MA thesis, after constant texting, after rolling around the couch, aft-) Newt’s glad that Thomas and Teresa have visited him. Otherwise, there’s no way in hell he’d be prepared for what’s going on at the museum. Everything’s crazy, and so intense that Newt would not be able to find his place in the whole mess. He’s assigned to lead some kind of a lecture during the Night of the Museums, which means more research and even more writing, but Newt’s quite excited, finally being able to do what he wants to.

The lecturer can’t seem to stop speaking, though, prolonging the class way past the designed time; Newt can’t stop his legs from bouncing impatiently, and he’s not the only one – he looks around and what he sees is a bunch of other impatient students who are rummaging through their textbooks loudly and packing them in their bags, and someone even drops their pen or phone to the floor purposefully – everything to make the lecturer aware that they should be finished by now (no one is brave enough to tell him, Newt included).

“Will he shut up finally?” a whisper to his left makes Newt spin his head around and shake it regretfully at Brenda, who looks at him pleadingly as if he could telepathically force the man to end the class. She’s restless, too – he can tell by the way she grips at the jacket placed on her knees, but that’s no surprise, given how all of the others are acting.

“I know, the ol’ man is bloody talkative,” he murmurs back and they chuckle quietly.

“I need to go,” the girl whines silently, glaring at the older man by the whiteboard. “My boyfriend is holding an opening in two hours, I’ve got to help him get ready…”

“Oh, Alby’s got a vernissage?” Newt maintains the topic, interested. He’s met the guy a few times – Alby used to study painting in the art academy and when he hooked up with Brenda, the girl was so proud of him that she literally forced Newt, and Minho by the way, to go and see some of his works. Newt quite enjoyed them, actually; not to mention Alby’s company, who seemed like a really nice and mature guy, too.

“Yep. You should come if you’ve got time, it’ll be perfect,” Brenda smiles at him and whoops happily when the lecturer  finally  waves them off. “I’ll text you the address, ‘k? I hope to see you there, I have to go!” she pats Newt’s back and rushes out of the room before he even thinks about standing up.

He’s knackered but he was going to meet up with Minho either way, so Newt decides to ask (not that Minho will get to say much about this) his best friend if he’s willing to go. At least they will get free food and free wine unless Alby concludes to go against all stereotypes (which Newt highly doubts – there’s always free wine during exhibitions, even those held by amateurs). He gets out of the building and out of the campus as fast as his leg and the nasty, cold weather let him, and as he reaches the street he pulls out his phone and dials Minho’s number.

“Talk to me,” Minho answers breathily after one ring. If Newt didn’t know better he would have thought – judging by the panting and the weird noise in the background – that he’s caught his friend in some kind of an inappropriate situation, but that just can’t be the case with Minho. “Be quick.”

“What  exactly  are you doing, Min?” Newt finds himself asking slowly, though, as he hears even more heavy breathing from the other end of the line. It gets him a little bit suspicious.

“Working out with Thomas, running,” the man replies and it clicks in Newt’s head, though he had no idea Thomas does track too. He supposes he should have known, judging by how firm Thomas’ arms seem, but he never paid this much attention to his body (he will do it as soon as the occasion comes, now).

“Are you still in for today?” Newt snorts quickly – too quickly and too angrily, but he hates when someone stands him up, and he’s definitely not in the mood for that today. The mere thought of Minho cancelling their meeting, even if it were because of Thomas, makes Newt's blood boil (which is kind of weird, really, but not unparalleled).

“’f course,” Minho does a great job with his indignant (yet still breathy) tone to calm him down. Newt feels kind of silly for a few seconds for his previous little outburst. “We’re going back, I’ll be home before you come shuckin’ knocking, blondie.”

“Ya better,” a small smile forms on his lips but Newts uses a threatening tone nevertheless, just for the sake of it, before hanging up.

Half an hour later Minho’s true to his word and flings the door open before Newt raises his hand to press the doorbell – he must have looked outside the window,  little stalker .

“Told ya not to get your knickers in a twist,” the man says, opening the door wider and gesturing for Newt to come in. He smells of soap and cologne and heat radiates off of his body, which tells Newt Minho’s already showered – and even had the time to style his hair.

“Well done, you,” Newt sneers at him and they both break into grins.

“I say we have coffee and then head out,” Minho leads Newt into the kitchen, where he forces him to sit down without taking his outer clothing off, and starts roaming in the cupboards in search of coffee. “We could go to Brenda’s bf exhibit, what d’ya say?”

“Good that,” Newt nods, glad that Brenda took care of informing his friend, too, saving him time from explaining and probably (not really) convincing Minho to go. “How was your runnin’?”

“Fun,” Minho replies, placing two big mugs on the table with the best coffee – he’s not good with sandwiches only; it’s like Thomas said, Minho’s the best – or close to – in pretty much everything he does. “Worked out hard with our Tommy. He’s good.”

“Is he?”

“Yeah. Runs as fast as I do, and you know that ain’t happen often,” there’s mock bitterness in Minho’s voice which makes Newt laugh because he just knows that his friend might be the tiniest bit bothered by the thought of someone being as good as him. He probably didn’t except Thomas could outrun him. Newt didn’t expect  anyone  to outrun Minho.

“Didn’t consider him for the sporty type, eh?”

♣

Newt thought Alby’s opening would be held in his (or his and Brenda’s, he’s not sure) flat or something, like it usually is with young and aspiring artists, so his jaw drops when they arrive at the right address and it turns out it’s a specially rented studio – a loft? – in a postmodern building. The windows on the ground floor are covered by shutters, but the first-floor ones are blazing with light, letting out the sound of muffled music.

“Wow,” Minho chokes out and Newt can only nod, even though he’s not fond of the odd architecture. It’s quite hipster, but he cannot lie that it doesn’t give off a massive impression.

“Shall we come in?” Newt’s eyes shift to Minho insecurely. Suddenly, he feels kind of overwhelmed and is not certain if they’ll fit with the lot that has gathered inside – there’s probably a mass of weird, artsy, and, most of all, hipster, people whom Newt doesn’t fancy at all. And there’s a big, big chance some of the people inside were pulled here not by the opening itself, but by the music and the trendy location, not giving a crap about Alby.

Minho pulls his eyebrows together and glares at Newt, probably already knowing what the blonde is thinking. “Of course we shall, Newt. Remember it’s Alby’s, and Brenda will be there, too. Ya look good, shuckface, worry not.”

“I don’t care how I look,” Newt lets Minho tug him across the street and towards the building, mumbling under his nose, though he’s aware it’s not fully genuine. He doesn’t care,  usually , about his clothing all that much, but his high-top sneakers and skinnies with rips on the knees might seem out of place (he should consider buying trousers without rips, probably; he realizes with dread that he owns like four pairs of those). But then again, underneath his coat Minho’s only in his red basketball jersey with ridiculously low-cut sleeve holes that reveal his sides almost to his waist, so he really shouldn’t worry (or maybe he should, thanks to the fact that Minho has a perfectly muscled torso that the sleeveless shirt should expose nicely).

They have to enter from the back, as it turns out, and as they climb up the outdoor stairs directly to the first floor, the music gets a bit louder, accompanied by the chatter of countless voices.

“Minho,” Newt mumbles when his friend opens the door – he can already see about fifty or sixty people in the spacious inside, half of which are the hipster-ish, swaggering type he doesn’t like.

“I know. Not leavin’ ya, mate,” Minho smiles reassuringly and grabs Newt’s hand, steering him inside. And Newt is glad, really, because he can’t trust himself with not snapping when he herds with sheer stupidity that always appears around people who think they’re  artsy . Minho’s like an anchor, keeping him intact and reminding him they’re here to have a good time.

Being the taller one, Newt steps on the tips of his toes, craning his neck and looking for Alby or Brenda when they maneuver through groups of people and individuals, and finally spots them in the corner of the room (plain walls and wooden floor – the inside didn’t disappoint). He pulls Minho behind himself this time and soon they’re standing in front of the couple, just as one of the visitors is done talking with them.

“You came!” Brenda exclaims happily and throws her arms out to hug both of them. She’s wearing a black midi dress and the tips of her hair are curled and she looks  hot , and one look at Minho - and especially at Alby - tells Newt he’s not the only one thinking that.

“Hi guys,” Alby smiles widely and shakes Minho’s, then Newt’s hand. He’s looking nice himself, in a black suit and a black shirt, eyes glistening with happiness from the obvious success the exhibit has so far. “Glad you could make it.”

“This is sick, man,” Minho says appraisingly, gesturing widely around them. “Seriously, congrats.”

“Yeah,” Newt agrees solemnly. “Big success you’ve got goin’ on there, Albs.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Alby smiles even wider, although it did not seem possible. “You can leave your coats in the backroom – it’s friends-only access, so don’t worry about your stuff disappearing,” with that he hands Newt a scrap of paper with a 4-digit code and points to the other side of the loft.

“Thanks, we’ll take a look around,” Newt smiles back and soon after, they enter the small space and leave their belongings on one of the chairs there, after pushing the right numbers on the small intercom attached to the lock.

Minho and Newt swarm as swiftly as they can through the crowd, their hands tightly clasped, as they try to make their way to every exhibit, without omitting anything. Minho steals a few snacks for them from a small table by one of the walls; despite the mass of people, Newt enjoys himself. Alby’s works are naturalistic and somehow brutal, very radiant – Newt likes abstraction and gentle, symbolic pieces more, but Alby’s paintings are so captivating he can’t take his eyes off of them, even if they’re not perfect. It’s easy to tell that every painting has its backstory, and that’s what really matters to the blonde.

“This is awesome,” Minho states sometime later when they coursed around the whole room and explored everything. “But what does your art-historian heart say?”

“It says it indeed is awesome,” Newt smiles, popping a tiny sandwich into his mouth. “The place is a little too hipster for my liking, but it’s all good, I s’pose.”

“I know,” Minho laughs, throwing an amused look at a guy in a snapback with a long beard and colourful socks peeking from under his too-short pants walking past them.

“You should hold something like that, too,” Newt says seriously after he has swallowed, the idea already blossoming in his mind.

“What?” Minho’s face twists over in a surprised grimace.

“Show your works, too.” Newt shrugs. “They’re great, and since you print all of them, why not?”

“I don’t know…” Minho’s hesitant, but Newt knows he’s planted a seed in his best friend’s brain already, and now he’s going to pester him about it until it happens. Minho is truly talented – if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have gotten enrolled into the university he’s currently studying at. Not only his digital work is amazing, but traditional, too, even if Minho prefers to work with a graphic tablet than with a pencil. “Maybe sometime.”

“Definitely sometime,” nudging him into exposed ribs, Newt says with a hint of definition. Minho is about to retort, but a third voice interrupts them.

“What’s happening sometime?”

They twirl around on cue, only to see a grinning Thomas standing there, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Man, where have you been?” Minho asks, clasping him on the shoulder.

“Got held up at uni,” Thomas shrugs and shifts his eyes over to a surprised Newt. Safe to say, Newt didn’t accept him here, not really. “So what’s with the ‘sometime’?”

“Minho’s exhibition,” Newt says lamely, waving him off impatiently. “What are you doing here, Tommy?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? It’s Thomas who told me about the opening,” Minho hurries with an explanation. “Alby’s his friend.”

“Oh?” well, it’s not something Newt has excepted. He shouldn’t be too surprised, though – it’s not unusual for people who are interested in art to mingle with (and in) the same company. “I thought Brenda texted you.”

“She did, but Thomas was faster,” Minho shrugs too, then claps his hands loudly. “So, are we continuin’ standing here like slintheads, or do we look for some free wine?”

♣

They do end up with wine – and in actual plastic wine glasses, not in plastic cups like the rest of the visitors – but only thanks to Alby and Brenda, who provide them with those kindly, because the visitors have already taken care of all of the samples from the tables with snacks. They stay with the couple, the five of them talking quite animatedly, which probably scares other visitors off because no one seems to want to bother. Newt is enjoying himself, forgetting about all of the hipsters around them; a few of his fellow art history students are here, too (Brenda’s doing), and come up to chat occasionally, mostly to praise Alby’s work.

At some point Minho disappears somewhere with Brenda (“Our Tommy-boy’s here, you’re in good hands.”) and the wine gets to Newt’s head – he needs fresh air and he needs a smoke. Alby’s engrossed in a conversation with a girl he doesn’t know, so Newt turns around, voicing out into the air that he’s out for a while for a cigarette.

“I’ll go with you,” Thomas offers and makes great use of his elbows, leading Newt to the door, clearing the way. There’s no one there and Newt soon knows why – it’s freezing, especially so since he left his coat in the backroom; and so did Thomas, for that matter. They jog down the stairs and stop at their bottom, huddling close to the wall to shield themselves from the biting wind.

As soon as Newt takes the first puff, his mind sobers up a little, as if the alcohol was escaping his organism with the smoke. At this point it's more of a safety measure, him not wanting to get too drunk again.

“So how do ya know Alby?” he questions Thomas because he didn’t have a chance earlier, too preoccupied with the whole talking about the man’s art. Thomas wraps his arms around himself, trembling slightly – which isn’t that surprising, considering that he’s wearing a short-sleeved v-neck. Exasperated, Newt glares at him – he can’t have Thomas catching a cold because he stupidly decided to accompany Newt while smoking. “You can go back inside, Tommy, ya know.”

“Nah,” the younger man smiles and shakes his head. “We went to the same art school. High school, more specifically.”

“You draw or somethin’?” Newt didn’t know. He looks at Thomas curiously, but the man just smiles more, again shaking his head.

“No, I was forced by my mom,” Thomas laughs awkwardly. “Had some pretty rough time passing some subjects. Thankfully, Alby was there to help me.”

“Aw, that’s nice.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Thomas mumbles distractedly, looking around – a bit lost, perhaps? – before moving closer to Newt. “Do you mind?”

Newt’s eyes widen and he’s not sure what the other man means, but declines either way; Thomas shuffles even closer, pressing his right side to Newt. “It really is cold,” he explains with a sheepish smile. Newt giggles quietly and snakes his cigarette-free arm around Thomas’ waist lightly, sharing body heat. It instantly feels warmer, but he doesn't dwell on whether it's just in his head due to the proximity or not, Newt lets himself relax a little bit more and accommodates more comfortably to their position, leaning more heavily onto Thomas, who doesn’t mind one bit.

They talk quietly for a dozen minutes (about Alby’s exhibition mostly, but then Thomas mentions an upcoming exam and something knots in Newt’s stomach, dangerously reminding him of his own MA thesis that needs to finally be written) and Newt’s halfway into absentmindedly smoking the third cigarette (driven by the I’m-not-gonna-finish-the-thesis-in-time anxiety) until Thomas lifts his hand and pulls it out from the blonde’s mouth unceremoniously, then throws it to the ground before stepping on it with his combat boot.

“That’s enough,” he says lightly, bumping their shoulders half-heartedly. “You just got better, man, you shouldn’t be outside with no coat on for so long. Do we go back? Or how ‘bout we take a walk? This party ain’t gonna end soon, I guess.”

Newt smiles a little at the man’s tone that’s visibly laced with concern. He doesn’t want to go back yet, though. On the other hand, the walk sounds nice. Newt’s leg feels stiff and he needs to walk it out, which would be quite difficult to do in a room full of people – he agrees and Thomas disappears up the stairs to grab their things and inform Minho and Alby they’ll be taking a temporary leave.

“Didn’t Minho want to come?” Newt interjects when Thomas’s back and they walk slowly along the almost empty pavement, with no destination whatsoever. Maybe he should ask Minho himself, since they agreed to stay close to each other.

“Nope,” Thomas answers. There’s a slight skip in his step; he’s cheerful, smiling lightly to himself and swinging his arms a little too eagerly as he walks. Newt smiles at the sight, because it’s pretty adorable, he’s not going to lie to himself. “He was busy.”

“Busy…?”

“Talking to some guy. Flirting. I dunno. He told us – quote – to have a nice evening?”

“Are we?” Newt sends him a sidelong glance. He’s not wearing his horrendous red ushanka, and Newt notices that his hair has grown longer, curling behind his ears, with bangs falling in long-ish strands over the forehead. Obviously, both he and Minho could use a haircut, though Thomas still looks good. He supposes.

“Are we what?” confused, Thomas looks back at him.

“Having a good evening,” Newt shrugs, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Well, I am, at least” Thomas beams, but then a shadow of thought seems to cross his face. “We could make it nicer, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” already cradling a phone in his hand, Thomas only smirks mysteriously; a shiver runs down Newt’s spine.

♣

Thomas keeps the mysterious façade all the way in the cab he’s called and refuses to say a word even though Newt continues to insistently punch him in the arm, demanding an explanation. So he’s a bit speechless when they end up in a restaurant, one that doesn’t look  too  expensive, but his jeans are definitely not fancy enough for it.

Newt fidgets in his seat nervously, whereas Thomas looks smug as fuck, propped leisurely in his chair, smirking at his companion. Newt wants to yell in exasperation.

“What is this, Tommy” he mutters grudgingly, kicking Thomas in the shin under the table. “What the bloody hell?”

“We’re having a dinner,” Thomas explains like it’s the most normal thing in the world and as soon as he’s done a waiter appears at their table. He orders spaghetti and wine (Newt’s not sure he can handle more alcohol without getting tipsy) and winks cheekily at Newt who feels like his eyes might pop out of their sockets any moment.

Newt tries to insist for some more time but Thomas keeps his mouth sealed shut, refusing to explain  anything , so what can he do? Newt just rolls with it, simply, enjoying the warmth and the food when it finally arrives (it’s delicious, with the most marvellous Bolognese sauce he’s ever tasted in his twenty-four years of living). They plunge into a pleasant, carefree conversation; Newt finds himself snorting into his food constantly, like a school girl, but he can’t keep the good mood at bay, not really.

“So how do you know this place?” Newt considers licking the plate clean, the food was just  so  good, but it would be so out of place he would probably burn alive from embarrassment; he just pushes it to the middle of the table and wipes his mouth delicately with a napkin. Thomas has finished some time ago already and is sitting with the wine glass in his hand, slowly swirling the liquid around - and looking a Newt with a little smile playing on his lips constantly, which appears quite nerve-wracking now that Newt has no more food to get busy with. Either it gets a little warmer inside, or Newt just slightly blushes, affected by the man’s attentive eyes (he does).

“A friend showed it to me,” Thomas smiles, but there’s a strain in his voice. Newt shouldn't ask, but he does anyway, curiosity winning over tactfulness.

“A friend?”

“Well, um,” Thomas shifts a little, leaning closer and resting his elbows on the table. His face falls, the slightest bit only, but Newt already regrets prying in what seems to be not his business and possibly ruining the mood. “A person who I was with back then, like two years ago, and, uh. We-“

“Sorry,” Newt cuts off quickly, not wanting to spoil the atmosphere. Which he perhaps already did.  Bugger . “Ya don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s okay,” a reassuring smile spreads over Thomas’ lips but the blonde doesn’t know if he can believe him. “What happened - happened. Nasty breakup, though. I just figured it would be good to make some new, nice memories here. I always liked this place.”

“Well then, I feel honoured, eh?” Newt makes it sound like a joke, to lighten the mood, but he sincerely feels just that. Isn’t it good to be someone’s nice memory? He feels even warmer now. Suddenly, the pattern on the tablecloth seems very interesting; Newt has to fight not to keep his eyes glued to it. “Am I doin’ a good job so far?”

“Marvellous,” Thomas’ smile grows bigger, but oddly enough, Newt’s not sure if he is joking or not. A weird lump appears in Newt’s throat and he has to point his eyes downwards again, back to the tablecloth, otherwise his cheeks could burn to ashes.

“Get a grip, mate” he whispers to himself but Thomas must be paying attention because he asks: “What did you say? Didn’t catch that.”

“I said I’m glad,” clearing his throat, Newt lifts his head and lies smoothly, forcing a smile. “Let’s just hope I don’t spoil anything, like. Hm. Again.”

“I don’t think you would be able to spoil anything, Newt,” Thomas says softly, his voice so steady and calm that Newt’s stomach makes a jumping sensation, and Newt could swear he has just died a little bit. He’s not sure what’s happening (he’s totally,  totally  sure), he can’t acknowledge it – he wouldn’t be able to take it without yelling out loud.

The tension isn’t exactly bothering him, but it’s just –  it’s there , hanging between them and swallowing them wholly, so thick it could be cut with a knife. Newt doesn’t know how much more of it he can take before bursting out. He grabs his wine glass and downs it as fast as he can without looking like a troglodyte, but thankfully Thomas cuts the crap and starts talking again, changing the subject.

Half an hour later they both get a text from an apologetic Minho, saying he’s going home and asking if they’re okay with that, and they take it as a hint for their leave also. Newt texts a  yes, go ahead  and when he hides his phone (trying not to feel guilty for leaving his best mate alone like that) he sees that Thomas called the waiter and is paying. For both of them. Which is unacceptable.

“I can pay for mys-,” he says but the waiter is already walking away from their table. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Thomas just waves his hand in the air distractedly and zips up his jacket, then stands up and waits for Newt to follow suit. “It was my idea.”

“But-“

“No buts, Newt. I’m not hearing any of that,” his tone is final, but the younger man smiles, cutting the argument before it even starts. Newt wraps himself in his clothes and they leave the restaurant, though he makes some indignant noises just for the sake of it.

“Are we getting back to the opening?” Thomas wonders out loud, looking at him expectantly when they drag their feet slowly, their shoulders bumping occasionally.

“Nah,” Newt breathes out, watching as the steamy cloud disappears in the air after a few seconds. “Minho went home so it either got boring or ended.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Thomas laughs shortly into his scarf. “I would suggest a movie but it’s almost 11 pm, so I don’t think we’ll catch anything worth watching… so what do we do? I should walk you home, probably.”

Newt doesn’t look up at him. He doesn’t know what he wants to do, but he knows he doesn’t want to part ways just yet. He’s too afraid to sound like a sissy, so he doesn’t voice the thought out, though.

“Yeah, I guess. But can we walk? We’ll probably miss the last daytime route either way before we get to the bus stop, and there’s no night ones to my place.”

“Sure thing,” Thomas agrees with a shrug and they change direction, heading to Newt’s place.

Which is quite a far distance away, and Newt should have realized walking that far wouldn’t be a good idea, even if his spirits and his mood were great. His leg acts up annoyingly and his limp gets worse, realistically slowing them down – although their pace wasn’t too fast from the beginning. After he sighs involuntarily for the nth time, Thomas stops mid-sentence and offers him his arm. Which Newt takes gladly, albeit sheepishly, because it was his idea, wasn’t it? Leaning on the younger boy helps, and walking is actually easier than when Minho helps him – Thomas is still taller than Minho, but a few centimetres shorter than Newt, making it more comfortable.

“Sorry,” Newt mumbles apologetically, chancing a quick look at Thomas, whose eyes move to him immediately. “We can call a cab again if you prefer. And  I’ll  pay.”

“It’s okay, don’t fret,” Thomas smiles and actually pulls him closer to himself, giving even more support. “We’ll walk, nice and slow.”

“Thanks. An accident,” Newt gets the two last words off of his chest quickly, before he can change his mind. Not a pleasant topic choice, but he feels obliged to explain himself somehow. It feels right, at that moment. Even more so since Thomas has shared with him something he didn’t need to know. And they’re friends, so the topic had to come up at some point eventually.

“Huh?” confusion floods Thomas’ auburn eyes, and Newt gives himself a mental kick for being disorienting. He exhales slowly and rubs his forehead with a hand that’s not wrapped around Thomas’ arm.

“My leg. A car accident, when I was walking to school, back in England. Drunk driving,” Newt says as flatly and as bluntly as he can, not wanting to sound sentimental. Or pathetic. Bringing back Thomas’ words – what happened, happened. He doesn’t like talking about it not because it upsets him – it doesn’t, it’s the past – but simply because he doesn’t like pity. He doesn’t  need  pity. “My knee was smashed pretty badly, and they had to get rid of a dead piece of a muscle or somethin’ in my shin.”

“Ah. That’s messed up, man,” Thomas whistles after a while. He doesn’t say ‘I’m sorry’ and that’s exactly what Newt needs from a friend. Fondness floods him and Newt squeezes Thomas’ forearm a little tighter for a while.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for telling me, Newt. It… it means a lot.”

“You weren’t being a twat for a while now, so I just granted my promise, right?” done with the back-to-serious atmosphere and letting out a low chuckle, Newt smirks at Thomas who smirks right back, then laughs, too.

“You should tell Minho so he doesn’t go all possessive over you on me agian every time I mention your leg.”

“Will do, Tommy.”

♣

By the time they reach the street Newt lives on, almost an hour later, he barely contains a skip with every step he makes. The cramps balance on the border of unbearable and he honestly can’t remember the last time when it has gotten this bad. Of course, it would be his luck – his leg acting up so much during the night that’s close to winning the prize for being pretty much perfect.  Oh god .

“Sorry for all that, Tommy,” disentangling himself from the younger man when they reach his apartment building, Newt takes a step back and faces Thomas. "Minho always says I'm stupid when I don't want to use a walking cane."

Thomas smiles and shakes his head with resignation at him.

“Can't say I don't agree with him, but it wasn’t that bad. Don't worry.”

“I hope,” Newt mutters and lingers in silence, all of sudden not sure what to do. Or what to say. Or where to look. Thomas doesn’t make a move, either, and just looks at him, eyes piercing, making Newt feel quite hot again. “Thanks for the supper. It was a nice finishing touch to this evening, kinda. If not better than the evening itself, if I’m to be honest.”

Thomas beams and sways back and forth, on his toes and back to his heels, several times. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.” He looks like a happy child, incredibly proud of something, and Newt needs to laugh at him – to him? – and so he does, his laughter disturbing the silence around them. Thomas joins him after a split second and bends over, not able to catch his breath, placing one of his hands on Newt’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Thomas huffs out when they stop laughing,  finally  (what was so funny anyway?), straightening himself and letting his hand slip down to Newt’s elbow where it grips at his coat. Newt still doesn’t know what to do, but the awkwardness slipped away with the laughter, so he just stands in place, his eyes squinting involuntarily as he observes Thomas. His lips tingle and quiver and it’s a really difficult task to keep another fit of bubbling laughter within himself. “So we can consider the date successful.”

Newt freezes instantly when his brain processes the word, mouth pressing into a thin line and eyes widening. A date. Well. It kind of-  a date . Thomas is still smiling but the word has sounded just so serious, it has Newt perplexed, lost in his thoughts which are considerably tinted with confusion.

“The date?” he repeats with delay, his voice coming out weaker than he has probably ever managed to sound, in any circumstances. Thomas bites at his lower lip and his eyes roam over Newt’s face for a while, as if checking for any signs of, what, exactly? Playfulness? Joke? Newt can’t be sure and he’s on the verge of starting hyperventilating. The class, the coffee at Minho’s, the exhibition, even the supper – everything feels like it’s not important now like it happened ages ago; the only thing that pounds in Newt’s head is the word date and all of its connotations; and Thomas, and his smile, and his fingers tangled in the fabric of Newt’s coat – it’s all so important to Newt abruptly, so, so meaningful and it’s taking over Newt’s thoughts wholly. If he were to say  anything  right now, he would be reduced to an embarrassing, stuttering mess (and that’s the only thing he’s sure of right now).

“I told you I would take you straight for a second date, right?” Thomas voices out slowly, carefully; Newt's breath hitches. “Italian food. Second date. Remember?”

The echo of the phone call form from  ages ago  (was that ages? It certainly feels like it) comes crashing down onto him and Newt stutters for a great amount of time before he musters enough consciousness to squeak out two words.

“I do.”

“So,” Thomas tilts his head to the side, his eyes never leaving Newt, which makes him unbearably giddy inside, shredding the remains of his nerves to pathetic pieces. Thomas is serious. He  has  to be. If he’s not- he’s got to be. No one could possibly keep such a straight face while joking like that, and Newt panics but can’t make the tiniest move.  Oh god. Bloody damn sodding fuck . “We CAN consider it a success? Newt…?”

“Yeah,” Newt breathes out, just as weak as before, his eyes wandering down to Thomas’ hand, still placed firmly on his elbow.

“Earth to Newt. Do I get a goodnight wish, or are you planning on standing here until morning?” Thomas laughs, this time really messing around. Newt’s eyes snap back to his face. “Or at least, a wave or something?”

Newt counts to three, breathes out very slowly, then wriggles out of the grasp of Thomas’ hand. He looks down at his sneakers, shuffles from foot to foot; and makes up his mind. He steps hastily forward, his hands grabbing blindly at Thomas’ awful, awful jacket – there’s no going back, his heart is fluttering in his chest wildly, he can hear the blood pumping in his ears; Thomas doesn’t move and his eyes are widened, but somehow clouded and he looks just so, so charming - and Newt presses their lips together, too fast and too harsh, and definitely too unexpected. Thomas lets out a surprised yelp; his lips are cold and a little chapped and Newt thinks he might die - he’s not sure what he’s doing, but he knows it feels right and nice and kind of perfect. He’s trembling when he pulls back, hundreds of years later.

“Goodnight, Tommy,” he mumbles faintly, turns around, and runs into his apartment building, dragging his bloody leg behind, afraid to look back.

Chapter Text

He probably shouldn’t be able to fall asleep at all considering all that happened – and what he did – but Newt doesn’t feel restless when he throws himself down on his bed. He feels sleepy and tired, mentally exhausted with all the thinking that has happened as soon as he enters his flat. He knows he will fall asleep.  Eventually . When he came into his apartment (or rather – when he bloody  ran away , without so much as waiting for a goodnight wish or a goodbye), it was like being in a haze – he was trembling a little, knocking into furniture, cursing under his breath constantly. A massive swirl of thoughts appeared in his head – what did he do?

What did I do?

Newt knows exactly what he did, and he is aware of the fact that he did it with full premeditation. There is no escape from that – he gave Thomas a bloody kiss. A kiss that was probably too chaste and too forceful ( “Oh my god, it was too invasive, I harassed him, oh bloody hell -“), too unexpected – and there’s a chance that it might have been  unwanted , too.

 “Okay,” Newt breathes out, burying himself deeper under the covers and rubbing at his face furiously with his hands. “Okay. Okay. Calm  down .”

Alright, let’s be logical here; so maybe he didn’t expect that from himself, not really. But Newt knows he’s a pretty straightforward person, so it’s not like he would go around blushing for the rest of his life. That was not the case. And it’s not like there wasn’t anything between them – because there  was , clearly. So that wasn’t the case also. Signs were all over, screaming at him from all directions, of course, Newt felt (feels, actually) some kind of attraction towards Thomas. The matter was – was Thomas serious? It seemed like he was, the younger man wasn’t beating around the bush either. But. What if?

Newt grunts lowly, kicking at the sheets furiously, trying to ease the overwhelming frustration. He should have just stayed there and asked Thomas if he was okay with that. With the kiss. With  Newt kissing him . Misunderstandings and understatements aren’t something he needs right now. He will have to deal with that at some point – otherwise, he won’t stay true to himself and will be unfair towards Thomas, leaving him hanging like that – wondering, maybe? Newt sighs for the last time, plants his face into the pillow, and decides to talk with Thomas  flatly  about the matter. Or maybe wait for his move. He’s not yet sure.

♣

“Ya didn’t.”

“Well, yeah. I did,” Newt feels the flush coming up so he lifts the enormous cup to his face to cover it, at least partially, and takes a few gulps of his pumpkin spice latte. It’s too sweet and he doesn’t like Starbucks so he’s not sure how they ended up here, huddled in the corner, surrounded by teenagers who don’t deem a shopping mall trip successful unless they visit the popular café. When Newt finally puts the cup down on the small table between them, Minho shakes his head, fans himself with his hand, then shakes his head again. The conversation they have just had might be the most embarrassing one in Newt’s life, the man considers – even worse than the one when his mom decided to try to give him the birds and the bees talk (when he was starting  high school;  Newt couldn’t look at her with a straight face for the following week).

“Man,” Minho whistles lowly. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

“That’s not the point,” Newt sighs, leaning over and punching his friend in the arm. He needs advice, not a psychoanalysis. “I just. What do I shucking do now, Minho?”

“What about Thomas?” Minho doesn’t punch back, only leans further into the little armchair he’s occupying. “How did he react?”

“Well, he certainly didn’t expect that,” Newt says. The younger man seemed really dumbstruck, and that’s the main reason Newt is practically panicking now. “And then I just went home, so…”

“You fucked up,” Minho muses but grins widely at him. “But we’re finally movin’ forward.”

“Huh?”

“Come on,” the man exclaims a bit too loudly, throwing his arms in the air dramatically (Newt notices two younger girls by another table giggling at them at that; great, just what he bloody needed.). “Shit was goin’ to go down at some point with how the two of ya were acting.”

“I don’t think-“

“That’s the problem, actually,” Minho cuts off, a more stern note in his voice. “You don’t. Which is why you and Thomas aren’t fucking your brains out yet.”

Bloody hell . Newt grumbles and bends forward, hiding his – probably beetroot flushed – face in his knees, because there’s no way other customers didn’t hear that. Great, just what he needed,  again  – a public humiliation. He starts to reconsider whether not talking to Minho about it at all would be a better idea.

“I’m just saying, man,” he continues as if he didn’t just draw the attention of half of the café to the two of them. “I knew something was going with ya two together. About time.”

“Maybe,” Newt finally finds the strength to rise to a normal position. “But what do I do now?”

“Talk to him.”

“But what if he really was joking?”

“Newt,” Minho exhales heavily, any remains of playfulness surrounding him earlier disappearing immediately. And this can’t be good, Newt thinks. It has got to be serious when Minho drops his usual act. And to top it all, he’s usually right, which Newt hates to admit. “You’re not stupid. You know he wasn’t.”

“Sorry,” Newt mutters weakly. He’s being stupid, of course he is. Once again, he thinks he couldn’t possibly have a better best friend. “I’m just. Nervous. But you’re right, I’ll talk to him.”

“Now that’s the spirit,” a warm smile stretching his lips, Minho gets up and gestures for the blonde to follow. “Now come on, dude, I still need to get that haircut.”

Newt has probably never been more glad to escape Starbucks, even though he ducks behind Minho as much as he can without looking weird when he feels the customers looking at them as they take their leave.

The shopping mall is overflowing with people and Newt soon loses the sense of orientation but thankfully Minho knows where they are going; neither he nor his friend visit such places too often, but Minho has found a 40% discount at the hairdresser’s so that’s how they landed in the Starbucks  before  the hairdresser’s in the first place.

But when he sits in a chair by the wall, watching Minho having his hair done, Newt’s mind clears and calms down. He’s going to talk to Thomas and he’s not going to fret over it – simple as that. (Or so he hopes.)

♣

Newt’s Saturday meeting with Minho didn’t end with him weeping into his friend’s shoulder, but they did spend the whole evening together, talking a generous amount of time about the kissing incident.

Even though he has made his decision to confront Thomas about what he did, Newt might have gone for the tube and not for the bus on Monday, and it might have been to take a longer route and have more time to think.

It didn’t help.

Newt enters the museum giddy and feeling kind of all over the place. Which is weird, because he’s got no problems – usually – with being straightforward. But maybe everything’s a little different when it comes to Thomas. Newt might have thought about accepting the fact that he has developed a nasty, wee little crush on the younger boy – Minho says there’s no denying that, and he can't nor agree. He probably has. But no one could blame him for how Thomas acted, too, right? It couldn’t possibly be one-sided. Unless Thomas was just messing around  all the time , but that is what the talk Newt planned is supposed to be about – to clear his doubt.

For the first half of his shift, Newt is stuck with the school trips. He would say ‘thankfully’, but no – not really. His nervousness rises, making his palms sweaty and his eyes shift back and forth as if they were searching, seeking for Thomas, to see if he happens to pass the same floor with his own trip or something (he doesn’t).

All of that, mixed with Newt’s finality in that matter (he won’t back down from The Talk), makes him incredibly happy when the lunch break finally rolls in, giving him a chance to at least try to find the younger man.

A few of the co-workers are already in the staff quarters when Newt enters the room – he spots Minho and his graphic colleague sitting close to the door. He raises his eyebrows at him expectantly and secretively sticks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at Thomas, who’s near the coffee machine, engrossed in something that looks like a stack of notes.

A sigh leaves him but there’s no way Newt is not doing this. After a split second of hesitation, he crosses the room and sits next to the younger boy. As soon as he does, though, Newt thinks that maybe talking about this while at work isn’t the greatest idea (it isn’t) but with the Night of the Museums being held in five days, he’s sure there won’t be a chance – a better one, at least – to do it. It’s literally now or never.

“Hi,” Newt says simply.

Thomas looks over at him a bit distracted, his pen creating a deep bruise on the paper; the man curses and drops it, then greets back. “Hi, Newt.”

“So what’s all this?” the blonde starts, deciding to step on the safe ground first. He takes a closer look at the papers – he supposed they would be connected to either the Night or the exhibition, but it looks more like uni stuff, now that Newt can ponder at Thomas’ messy scrawls.

“An exam, man, an exam,” Thomas answers, panic apparent on his face as he looks at Newt, ruffling his brown hair with both hands. “On Friday.”

“Which one?”

“Middle-ages. I’m never gonna pass this,” Thomas looks scared and exhausted, and wow, how much could go through his head in those past few days? And here Newt thought he was the one to have it rough. He’s not surprised, though – he remembers his exam on medieval art back in the second year of BA degree, though he wishes he could get it out of his head, never to repeat the nerves, the exhaustion, the desperation, and the resignation he has felt back then. “I just want to die.”

“Ya’ll be okay, Tommy. I lived through that buggin’ exam, and I promise you, you will, too,” Newt tries to sound reassuring and when Thomas finally looks less tense, he guesses he succeeded.

“I hope so. Damn, it just had to pile up with work and all, didn’t it?” Thomas laughs shortly, pushing his notebook aside, and leaning more comfortably into the chair. “Do you have any spare food? I didn’t have time to make anything-“

“Yeah, sure,” Newt reaches quickly for the sandwiches he’s brought with him and offers one to Thomas, who looks at him warmly and takes it, stuffing his mouth with bread in no time. It’s a miracle that Newt actually took his time to make food today, and he couldn’t be more glad about that right now.

“Thanks, ohmygod.”

“No prob,” Newt casts his eyes downward and plays with the plastic foil wrapped around his lunch. His fingers are trembling lightly, but it’s his chance, and he’s going to take it. “I owed you, either way?”

“Huh?” Thomas looks over at him, confused, cheeks puffed out because of too much food he’s trying to swallow.

“For the supper. In the restaurant,” Newt explains, letting his eyes carefully scrutinize the younger man’s face. There’s no going back. “Look, by the way, about that-“ Newt doesn’t have a chance to finish because Luke appears in front of them and cuts him off.

“Hey, Frank needs us.”

Not being able to contain himself, Newt scowls at the older guy and doesn’t move from his chair. After their little argument about Duchamp, neither he nor Thomas is on good terms with Luke – they aren’t exactly mean to each other, but there is loads of sarcasm or tense silence (which has Teresa rolling her eyes at the three so hard that Newt sometimes fears they’ll stay that way), which Newt doesn’t like, but he cannot force himself to be more professional.

“What for?” Thomas asks distractedly, not moving at all also.

“Dunno,” the man shrugs. “But get your asses moving, we’re going to the cella.”

“Bloody hell,” Newt mutters under his breath and stands up, abandoning his untouched sandwich on the table for someone to take care of it, and they follow Luke out of the staff room. The interruption is a solid reason not to like the man even more. He knew talking about  this  wouldn't be easy while at work, but he didn’t expect to be cockblocked at the first try.

Purposefully, Newt falls into a slower pace and Thomas follows suit, leaving Luke a few meters ahead of them.

“What were you talking about?” Thomas inquires, hooking his arm with Newt, who might have faked a heavier limp to make him slow down. He’s warm and he leverages Newt, and the blonde feels anxiety creeping over him because maybe pretending wasn’t the best idea – having Thomas so close won’t make it easier.

“About the supper,” he voices out eventually, too weak-sounding for his liking, but it’s better to get this over with. “First of all, thanks for that, again.” Thomas smiles and he smiles back, feeling stupid all of a sudden. It’s Thomas. The fun, cheeky, and smart guy he’s been friends with for some time already, the one who understands him and has the same view on so, so many things. Even if Newt makes a total fool out of himself, there’s a slim chance Thomas will laugh him off. Things might get awkward, that’s for sure – but Thomas will not make fun of him.

“And, um, Tommy,” Newt stutters a bit, either way, damn it. “The second thing is. Um. About.”

“Oh, here you are!” Frank’s chirpy voice resounds in the cellar as soon as they enter. Newt groans out loud (not loud enough for their older colleague to hear, thankfully) and slaps the back of his free hand across his forehead in resignation, which makes Thomas shake with silent laughter. Exasperated, Newt nudges him painfully in the side and the younger man grins only, but there’s a certain longing or anticipation in his eyes, so Newt decides not to stop trying to get to The Talk.

Frank is very talkative as he makes them work, moving things around (“I thought we could clean up a bit now that we’ve been using this room, what do you think?”), and Newt tries and tries, discreetly moving over to Thomas as often as he’s got a chance, but there’s always something or someone to interrupt, whether it’s a stack of suddenly falling cardboard or Teresa who wants to chat. When their shift ends finally, Newt is frustrated out of his mind and probably the only thing that keeps him sane is the hint of frustration he feels radiating off of Thomas, too.

♣

In the following days, Newt has time to meet up with Minho just once – when they are assigned on Tuesday to hang posters informing about the Night of the Museums around their campus. When they’re done Minho pins him down until Newt updates him on the progress he has made on confronting Thomas during the weekend – which is nonexistent. His best friend has a really hard time believing him, though, and he pushes and pulls and urges Newt until the blonde snaps at him, exclaiming loudly that he honestly had no time nor a chance to talk to Tommy seriously (“So if you could, please, kindly  bugger off  Minho, because ya’re not making it any easier.”). Minho believes, eventually; because it’s true. On Monday, obviously, and on Tuesday, they were constantly interrupted at work, and Newt meant it –  constantly . There was no physical occasion for him to accost Thomas about The Incident unless he wanted their co-workers to hear. Which he didn’t, of course.

 On Tuesday morning Newt approached Thomas, asking for a meet-up after work, but the boy declined sadly, saying he had to study because he still knew shit about German wooden sculpture in the thirteenth century. And Newt was sure he had to study – for real – because he remembered how much he himself studied for the medieval art exam two years ago, and Thomas sounded like a real, weary student, thoroughly stressed out with his university life. Certainly, he looked far from well-rested (oh joy, the study marathons, and all-nighters) with dark rings under his swollen eyes that resembled actual bruises, constant yawning, and sluggish movements; Newt didn’t insist, and he could tell Thomas was grateful for that.

To say that anticipation was eating Newt up was the understatement of the century. He couldn’t focus on anything, his insides felt as if they were swirling constantly, he was jumpy and restless. He couldn’t get anything done – his MA thesis included, most importantly. After he got back home, Newt sat with his laptop in his bedroom, but nothing would come to mind, so he moved to the living room. And nothing. His document ended right when he finished those few days ago. Newt exhaled deeply, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. And nothing, once again. Measuring his possibilities, Newt eventually closed the file and turned the computer off. Forcing himself to write never worked well – he decided to push it further, preferably after the Night of the Museums, after the opening of the international exhibition, and after he’s managed to talk to Thomas and worked his – feelings, really – out. He still had a few months to finish the writing, and some of his classmates hadn’t even started yet – and the second thought was very uplifting (even if the blonde wasn’t the one to feed on others’ misery).

On Wednesday morning Newt went for the tube again even though he was almost sure he wouldn’t have a chance for something more than to greet Thomas. It was just too hectic, and Newt needed peace to gather his thoughts (and courage) to speak to the younger boy about the matter. Or that was just his excuse – the thought occurred to him when he was turning in bed nervously the previous night. Maybe Newt just unconsciously wished for  Thomas  to make the next move. Maybe he wanted to  be confronted,  although he was the one to take the action that put him in this current disarray. Newt was simply (or not so, in that matter) confused.

Catching glimpses of Thomas every now and then during his shift didn’t help one bloody bit, and by the time of lunch break, Newt was frustrated out of his mind. 

He steps into the stuff room in a predatory manner, his eyes scanning for the younger boy right away. He spots him again sitting near the coffee machine – but Thomas has his nose buried in a thick book, one which looks like it weighs more than it is possible to carry, so Newt’s enthusiasm deflates. As much as he needs to, he’s not going to interrupt Thomas in studying.

Sort of grudgingly, Newt makes his way over to Teresa, only waving at the younger man on the way, then attacks his lunch furiously, half-heartedly listening to the girl’s chatter and trying not to steal frequent glimpses at Thomas (at his bent neck and his moles, and at his furrowed brows and a small crease that appeared between them, at the way he would bite at his upper lip occasionally, and at how he blinked sleepily, trying to focus his tiredness-hazed eyes at whatever he was reading, and-).

Newt has no more scheduled trips to guide after lunch, and Frank doesn’t pop out of nowhere like he’s done for the past few days, so it’s possibly a perfect opportunity to talk to Thomas – but then the younger man is shipped off to help Teresa watch over elementary school kids taking part in drawing workshops held by the museum (“ Bugger.” ). So he wanders off to the Architecture & Design department, where he knows for a fact less individual visitors should be. A little smile appears on his face when he notes that he is right – no people, save for security guards, in sight, quiet and peaceful. And most importantly, with Tommy being busy elsewhere, here he won’t have to face the opportunity of running into him yet having no chance to talk. It’s quite consoling, actually.

Newt takes a languid stroll around the department, trying to clear his head of any thoughts, and does a pretty good job at that. He’s loosened up, a little bit at least, and he enjoys the moment of peace, especially since it was nearly impossible to have a work-free while in the last two days.

Just when he decides to head back, or at least move closer to the staff quarters and to the ticket office (because, weirdly, Frank has no new tasks for them), Newt’s phone vibrates in the pocket of his trousers. He fishes it out and reads a message from Frank – speak of the devil, honestly – calling him to come down to the Department of Painting and Sculpture.

“What’s up?” Newt asks when he’s made his way to where Frank called him though. Thomas and Luke are there, too, obviously waiting for an explanation.

“Glenn changed his mind and my lecture will be held in 311, not 301. Rachel’s lecture will be in 301, and she wants to get ready today,” Frank explains, kind of resigned, which has Newt raising his eyebrows; because what does it have to do with them? “But everything of mine is ready in 301 already, and I’m heading to a conference in half an hour, so if you boys could move the stuff to 311? I really have got to go, and since you’re in my group…” the man trails off, apparently waiting for a declination, but none of them says anything, accepting the plea. You don’t say no to your supervisor, Newt believes, especially not if you’ve worked here for half a year (in his case) only.

“Great,” Frank sighs, relieved. “Just, try to place everything in the way it was in 301. Or just make something up, whatever suits you.” After that, he gives Luke the keys, bids them goodbye, and walks away.

Newt’s not sure what ‘everything’ could be – after all, how much stuff do you need for a lecture? A laptop and a projector, usually, maybe a wooden pointer or a small laser if you want to be fancy. So it’s safe to say that his mouth hangs agape when they enter the room and see not only a computer and a projector but also two huge easels propping two huge boards with copies of various paintings (something like Warburg’s Mnemosyne, Newt’s not sure) and two cardboard boxes full of flyers.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Thomas curses next to him, simultaneous with Luke, who exclaims, “Dibs on the laptop! I’ll plug everything in, you guys move those boards.”

Newt grunts, because these are  enormous , and maneuvering them to the other room, pretty much across the whole floor, will require a lot of effort. And here he was ten minutes ago, marvelling at how he didn’t have to do anything.

“And how is that fair?” a dangerous note in his voice, Thomas’ head snaps towards the older man; Newt notices his fists clenching into balls at his sides, and he just wants to scold Luke, too, but also comfort his friend (because god knows that with the upcoming exam, the man doesn’t need more things to stress him out). “It will take-“

“I don’t care,” Luke interrupts and is already moving towards the laptop, where he starts to unplug the tangle of cables. Newt decides, finally, that he hates the guy.

“Slim it, Tommy,” he says quietly, though, while his hand springs up to rest on Thomas’ elbow for a while. Thomas visibly relaxes under the touch (Newt whoops in his mind) and his face smoothes over as he looks back at Newt.

“Yeah, okay. But your leg…?”

“We’ll manage,” Newt promises, even though he can’t be sure, trying to avoid lifting heavy stuff as often as he can. Reluctance pretty much radiates off of Thomas, as the younger boy examines Newt’s face for a good amount of time.

“You’ll tell me if you need a break, yeah?” the brunette asks, shaking Newt’s hand off of his elbow, but gripping at his wrist instead. His fingers are warm, and so are his eyes, and how can Newt try talking to him now? Now that Thomas is concerned and so, so sweet, and now that Newt feels the pleasant pressure on his hand, and now that it seems like he could just stand like that with Thomas, not moving, not doing anything at all. He agrees, eventually and Thomas just nods and they set off to work, taking care of the boxes first, while Luke runs back and forth with all sorts of electronic equipment Frank will be using for some reason.

After they’ve moved everything that they could and that  wasn’t  the easels, the two of them stand in front of the first board, debating on  how  to move it. The best idea seems to be taking the board down, moving the easel first, and then bringing the board – but their plan falls apart when they discover that the board is actually permanently screwed to the easel.

“This is bullshit,” Thomas perfectly voices out Newt’s thoughts and after a moment of lingering reluctance, they eventually get in positions to move the first easel with the board at once.

Turns out it’s a lot more difficult than Newt thought it would be – after the first two meters out of the room his arms start hurting and his back cracks a few times, and he can hear Thomas grunting in effort on the other side of the board. Halfway through the floor, they set the easel down for a moment and change sides – Newt’s now the one walking first, but backward, straining his leg a bit, holding the easel in front of him, while Thomas is at the end, gripping the other edge of the board, pushing it carefully forward to match Newt’s pace.

It takes some time but the easel is finally settled; Newt tries not to think about Luke who’s trying if the buggin’ projector fucking works, while he and Thomas get back to 301 for the other monster, arms shaking from all the weight lifting and foreheads wet with sweat.

The procedure for moving the second easel looks the same, they change places halfway, but they move slower, tired from the previous route. Newt grits his teeth together angrily as his limbs scream agonizingly for another break, but he decides to just roll with it and get this over with as fast as they can.

“Faster, will you?” Luke urges, walking past them back to 311 and Newt can’t help but crane his neck to the side and scream at the bastard to  shut the fuck up , because the guy is bloody unbelievable. He opens his mouth to say it out loud, but the guy’s daring face distracts him for a second too long. Newt’s hand slips from under the edge of the board and then it all happens too quickly – the easel topples over dangerously with Thomas not managing to hold the whole weight, Newt loses balance, and his step stutters; his bad leg gives out and he trips backward and a wave of horror hits him when the easel swings forcefully in the direction of a sculpture installation hanging from the ceiling they’re passing at the moment. The side Newt’s holding smashes to the ground as he falls back, flat on his butt, but thankfully Thomas lunges forward and manages to steady the easel before it completely knocks over, barely grazing the hanging installation, only making it sway a little.

“Shit,” Newt breathes out shakily, bringing his hands to his head and pushing the sweaty bangs out of his eyes. His heart is thumping in his chest loudly because that was fucking close. He doesn’t even want to think what would happen if he actually caused both the sculpture and the easel with the board to break (he would be bloody fired, fined, and with no money or future perspectives for living, thank you very much).

“Newt,” Thomas rushes around the easel, a terrified expression on his flushed face. He squats a little and extends his hands out to help the blonde up, which Newt does quickly, ignoring the dully throbbing pain in his leg. “Are you okay?” Thomas blurts out, eyes a little frantic as they scan Newt all over. Newt might have felt flattered at how concerned Thomas is, hoisting Newt up while he clutches at his forearms tightly, but he’s too shaken with what might have happened to think about it right now. “Did you hurt your leg?”

“I’m fine,” Newt assures, wriggling out of the grasp but placing a comforting, in turn, hand on Thomas’ shoulder instead. “Really. Did the easel break?”

“No,” Thomas looks torn between checking on Newt once again and turning over to the easel; what he opts for, though, is placing his own hand over Newt’s resting on his shoulder. “God, that scared me.”

“Yeah, Newt mumbles, feeling the corners of his mouth tugging up a little in the smallest of smiles. Thomas smiles back, his eyes boring into Newt’s and he opens his mouth to respond, but Luke cuts in.

“Is none of you concerned about the fucking Bontecou here?”

Newt takes a step back, their hands slipping off of Thomas’ shoulder, and pays attention back to the older man whom he forgot about for a moment, who’s looking at them incredulously, pointing at the installation.

“Nothing happened, shut it,” Thomas barks at him, his body tensing, and Newt swears he could just kiss him right now for how defensive – protective – he is. “Now get your ass here to help me carry this shit.”

“But Newt can-“

“No, he cannot,” the definition in Thomas’ words is so powerful that Newt’s left glued to his spot, amazed, when Luke moves and helps Thomas carry the easel the rest of the way to the designed room.

Newt’s still sort of shocked when they make final arrangements in the room, and he seriously, seriously just wants to talk to Thomas and thank him, and all, but Luke’s there, making mean and unrefined comments all the time; so he and Thomas settle into a mutual, silent agreement not to speak to the guy at all.

“Thank you, Tommy,” Newt finally has got a chance to say (out of the range of Luke’s hearing) when they’re finished, making their way to the ground floor where Thomas has to return to the kids. Thomas smiles at him warmly, placing his hand on the small of Newt’s back for a split second. “Anytime,” he says quietly and turns left, heading to the workshop room. Newt just stares after him, the ghost of touch still lingering on his back.

♣

Newt’s in denial when he comes back home later that day, and thank god he pushed the writing of his thesis to some other time because he would no way in hell be able to write  anything  down. If he wasn’t sure about Thomas being attracted to him earlier (and the other way around) – he is now, after the storm of emotions that has invaded him today. He’s going to talk to him and there’s no going back since Newt feels like he’s going to burst any second if he doesn’t confess – in one way or another – to Thomas soon.

That’s fucking unhealthy,  he thinks, and Thursday proves him right because he’s got no chance to talk to Thomas at all again.

On Friday Thomas  isn’t even there , for whatever reason, and Newt’s close to breaking down because of the nerve-wrecking tension, and for a moment considers just calling him; but fortunately, he does not – it’s not a kind of matter that you deal with via phone.

Occupying himself with the newest season of The Walking Dead (which he will probably have to re-watch because of the poor job he’s doing either way at focusing), Newt stays cooped in his flat, waiting for the Night of the Museums the following day, and – hopefully – for an occasion to see Thomas without any witnesses.

♣

On Saturday they are supposed to be on duty since 3 pm, even though the whole thing is going to start at 6, and last till 2 in the morning. With everyone running around frantically, making sure everything’s set (lectures for the kids, attractions, more lectures, movies, guides, security guards, the shop with postcards and other merchandise with reproductions, free tickets, and so on), Newt’s first instinct is to hide somewhere and wait it out till 6, but the museum has proved him wrong again, and he barely has time to skim over his notes; before he knows, he’s standing in front of the assigned painting and installation, waiting for his cue to start talking. He’s quite nervous – he’s used to talking about art, but not before probably hundreds of people that will swarm through the museum this evening, lured by free attractions and interest (if he’s lucky enough). The fact that Minho isn’t there, having done his job with projecting posters and all, isn’t helping – although his friend promised to pop in for a while – as well as that he and Thomas had only time to yell a quick ‘hi’ to each other in the haze of earlier preparations. The need to talk with the brunette gnaws at Newt even more strongly than it did for the past few days, making his hands (even more) clammy and shivery, but Newt decides to push it to the back of his mind for the time being – it’s time to work and be totally professional about it, not to think about a boy that is slowly taking over the place labelled as ‘crush’ in his brain.

For the first half an hour there’s barely anyone who notices the lone blonde in a crimson blazer and a neatly tied tie, patiently waiting in the corner for questions and attention. More and more people come, but no one stops by any of the museum workers for now, at least as far as Newt can see from where he’s standing – that makes him feel a little better. He supposes the visitors want to go through the whole building first before stopping at certain objects or are already heading for specific lectures, or something.

“Hello, dear sir, will ya be kind enough to tell me something about this certain masterpiece?”

Newt hears after some time (ages) and his head snaps to the sound of the familiar voice. Minho is grinning at him cheerfully, pulling an equally smiley Brenda with him, who leans over quickly and kisses Newt on the cheek when they stop in front of him.

“What are ya shanks doing here?” Newt asks, trying – and failing – to hide a smile behind a stony face. The presence of two familiar faces in the unknown crowd sends a wave of reassurance through him, relaxing his muscles instantly.

“We’re in charge of moral support today,” Brenda explains, still smiling. “Alby’s downstairs, pestering Thomas. Boy, he looks like he’s going to puke his nerves out or something.”

“No wonder, our Tom-boy is still an intern,” Miho shrugs, then stares pointedly at Newt. “We should prolly do something to calm him down, eh?”

Heat sweeps over him and Newt clears his throat, signalling his best friend to, well,  quit being a douche . He can’t lie, though – his thoughts wander to Thomas, wondering if he’s all right, being left alone without supervision. Minho’s right, after all – it’s the first big assignment he’s actually facing at the museum. Newt hopes he is okay, especially after the support Thomas has offered him when Newt nearly fucking destroyed an exhibit.

“’k, no more personal bullshit,” Miho claps his hands eagerly, then swings one arm over Brenda’s shoulders. “Time to work, blondie!”

Both of them are looking at him expectantly but Newt can’t tell if they’re serious – they can’t be, can they? But when neither Minho nor Brenda say anything, he actually (he cannot believe it) starts talking hesitantly, finally voicing out what he was working on. Brenda asks a question – one that she obviously knows the answer to, being also a history major – and it seems to encourage and draw in other people, who stop in their tracks and scoot over, taking interest in Newt’s words. Adrenaline starts pumping through his veins when a small (but growing) crowd gathers around them and Newt has to speak louder; keeping a straight face when all he wants to do is just smile and laugh and hug his friends and thank them repeatedly (and maybe, maybe go look for Thomas to share the excitement, just because) is a difficult task, but Newt manages, keeping a strong and professional, yet kind (he hopes) front.

♣

“That’s really interesting, actually,” the girl who has asked a question says. “Who would have thought those… How did you call them?”

“Zips,” Newt provides helpfully, stubbornly sticking his eyes to The Wild, to avoid the girl’s scanning gaze. He’s pretty sure she was eyeing him up and down before, and with Minho and Brenda no longer around, he doesn’t feel like he can deal with flirting.

“Right, zips. Who would think those could bear such meaning? Amazing interpretation.”

“Of course, Newt here does know what he’s talking about,” surprisingly, Thomas’ voice reaches his ears and Newt averts his eyes from the wall, to see the boy standing next to the girl and another few people, smiling at him. He’s a bit pale but otherwise looks cheerful, his tie loosened slightly and his hands pushed into the pockets of his uniform blazer. Newt sends him a smile, even though he knows Thomas is actually mocking the girl a little.

“He certainly does,” the girl replies, glaring at the brunette and Thomas, quite peculiarly, glares back, and an eyes-sending-daggers match starts between the two. Suddenly Newt wishes for all the laggards to leave. He clears his throat, pleading for attention, and asks if anyone has more questions. No one speaks up and after a few minutes of lingering, all the people - the girl included - start to make their way back to the exit. Thomas waits for a little more until the floor seems to have emptied out before he speaks up.

“I guess we can call it a night, huh?”

“Did we get official permission for the knock-off time?” Newt asks, trying to remain straightened up and not to slack off.

“Yes, everyone’s leaving."

“How did it go for you?” letting himself lean more comfortably onto his good leg, Newt unties his tie and yawns, ruffling his hair. He didn’t expect it to be this tiring – though standing in the same spot for a few hours certainly could do that to you. He’s knackered.

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Thomas is already moving, tugging at the hem of Newt’s blazer and pulling him behind. Though confused, Newt follows him without hesitation.

“On the way where to?”

“The pub. We’re all going, museum workers bonding time. What do you say?”

“With pleasure.”

Newt feels tired when they change into their usual clothes, but the locker room is full of his co-workers, buzzing with excited chatter. It’s weird – having so many people there at almost 3 am. Everyone is lively, and it kind of rubs off on Newt, even though there is a dull ache in his leg. He can consider his first Night of the Museums a success. Thanks to Minho and Brenda, there were constantly people interested in what he had to say; Newt stood in one place for three hours straight before he made a break for a wee and a quick cup of coffee in the staff room. He tried to go and see how Teresa and Thomas were handling their assignments but he didn’t manage – unfortunately, especially since Tommy has found some time to visit him, even if only for the very end. It felt different not to be on the receiving end – not to be the one to visit museums during the Night of the Museums, instead being stuck at one, only, not even being able to attend lectures held specially for the occasion. But it was awesome and Newt frankly loved it. And he could definitely drink to that.

The street is still full of people when the cluster of museum workers spills out through the back door. Newt’s not sure where exactly they are going, but he doesn’t really care; Minho appears and hooks their arms, and starts talking right away (“Man, we went to see other places, but let me tell ya – our was the best!”), dragging Thomas with his other arm as soon as the boy catches up to them. The group makes quite a ruckus while walking, which Newt wouldn’t usually feel comfortable with, but Thomas is talking excitedly about how the Night went for him, so Newt tunes the others out and leans out over Minho to see the younger man. He’s got a healthy flush to his cheeks that’s visible even despite the darkness; Minho says that he looks like the happiest intern alive and they all laugh loudly and it’s, really, kind of perfect.

Chapter Text

The pub a few blocks away that someone chose is filled with people, but not cramped – everyone has got a place to sit. The music isn’t live, but it’s soft, alternative rock and some jazz, a nice background noise – quiet enough to let you hear your friends but not too much, so other people can’t overhear. Everyone is having a blast, actually, and after two mandatory shots they all down, Newt relaxes and doesn’t feel exhausted anymore. They share their excitement and tell stories about how the Night went for them, making Newt stop feeling like he missed out on something.

After an hour or so, their group dissolves a bit, some people going home and some people moving closer to the bar or out for a cigarette. Minho, Thomas, and Newt are sitting by one table with Brenda and Alby, who joined them after receiving an invitation via text from Minho.

Minho drinks fast and a lot, and Newt would start worrying but at least it keeps his friend occupied – earlier Minho kept poking him under the table and throwing him knowing looks or making not-so-subtle comments, all of that to force Newt to start talking to Thomas about  the date . And he wants to, he really does – but not necessarily with Brenda and Alby, and especially not  Minho , to witness it. It’s difficult to stay alone with Thomas in a pub full of people, and Newt already mentioned he ran out of cigarettes, so going for a smoke isn’t an option.

Thankfully, after drinking what had to be like his sixth beer, Minho is slurring and laughing loudly, clinging to Thomas next to him and babbling nonsense. Newt looks at him with amusement, slowly sipping on his coke – he stopped with the alcohol after the first two shots, not wanting to get wasted. His goal is still there, even if muffled and restrained by nerves – he’d rather be in control of his mind and his body if he’s got a chance to speak to Thomas. Which he will. At some point. Probably.  Bloody hell .

“I kinda,” Minho mumbles into Thomas’ neck, drawing back Newt’s attention, grasping the younger boy’s shirt in his fist. “Feel like pukin’.”

“Woow, wow,” Thomas exclaims, immediately pushing Minho further from himself, grabbing his shoulders, which has the remaining three laughing at the display. Newt’s got to put a hand to his mouth to cover the biggest and the goofiest of smiles; seeing the two acting like that – there’s Minho trusting Thomas, being totally comfortable (and touchy-feely, but that’s Minho for you) and then there’s Thomas, terrified of being puked at, yet still holding the man securely by the shoulders, looking him over with concern. It’s just – it’s such a cozy, familiar sight, and it’s only now that Newt realizes how much accustomed he grew to it already. “Don’t you dare, buddy.”

“I think,” Minho sways back and forth, wriggling out of Tommy’s grasp and slowly turning towards Newt. The blonde sets his glass on the table cautiously and grabs Minho like Thomas has before, steadying him. “I wanna go home. Newt?”

His eyes are watery, sparkling – a usual sight when Minho is drunk – and his face whitens. Newt frowns, a bit of concern washing over him also; he looks like he’s sick. Newt doesn’t want to go yet, having a fun time, but if Minho needs it, he’ll do it without hesitation. The man has helped him a lot today (and not only today). He looks over Minho’s shoulder at Thomas, who nods, quietly agreeing to his plea for help with escorting him safely to his apartment.

“Sure thing, Min. Tommy and I will get you home alright,” he assures and Minho breaks into a weak, grateful smile. “Can you stand up?”

“We’ll take him,” Alby pats Newt on the shoulder blade, getting their attention. Brenda is already putting on her coat, nodding. “We’ve got to move either way, we live in the suburbs.”

Newt instantly feels responsible for his best friend and a little bit guilty – he was being selfish letting Minho get pissed this much.

“Are you sure?” Thomas asks, though, looking between the couple. “We can manage with Newt.”

“Don’t bother, loverboy,” Brenda smiles. Newt stares at her incredulously while Thomas chokes loudly on his saliva, dumbstruck. The blonde reaches one of his hands and pounds at his back two times because Thomas’ eyes get teary with the effort to clear his throat. “We know where he lives. You two did a great job today, you deserve to have some more fun. Without this little bastard clinging to you all the time.”

Minho sobers up enough to huff at that grudgingly, but accepts Newt’s friend's help with putting on his coat and scarf, then moves to stand next to Alby, who grasps his forearm securely. They talk for a while until Brenda leans over the table to kiss Thomas and Newt goodbye on the cheeks (which Minho repeats, wriggling out of Alby’s grip and managing to smooch Newt obnoxiously on the lips, but not having so much luck with Thomas, who luckily dodges ) and they make their way to the exit.

“Bloody hell,” Newt hides his face in his hands when the three finally leave, giggling madly at his misfortune, wiping the wetness from his lips. He did not accept that. He’s going to taunt Minho with it for pretty much the rest of their lives.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Thomas laughs and Newt hears him shuffling over, taking Minho’s previous seat.

“For you, maybe,” Newt grumbles but lifts his head and smiles at Thomas. It’s weirdly quiet around them now that Brenda, Minho and Alby are gone, but it’s not unpleasant. Newt loosens up even more, and tries not to think about the perfect opportunity for The Talk, because it again makes him a tad bit nervous ( what   if he laughs, what if he’ll be angry, what if I spoil everything, what if- ). “How was your exam?” shoots out of him before he has a chance to start talking about what he wanted to for the previous week. Realization downs on Newt – that’s why Thomas was absent on Friday. He should have asked earlier, probably send a text or even call him, or at least wish him luck in the morning. Thomas was really bothered by the exam, yet Newt showed no interest if he passed, whatsoever. He was too busy panicking in his head – too selfish and conceited, again. And after how Thomas acted towards him when they were moving Frank’s easels? God, he was just so bad with socializing, and appreciating his friends, sometimes. So,  so  bad. “Damn. I’m a shitty friend, ain’t I? Should’ve asked yesterday. Sorry, Tommy.”

“Don’t worry,” Thomas shrugs and pats him lightly on the shoulder, then takes a few gulps of his coke. Worry starts building in Newt because that’s not how someone who passed acts. Or is it? “It was horrible,” oh god, no. Nonono, Thomas failed and Newt didn’t give a single flying fuck, how does he apologize for that, how does he make it up to him- “ But I passed, B+,” the younger man adds after a pause, a shadow of a wicked smile gracing his features.

Heaving out a deep exhale, Newt swats Thomas across the head. The knot that has appeared in the pit of his stomach a few seconds before untangles and disappears, then a smile stretches the blonde’s lips. “You shank, god damn it. Ya scared me for a sec here.”

“Yeah, sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” Thomas barks a laugh and swats him back, playfully, his hand actually only brushing Newt’s hair. The man is ready to retort, when Thomas's hand lands delicately in between his shoulder blades, fingers hooking over the crease of Newt’s t-shirt. The pressure is barely there, more of a pull of the fabric than anything, but it’s comforting in a way; yet Newt’s breath hitches in his throat and he lets his eyes roam over the younger boy’s face – moles and pale skin, and eyes scrunched up thanks to a smile, and abruptly Newt’s at a loss for words. But Thomas starts telling him about the exam – what questions he drew and how he managed them, praising the professor for being helpful, the relief he felt when he didn’t get the German wooden sculpture; Newt only makes assent noises here and there, nodding his head when it’s required, because Thomas’ hand on his back weights weirdly on him, drawing every particle of his attention. It’s difficult to stay focused with that and with Thomas’ voice morphing nicely with the background music, and Newt cannot muster the courage to speak – he starts panicking in his head, for the millionth time in the span of a few days. He’s utterly fucked.

“It feels weird to finally have time to talk,” Thomas says after a while, saving Newt who tries hard to speak, but nothing but a pathetic squeal (which Thomas doesn’t hear, thankfully) will leave his lips. “I hope Frank’s lecture was fucking amazing, for all the weight lifting we had to do.”

“Not to mention in Luke’s presence,” Newt adds and Thomas laughs shortly at that, nodding his head in agreement. They let themselves have a small, spiteful chat about their co-worker (which is kind of weird because Newt doesn’t like talking bad about other people even if he doesn’t like them; but they were both just so angry with the older guy, he supposes that he deserves it), cackling from time to time because they just feel like it, and for a moment Newt forgets about the target he’s trying – or is supposed to try, more precisely – to achieve.

“This week has been hectic, man, so bad,” Thomas sighs out deeply at some point, sliding a little down his chair, but not moving his hand from Newt’s back (which is good).

“I know,” Newt shakes his head eventually, deciding to continue talking about what seems like gibberish for now, compared to what he aims for. He needs a slow and long-running start. “But it’s gonna get better now. There’s only the opening left in a week, after that it should quiet down.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. We’ll be back to guiding school trips in no time,” Newt smiles lightly. The power appears to be back, easing his nerves. He’s good with small talk – if it stays this way, he might be able to start the topic he wants. Eventually. After a few more minutes. Hours, maybe.  I’m shucked . “You’ll start missing the mess soon, Tommy.”

“I guess you’re right, we’ll be back to the boring museum life soon,” Thomas muses, agreeing. He turns around a little, his fingers uncurling from Newt’s t-shirt – and shit, Newt just had to jinx it, of course, he had. His hand falls and the spot where it rested up to this point on Newt's back feels cold.

But Thomas bends down a little, propping his elbows on the table and looking straight into Newt’s eyes. Newt stares back, battling the shiver that travels up his spine; he’s not sure what’s going on, because something is  definitely  going on alright, and he doesn’t know how to react and what to do. Thomas is suddenly close, not too close, but still dangerously so, and Newt is hot and panicky, and considers dragging his chair a little farther, backing up, when Thomas opens his mouth and speaks again. “Will you finally talk to me then? Like, talk talk? What you tried to do before?”

Newt’s eyes widen impossibly. His insides freeze, breath stops and he coughs loudly, staring at Thomas, who appears to be patiently waiting for a reply. Which comes out breathy and incoherent.

“I- I. Yeah, about that. I wanted to ask you…”

“About what?” Thomas’ eyebrows ride up, hiding partially under his bangs and Newt could beat the shit out of him for being cocky if the panic didn’t overwhelm him to the point he can barely think, let alone speak or move. He feels like he’s going to die in a second. But it’s the perfect – the only – opportunity, and he has to take advantage of it now that Thomas started the topic.

“The, um,” Newt sniffs, then huffs out angrily and decides to try to get it over with. “When we were- The restaurant. Was it really a date to you?”

“Yes,” Thomas answers shortly, with a small smile. But he sounds serious. Newt gulps, but the panic dies down a bit thanks to Thomas’s confirmation, and he can actually formulate a full sentence without choking on every second word (his heart is hammering in his chest, though, and he just can’t stop imagining, what Thomas will say, what if he says he’s not good with what Newt did, what if he changes his mind, what if-).

“Okay. So, are ya okay with what I did before I went home?”

“Yes.”

The urge to avoid Thomas’ piercing eyes is overpowering, but Newt stubbornly stays glued to the spot, staring back with what he hopes is the same intensity. Still terrified, but getting closer, to the point – Newt didn’t expect to feel this nervous, but the situation is as good as it’ll ever be. Being straightforward (at least a little bit more) appears to be more of a safe ground for him, and the panic deflates with every exhale.

“Okay,” Newt says quietly, tightening his palms into fists where they rest on his knees, willing them not to tremble (they do). “Do you want to redo it sometime?”

“The date or the kiss?” all of sudden, Thomas is close, very close,  too close ; no more leaning on the table, he bends towards Newt, and his hot breath ghosts over Newt’s face as he whispers the question. The blonde wants to throw himself off of the nearest bridge as soon as the awkward question escapes him, but he cannot even think now, crushed by the sensation of Thomas being so,  so  close. Cold sweat graces the nape of his neck and his tongue is dry as paper, and it would only take a split second to reach his hand and touch Thomas’s cheek, but Newt’s overpowered, completely.

“Both,” his throat is squeezed but he manages to say and he’s blinded by Thomas’ grin when the boy reaches out and cups Newt’s face in his hands.

“Well, finally,” the younger boy mumbles, his thumbs caressing Newt’s cheekbones subtly as he leans even closer when he says, “Took you long enough.”

It’s like a whiplash, knocking Newt out of his trance, making a frown appear on his face. He leans back, but only ever so slightly, not to lose the contact – because let’s be real here, he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“Wait,” he says, trying to sound annoyed, but his hands creep involuntarily to Thomas’ neck and circle it gently, spoiling everything. His skin is warm and smooth, and the tips of his hair tingle Newt’s entwined fingers pleasantly; he has to fight to keep his breathing steady, though (he has to remember to breathe at all). “What?”

“I was waiting for your move,” Thomas explains sheepishly, moving his fingers into Newt’s hair and brushing through it. A shiver shakes his body and Newt’s too distracted to conceal it, which makes Thomas giggle merrily. “For a confirmation.”

Newt wants to say that he’s irritated and that he hates Thomas for spoiling the moment, that he should go shuck himself, and that building such tension is merciless and awful and should be forbidden, but instead he lets the younger boy pull him in, closer, and the next thing he knows he’s being kissed, and he gets lost in the feeling, pressing himself to Thomas as much as he can without falling out of his chair. There’s no hesitation when Newt kisses back, his lips as insistent as Thomas’, if not more, and there’s only so much he can do to stop a desperate sigh, really, from escaping him; it does, but Thomas doesn’t seem to notice or doesn’t care – that’s seriously not important right now, not when they’re like  that , snogging and grabbing at each other, little pants resounding between them every now and then. It’s the best, and Newt’s mind is overcast with a thunderstorm of emotions, and he just cannot get enough of it, of  Thomas .

“Is that enough of a bloody confirmation for ya, slinthead?” Newt asks breathily when they break apart, finally, still clinging to each other like mad, not wanting to let go. He’s warm and shivering, although not with nerves this time, but with something akin to excitement and happiness, and he can’t recall a time he has ever felt like that. Thomas’ eyes are clouded when he looks at Newt who almost loses it completely when he notices how full of pure admiration they seem, he wants to kiss Thomas again and never let go of him, but they’re in a bloody pub and he’s still annoyed with the whole waiting. The thought that they could be like this for some time already drives him almost crazy with irritation.

“I think you’ll have to repeat that,” Thomas whispers finally, leaving a single peck on the tip of Newt’s nose (“Bloody hell, Tommy-“) and moving away reluctantly. “But after we get out of here. Come on.”

As they gather their things and get out of the pub Newt tries not to look around, fearing the reaction of their co-workers who haven’t left yet, because he won’t bear ironic comments at work. Thankfully, no one seems to have noticed anything (though he can swear Teresa is glaring at him knowingly from her seat by the bar) and soon enough they’re out on the street, and Newt doesn’t know what to do. He adjusts his scarf, clears his throat, and wants to put his hands in his pockets but Thomas is faster, grabbing one of Newt’s hands and lacing their fingers together.

“You’re nervous,” the younger man muses with a soft smile, tugging at their hands a little as he takes off in the general direction of Newt’s apartment. The first instinct to decline is strong, but Newt sighs and decides to forego it because he is. Still or again, he can’t tell. He’s sure, though, that he loves the feeling of Thomas’s palm pressed to his own, and no nervousness is gonna change that, not ever.

“A bit,” he nods, trying to look unfazed, and Thomas laughs shortly. “But I had a lot to comprehend today.”

“You did,” Thomas agrees when he’s done with his cackling. They fall into a mild, pleasant pace but Newt’s head is spinning with thoughts, especially since Thomas doesn’t appear like he’s going to speak anytime soon.

“Tommy?” the blonde inquired eventually, throwing the man a glance. Okay, so they might have kissed, but the matter wasn’t settled. And Newt needs that. He can’t have any understatements or misunderstandings circulating between them, not when he truly cares – as it turns out – about Thomas. He can’t have that.

“Hm?”

“So we’re dating now,” it’s more of a bold statement than a question, and Newt’s surprised at how hard and sharp his voice sounds, when he looks over at Thomas once again. It has startled the younger man visibly – Newt feels instantly guilty, he didn’t intend to be harsh or anything; but he can’t find better words. So he just stares at the younger boy, trying to convey his feelings through – what he hopes is – a meaningful look.

“Yes,” Thomas gets it eventually, apparently, and replies, squeezing their hands reassuringly after he’s recovered from his little shock. “I thought that was clear- but, yes, we are. If you want.”

“I do. But are you sure?” Newt can’t help asking, not really. It has nothing to do with him not being confident or having low self-esteem or anything – he’s quite fine with himself. It’s just. He needs to be sure. He wouldn’t be able to bear confusion or doubt, he’s not that kind of person.

“Newt,” Thomas exhales slowly and stops in his tracks, making Newt do the same. Newt waits while the younger man just shakes his head, then, finally looks back into his eyes, his face stony and determined. “I was sure since… remember when I asked you if you’d date me without the glasses? Yeah, since then. So quit your worrying.”

Newt’s not exactly stunned – the signs were there, obviously, and he was aware of the fact that Thomas was probably as interested in him as he was in return (at some point and after a struggle, let’s be real here). But he didn’t think Thomas made up his mind so early.  Oh . He can live with that. There’s a smile tugging at his lips and the blonde lets himself wallow in the warm feeling that overwhelms him instantly.

“I like you,” he bursts out, kind of without thinking, reaching blindly for Thomas, grabbing the front of his jacket. He cannot help it, this is too much, too good to be true, too definitive – and that’s the best about this whole thing, actually; Thomas laughs shortly, yet again, and lets himself be pulled forward, then embraces Newt with his free hand.

“I figured when you kissed me,” Thomas says quietly after they’ve been standing like that for a few minutes, sharing body heat. Newt wants to punch him but smiles only, because it’s Thomas and because the prospect of having to get used to this attitude makes his insides jump in a pleasurable, anticipating kind of way. “I like you, too. Are we settled?”

“That’s so  not  corny. But we are,” Newt grunts pointedly (not meaning it at all – having it talked over like that is exactly what he wished for) but moves away and they start walking again, but this time he untangles their fingers and snakes his arm around Thomas’ waist, to which Thomas replies by slinging his own arm over Newt’s shoulder, keeping him close. He feels – oddly light. Content. Happy? Yes, that’s got to be it.

♣

When they make it in front of Newt’s apartment it’s past 6 am and streets are slowly filling up with people rushing to work. It’s still dark, though, and Newt has to put up a fight to keep his eyes open; he doesn’t want to go to sleep, despite all of the tiredness that has overpowered him (he’s not exactly sure when; probably when Thomas has dragged him forcefully under an empty bus stop at some point, just to  hug him , making Newt’s knees buckle weakly underneath him and forcing a string of breathy curses between desperate gasps leave his mouth when he pulled away, because how is it possible to be so adorable?). Haziness clouds his mind when they stop and Thomas tells him he should go inside.

“Will you be okay?” Newt asks, stifling a yawn with his scarf, letting his eyelids drop closed for a split second. “You could stay here, ya know.”

“I’ll be good,” Thomas assures, smiling – he hasn’t stopped since they left the pub (Newt loves it; he hasn’t, either). “Go. You’re barely keeping yourself up, Newt.”

There’s no point in fighting. Newt knows Thomas is right, and as much as he would want to just roll with the new day, he needs sleep. He reaches out and brushes a hand through Thomas’ bangs and the younger male leans into the touch, and – when did they get this comfortable with each other? Nothing like that has ever happened to him, not even when he was in his previous relationships – Newt never clicked with anyone as much as he has with Thomas. He suspected something would change after they had talked to each other  officially , but it didn’t. It was as if they were still friends, but with more affection that Newt didn’t have to hide anymore. It was perfect.

“Okay,” he nods eventually, leaning down to press his lips to Thomas’ for a brief moment (he never really noticed that the younger man was that much shorter than him; or the height difference became just more prominent with the proximity, which also is a nice, nice thought). “Text me when you’re back home.”

“Will do,” Thomas affirms and pries Newt off of himself reluctantly, pushing him lightly towards the building. “Go. We’ll have the whole time in the world after we’ve slept.”

There’s a hint of promise in his voice and that’s the only reason that makes Newt retreat; he doesn’t look back once for fear of rushing after Thomas as he enters his apartment building and heads to his flat with a definition in his step.

It’s only when Thomas texts him over half an hour later (making Newt jump in surprise because he’s already dozing off) that Newt notices a message from Minho sent a few hours back. It says ‘go get him tiger’ and the blonde whines loudly, making his mind up – Minho’s gonna get the klunk beaten out of him for faking being  this  drunk, there’s no doubt.

Chapter Text

An abrupt knock at the door and the noise of the doorbell being pressed repeatedly jerks Newt awake at what has to be well past noon. He grunts, rolls over onto his back, and doesn’t get up, deciding to wait it over. Whoever that is, they can go to hell, he’s most definitely not getting up. When he’s already falling back into oblivion, pushing his face snugly into the pillow, angry yelling adds up to the rumble of knuckles, and the sound of the doorbell, insistent and stubborn, Newt finally opens up his eyes. After a generous moment of consideration (grunting and rolling back and forth on the mattress included), he gets up and drags himself out of his bedroom. It’s got to be Minho, obviously – and that’s the only thought that actually makes Newt go because his annoying friend has got to be lectured after the stunt he’s pulled the night before.

“Aww, you’re a little ball of sunshine from the very morning, aren’t you?” Minho coos in an overly sweet tone as soon as Newt swings the door open, pushing his way inside. The blonde is left staring after him dumbly, as the other man takes his jacket and boots off, and heads straight for the couch, demanding tea.

“Minho,” Newt heaves out deeply, stomping after him. He’s not going to make him buggin’ tea. Ever. The boy is too smart for his own good, coming here like he lives here (which he sometimes does) and like he owns the place (which he kinda does, too, looking at their friendship, but Newt has no time to think about it right now, too busy playing angry at the man).

“What?” the man looks up as Newt hovers over him, a daring smile gracing his lips. “Ain’t gonna treat your guest better?”

“ Treat my guest better  my arse, Minho,” Newt spits, flailing his arms wildly, which makes Minho burst out laughing. With a final sigh leaving his lips, Newt sits down. He’s had too little sleep to remain upright while trying to get through Minho’s thick skull; the task seems almost impossible. “What are you doing here?” it’s not even a question – more like a deflated sentence, which Newt mumbles tiredly, fixing his eyes on Minho’s.

“I came for a reconnaissance,” Minho replies, still smiling cheekily. His arm reaches over, though, and he tugs the duvet off of the armrest, then throws it over Newt’s frame, covering him up. “We’re goin’ out in thirty minutes, so I’m givin’ you, say, fifteen minutes more for a nap. And I suggest ya wear something more than your boxers only, bud.”

“Sod off,” Newt snorts only, but cuddles more comfortably to the cover, blessed by the sheer thought of fifteen more minutes of sleep; telling Minho off can wait.

 ♣

When Minho shakes him awake said fifteen minutes later, Newt is probably more groggy than he was before, but he obediently goes for a shower and blow-dries his hair quickly, then dresses, letting Minho escort him out of his flat.

“So what’s exactly going on?” he asks finally when they climb down the stairs. Minho throws him a sidelong glance and something is cunning about it that Newt doesn’t like (and is quite afraid of.) It’s only when they’re outside and the autumn air engulfs him that the blonde realizes he’s bloody hungry – he hopes Minho’s taking him out for lunch, at least.

“We’re visiting Thomas,” the man replies, and as if on cue Newt sees a familiar car parked by the pavement. A navy Toyota.  Thomas’s  Toyota. Minho walks over to it confidently, opens the passenger door waits for Newt to take a seat, then circles the vehicle and sits behind the steering wheel. Newt gapes at him, mouth hanging open; Minho shakes his head and leans to fasten the blonde’s seatbelt, then sets off to start the engine.

“Minho,” Newt manages to croak out eventually, lightly poking the boy in the arm. He really doesn’t have a clue what’s going on – why are they heading off to Thomas? Why is Minho driving? Why is he driving Tommy’s car? He’s so preoccupied with the questions swirling around and about in his head that he almost wholly forgets about trying to be mad at Minho, both for leaving him the day before and for waking him up today. “What…?”

“Don’t get yer panties in a twist,” Minho’s smile widens as he pries one of his hands from the steering wheel and fans it in the air a few times. Newt just stares at him, incredulous. “I needed to know what happened yesterday, so I came over to our Tom-boy, borrowed his car, and came for you. We’ll be havin’ a nice chat, the three of us.”

This is it. This is what having Minho as your best friend looks like – you either are grateful for him  immensely , or you want to strangle him in his sleep. Newt feels like there’s no in-between sometimes – and right now, it’s this kind of ‘sometimes’. So he just grunts lowly, knowing that there’s no way he’s ready for what’s about to come when they arrive at Thomas’.

 ♣

“What’s going on?” Newt demands loudly when Thomas lets them in. Minho just grins stupidly and trots over to the couch after he’s taken his coat off and throws himself on it, his head immediately snapping back to the two still at the door.

“I have no idea,” Thomas sighs, looking at Newt somewhat apologetically, waiting for him to take his outer clothing off. Newt does, a bit too slowly – he’s not sure how to act. Does he greet Thomas differently? – should he kiss him, or something? Minho’s definitely waiting for some PDA, which has Newt gritting his teeth in silent anger, because, really? God, does he wish it was simpler, he’s not good with relationships. Or dating, for that matter. “This shank came here, stole my car keys, and told me to wait,” Thomas continues and doesn’t make any kind of move towards Newt.  Oh . The blonde feels a pang of – disappointment, maybe? Nah, maybe not disappointment, but. Well,  something,  at least. He’s not one to complain, though – he didn’t do anything either – so he just follows Thomas to the couch, where they sit carefully, both obviously scared of Minho’s terrifying demeanour.

“So, lovebirds,” Minho starts in a very official voice as soon as they’re settled and Newt swears to god he could beat the crap out of him right this instant for being so cheeky. A menacing presence of an upcoming blush appears and threatens him, and the fact that Thomas is sitting like fifteen centimeters away and  doesn’t  touch him makes everything even worse. “Care to tell me what happened after I left?”

“What makes you think that anything happened?” Thomas asks indignantly at the same time as Newt, who snaps angrily, “Ya mean after you FAKED you were drunk?”

“You pretended?” Thomas exclaims as Minho starts laughing maniacally. Newt grunts out, closes his eyes, and pushes his back into the backrest, refusing to take part in the upcoming conversation. He can’t deal with that shite, not today.

“I pass,” he mumbles. “You explain, Tommy. I can’t guarantee I won’t punch the shuck-face if I’m the one interrogated.”

“Okay,” Newt hears Thomas’ agreement through Minho’s chuckles. The couch dips a little as there’s a comforting brush of Thomas’ hand for a moment on Newt’s forearm, and it instantly gets a little more bearable.

“So? Did ya two get it straight finally?” Minho inquiries; Newt squeezes his eyes harder.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say we got it  straight  considering the circumstances, but we worked it out,” Thomas retorts briskly; the words slap Newt across the face and now he definitely is blushing,  bugger it . Why did he think leaving the matter in Thomas’ hands would be a good idea? He reaches his arms and blindly starts hitting both Minho and Thomas, a string of obscenities aimed at them leaving his lips because they’re fucking unbelievable. “I hate you,” he whines when the remaining two start laughing and apparently duck his hands because he can’t reach them anymore. “I bloody despise you, both of you. Oh my god. Don’t talk to me, go away.”

There’s silence after that so Newt risks opening his eyes. It turns out to be a bad idea because as soon as he does, Minho looks at him with a shit-eating smile and asks.

“You’re dating?”

“Yep,” Thomas nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world and Newt feels another dreading heat wave creeping up his neck to his face. But it is, he supposes. Dating is normal. Just, not something he’s used to. “We are.” He turns over to Newt and the man sits upright, noticing the incredible fondness in Thomas’ eyes, and he doesn’t feel nervous anymore.

“About time, don’t you think?” Minho claps Newt on the shoulder harshly, earning himself a glare. “My job here is done. I’m proud of ya, shanks. You can be proud of me, too.”

“Not likely,” Thomas snickers and gets up. “I’ll make some tea.”

Minho leans in closer to Newt when Thomas waits for the water to boil and whispers discreetly, “What’s the deal? Do somethin’!”

“What?!” Newt whispers back furiously, the calmness vanishing in a split second. He hates to be pressured. “You’re here, man, what could I bloody do?”

“Hold his hand or somethin’,  anything ,” Minho’s gaze is blunt and demanding, his dark eyes boring into Newt’s persistently. As if he knew better. Which he probably does, because it’s Minho, and that’s infuriating if someone were to ask for Newt’s opinion. “He wants that.”

“How would you know,” Newt grumbles, ignoring the need to turn around and look at Thomas at the other end of the room.

“I just do,” Minho shrugs and offers loudly to turn on the TV because Thomas announces the tea ready and struggles towards them with three steaming mugs clutched in his hands.

Newt stares at the screen when they’re all settled down, talking leisurely, because he knows Minho is throwing him urgent glances every once in a while. He decides he will deal with the matter when he’s finished with his tea (which is already cold by now, but he hasn’t finished it, okay), but then his best friend asks for the details from the previous night. Thomas tells him vaguely how their meeting went and Newt whines again and hides his face in his hand, but when Minho starts making inappropriate comments he decides he’s done with this bullshit; Newt sets the mug on the coffee table firmly, swallows his jitters and leans back, his hand wandering on the couch along his thigh, where it finally reaches Thomas’ own, resting on the seat between them. Newt intertwines their fingers stubbornly; Thomas’ palm is warm in his, and why was he even nervous? It’s Thomas. Why does he have to remind himself about that every sodding time?

Thomas moves slightly, the tiniest bit, but pulls their hands up and places them on his knee. His thumb caresses the back of Newt’s palm and his eyes flick between their joined hands and Newt’s face for a few times, before they settle on Newt. The younger an smiles softly and Newt can’t help but smile back, with what he hopes is the same admiration.

“Adorable,” Minho’s snarl snaps Newt back to reality; the blonde turns to him, ready to scold him for encouraging him first and then making fun of them, but Minho is smiling – genuinely, and the mockery is only a poorly worn façade – Newt knows him, alright, he can see that Minho means it. “Oh my, so cute, you two slintheads. You’re my most perfect match, I’m a genius.”

“We’re your first match,” Newt clarifies, raising his eyebrows. “And ya didn’t exactly do shite, Minho.”

“I was the moral support!” Minho disagrees excitedly, looking at them with an offended expression on his face. “I was there for both of ya! I had to see you tiptoeing around each other and man, did it hurt my heart! I had to listen to yours and Tom-boy’s whining, do ya really think it was that easy-“

“You  whined  to Minho?” Newt giggles, cutting Minho off, grateful for the fact that he sits in the middle and has no problem with looking from one guy to another. “Really?”

“You did too, apparently,” Thomas falters for a second then laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “You were kind of giving contradictory signals sometimes, so.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! You guys were just so confused,” Minho yells out, yet again, slapping Newt’s shoulder blade brutally. “But I can see that my job here is done, so I’m leavin’, mates.”

“Are you for real?” Newt asks, sitting more upright, his eyes following Minho who’s already at the door, wrapping himself up in his scarf. “Did ya really bring me here just to-?”

“See you holding hands or something, exactly,” Minho beams at them and he’s out before Newt manages to speak again.

“His faith in us is enormous, isn’t it,” Thomas mutters, tugging at their hands and pulling Newt back to the backrest.

“Seems like it,” Newt nods and after a moment of consideration, leans more heavily onto Thomas’ side, not letting go of his hand (because he’s totally earned that). Thomas chuckles and shifts, adjusting their position to an even more comfortable one; and they just sit like that, staring at each other – and Newt doesn’t feel uncomfortable or nervous, or giddy, he feels  right . “Did you sleep well?” he asks eventually, not breaking the eye contact; Thomas hasn’t, he can tell – there are again dark circles under his eyes and he’s even more pale, his skin tinted gray. But they did have an eventful night, didn’t they? Everyone would have felt knackered after hours of working and then after hours of sitting in a pub, working out one’s feelings (Newt certainly does, at least).

“Not really,” Thomas answers lazily, his thumb still stroking Newt’s hand, which makes the blonde smile at him warmly. “But I don’t feel tired, so it’s okay. And there are better things to do when you’re here, eh?”

It’s like an invitation, really – or is it? – and Newt smiles even wider, and takes it; he moves closer, dipping his head a little towards Thomas. It takes forever but finally,  finally , their foreheads come in contact. Thomas’ hair tickles his temple and Newt exhales slowly, and the other man does too because he can feel a gust of hot air grazing his cheeks. The atmosphere is engulfing and overpowering; it becomes – seems – natural to inch even closer and to initiate something, Newt doesn’t even try to dwell on it too much and decides just to act on it; he’s already inching closer when his stomach rumbles in forgotten hunger and spoils everything. An annoyed groan leaves him when Newt closes his eyes in exasperation because  damn it.  Thomas is shaking with silent laughter, his hand squeezing Newt’s, and the blonde wants to be mad at him for that, but he cannot, not when he was the one to break the spell that seemed to have surrounded them.

“That’s so not romantic,” Newt mutters grudgingly, eyes snapping open to look back at Thomas, whose face is red from all the laughing, eyes squinted and brows furrowed. But then Thomas reaches his other hand over and places it gently on Newt’s neck, bringing him closer firmly.

“Nah. I’m not one for romance, anyways,” Thomas whispers, cheerfully, and just like that – they’re kissing. And if that’s not romance – the way Newt’s heart thunders in his chest, the way his breath hitches in his throat, the way his hands, after disentangling from Thomas’ fingers, seek the younger man's shoulders and encircle them, the way he half-climbs on the couch to press himself closer, the way Thomas’ palms feel warm on his neck, fingers a little shivery, and the way he smiles at Newt when they break apart – if that’s not a bloody romance, then Newt doesn’t know what is.

“I’ll cook something,” Thomas offers with a smile but they’re still close –  hugging  – and Newt claws desperately at his shirt, because he’s not sure he can deal with the whole situation with Thomas away (if only by the stove.)

“I’m good,” he mumbles, sounding a bit too desperate for his liking and Thomas cackles at that, cooing, really, but grabs Newt’s wrists and pries his hands off of his shirt.

“Not at lying, that for sure,” he smiles, once again, but ignores Newt’s grimace and stands up. “I can’t have you hungry here, Newt.”

“Aren’t ya a party pooper,” Newt huffs under his nose but raises to his feet, and soon enough joins Thomas at the kitchenette (where he’s almost immediately manhandled to  stay away  and  not help  when Thomas starts on the food.)

“It wasn’t my stomach that spoiled the moment,” the sound of boiling water doesn’t down the slight mockery apparent in Thomas’ comment. Newt grumbles and leans on the counter, watching him warily, arms crossed on his chest.

“Shut up,” He huffs, and Thomas barks a laugh, turning over for a second to wink at him cheekily – Newt just wants to scream in exasperation, but at the same time, laughter bubbles up in him, because – just because, actually.

♣

The noodles fried in curry smell so good that Newt wants to dig in as soon as Thomas dumps the grub on the plates, but the younger man just shakes his head and tells him to get the cutlery (“Cupboard to your left, first drawer.”), then offers to watch a movie while eating in his bedroom. Newt grunts at that because he’s starving, but follows Thomas obediently, to a room he was never in.

Thomas’ bedroom doesn’t disappoint – the furniture (which consists of a bed and a wardrobe, no desk whatsoever) doesn’t match; the bed is cast iron and the wardrobe is made of dark wood with carvings at the doors and Newt marvels at how perfectly it bites with a patchwork-like carpet on the floor. It’s so horrible that Newt smiles fondly, his eyes roaming over the cluster of posters and pictures hanging on the wall above the head of the bed.

“Come on,” Thomas urges, already seated on the bed, holding his plate with one, and opening his laptop with the other hand. Newt shakes his head, trying to wipe the smile off of his face, and plops down next to the man, careful not to spill any noodles on the bedding.

“I’m not watching Lord of the Rings with you  again , Tommy,” he warns, leaning on the pillows and crossing his legs as Thomas pulls an indignant face at him.

“You traitor,” he hisses but doesn’t mean it, already opening a file that’s not named ‘LOTR’ or anything of this kind. “Nah. We’ll watch Vincent and Theo?”

“What’s that?” Newt asks after waiting for Thomas to settle down next to him, then finally pushes the fork inside his mouth, almost moaning at the deliciousness of the meal. God knows he needed that – it’s his first meal since before the Night of the Museums started.

“A biography on van Gogh, kinda,” Thomas’ explanation is muffled because his cheeks are also puffed out with food, and if Newt weren’t afraid of spitting all over himself, he would probably laugh at the mere prospect how the two of them must look right now. “It’s good, I promise.”

Thomas’ assurance is enough for him, even though Newt’s not big on either biographic movies or Vincent van Gogh himself (and not even the Doctor Who episode that made him weep like a baby could change that, mind you), he still glues his eyes to the laptop that Thomas has balanced on their outstretched legs.

Halfway through the movie (which turns out to be considerably fine), Newt slips down under the covers, content and full. Drowsiness creeps in the back of his mind but the film’s interesting, so he doesn’t let it overpower him; at some point, he wishes he fell asleep because his eyes get bloody teary, and  fuck , Newt blinks rapidly because what is it with van Gogh making him emotional? He tries to discreetly pull the duvet closer to his face, but the laptop wobbles, and right away he feels Thomas’ gaze pointed at him.

“Are you crying?” the man asks softly but there’s an underlying tone of laughter and Newt just wants to go home.

“No,” he grumbles, and thankfully it’s the truth; the crisis is staved off and his eyes are no longer threateningly watery.

“Too bad,” Thomas cackles quietly and rolls over on his side, facing Newt now, making the laptop tilt to the side. He doesn’t seem fazed, though, the film not on his mind anymore as he drapes an arm across Newt’s torso and half-hugs him, his chin resting on the blonde’s shoulder. “Could use it as an excuse, comforting you or somethin’.”

Newt’s breath hitches in his chest,  yet again , and he muses he seriously doesn’t have enough strength to fight his inner schoolgirl every time something like this happens. He will just have to embrace and accept the fact that Thomas has the weirdest effect on him, now that they’ve stepped on the ‘official’ ground, and there’s no denying that. Newt feels Thomas nuzzling gently at the side of his neck, nosing his jawline – and he smiles involuntarily because it’s nice and cosy, and even Theo’s syphilis in the background can’t change that.

“I don’t think ya need excuses for  that -” Newt stresses, pinching the skin on Thomas’ arm thrown over his chest; the contact comes naturally, even if his first startled reactions may prove otherwise. “-anymore.”

“Mhm, a nice treat that comes along with the dating thing,” the spot just under the curve of Newt’s jawline where Thomas’ mouth is currently pressed feels warm, heated by Thomas’ breath when he mumbles sleepily, squeezing Newt tighter for a moment. “I am the real genius here, not Minho.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. I took you on a date, and look how that ended. Awesome,” Thomas’ voice is fading with every word, getting more and more silent; when Newt agrees through a quiet laugh (“Conceited much, Tommy? But I s’pose you’re right.”), he suspects that the younger man is already asleep despite claiming he wasn’t tired earlier; as far as he can tell by the steady, slow breathing ghosting over his neck.

♣

Newt stays the night, and not consciously at that. Thomas is a warm, calming weight at his side and he can’t help the slumber taking over him; the sounds coming from the laptop fade at some point, the view behind the window gets darker, covered in afternoon shadows, and Newt’s eyes slip eventually closed.

They sleep for almost fifteen hours straight, and they would probably sleep even longer if it weren’t for Newt’s alarm going off insistently from the pocket of his jeans where his phone is hidden. Thomas’ laptop has been knocked to the floor, apparently, but Newt’s left side aches from the way Thomas was draped around him, so he’s not sure how they managed to kick the computer off if they didn’t change their position all that much.

They both are kind of hazy when Thomas gets ready and stuffs some kind of breakfast and black coffee into Newt, then forces him to the car so Newt can shower (after a little quarrel because Newt insisted he wanted to do so in his own flat) and get into fresh clothes and grab his uniform from his place before they drive off to work. They don’t talk, but Newt rests his hand on the nape of Thomas’ neck and massages it gently, earning a constant half-smile in return.

Minho’s expression and his yelp of surprise are priceless when Thomas and Newt enter the locker room together, hand in hand, and Newt generously decides not to beat the crap out of his best friend, the memory of Thomas’ good-morning kiss anchoring him.

Chapter Text

‘I’m gonna be buggin’ late’, the thought pops up in Newt’s mind when he’s still in the shower, waves of hot water hitting his back as he tries to wash his hair hastily without getting the shampoo into his eyes. The level of panic rises in him – sort of stupidly because Newt still has over an hour to get ready and to arrive at the museum – but he can’t do much about it with the nervousness already there.

A drop of shampoo runs down Newt’s temple and gets into his eye, eventually, causing annoying stinging; the blonde curses out loud and turns over to get the water flowing over his face (which he usually hates to do, because he always feels as if he were suffocating due to the water flooding his nostrils, but there’s no time), then skips his usual hair routine, bloody conditioner, and all that bollocks, to get out as soon and as fast as he can. He reaches blindly for a towel but has to stop – his eyeball is freaking  burning.  Newt stumbles to the sink where he wastes more time rinsing his face, which has him reeling in silent anger and giddiness by the time he dresses up hastily, marvelling at the fact that he thought of ironing his suit and his shirt the day before.

“Moron,” Newt huffs under his breath as he makes a quick route around his flat, collecting his things and making sure he’s got everything he needs – his phone, his wallet, his monthly ticket, and the file with his notes - which is probably the most important thing. Of all the other days, he just had to forget to charge his phone the day before, hadn’t he? And of course, he had to oversleep, even if only by thirty minutes – it wasn’t that bad, Newt woke up at noon and he had to be at the museum at 3 pm, yet it was not what he planned; it was just enough to tick him off of his comfort zone, though, even if he wasn’t really the follow-the-schedule-precisely type.

The coffee he dreamed of drinking right before going out has got to be postponed, Newt decides after he has bundled himself up in his coat and scarf, before sprinting down the stairs as fast as his limp lets him. A ‘where are you’ text from Minho doesn’t help to lessen his nerves – or rather a stage fright – so Newt dials a four-digit number and calls a cab (feeling weirdly posh about it, because he doesn’t do that often, the poor uni student he is).

His hands can’t seem to stop trembling when Newt is sitting giddily in the back seat, so he lets himself open the file and scatters the papers on his lap, skimming over them nervously.

“An exam?” the taxi driver asks at some point when they’re waiting for the green light. Newt doesn’t spare him a glance, too engrossed with studying the plan currently clutched in between his fingers. He tries to sound polite, though, while still reading his notes.

“Nah,” the blonde replies and for instance is surprised by how tight his voice sounds. He knows he’s nervous, but he’s not sure why the whole ordeal is affecting him this much. It’s not like he’s not prepared, especially not after what he lived through at the Night of the Museums. “Work.”

“Oh,” the man makes an understanding sound, accelerating when the traffic lights finally change. “A speech?”

“Something like that,” a nervous smile creeps onto Newt’s face as he shuts the file closed. He’s not going to fret over it anymore – he knows everything by heart, and even though he set a margin for eventual mistakes or slips up, he doesn’t intend to make  any  errors tonight. He’s going to be perfect and professional, just like he was a week before – and that should be easier this time, given the fact that he doesn’t have to brood over his (unstable – or nonexistent, for that matter - back then) love life this time. It’s going to be ideal, and he’s gonna make sure of that.

“Good luck,” the driver says with what Newt deems as a genuine smile, and his nerves vanish – what else could he possibly need when even a stranger is wishing him luck, and making sure he’s at the museum in time? And even if that’s silly wishful thinking, which Newt usually doesn’t believe in, he settles his mind on that and holds onto the optimistic thought, and mood, until he enters the museum building.

And then everything goes to hell because everyone is there already and everyone is out of their minds – nerves are almost visible, binding and somehow restraining them; Newt heaves a few deep breaths and almost skips to the locker room to escape the madness.

“Bloody hell,” Newt blurts out as soon as he enters the room and the sight of Minho greets him; his best friend is sitting on one of the benches, his hair slicked neatly to one side – he’s wearing a very smart, and very,  very  nice and well-fitting black suit with grey, vertical stripes. Newt is speechless because he can’t remember the last time he saw Minho looking this good. He’s bloody gorgeous, and Newt’s not even trying to deny that. “You look-“

“I know. Marvellous,” Minho grins and stands up, waving an ushering hand at him. Newt obeys and strips off of his outer clothing, straightens his own suit, and takes a new, shiny (and bigger than the usual ones) ID that Minho hands him helpfully. They were ordered to abandon their work uniforms and dress very elegantly, but obviously, they had to have something to inform people they were working here – Newt didn’t accept new IDs, though. “Where’s Tommy-boy?”

“Not sure,” the blonde replies and follows Minho outside, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket and tightening them into fists to prevent trembling. “I didn’t have time to text him.”

“Yeah, shoulda figured when you didn’t text me back,” the man nudges him in the side, then grabs at his elbow and leads them away from the cluster of workers gathered near the entrance. “We still got some time, he’s prolly on your floor. C’mon.”

As soon as they make their way to the second floor, Minho is right (when is he not, seriously) – Thomas is hanging out by himself near group’s A section, his eyes roaming frantically over their part of the exhibits, making sure everything is set and ready for the last time, and seeing that he’s nervous, too, calms Newt down a little, surprisingly.

“Hey,” the younger man calls out and moves towards them; the white shirt underneath the vest he’s wearing has rolled-up sleeves, showing Thomas’ arms below the elbow – and, god, this looks good, too, and it might be Newt’s thing from now on.

Newt’s not sure why he’s suddenly surrounded by dramatically attractive people. “You’re late.”

“My fault,” he agrees shamelessly, returning Thomas’ smile, astonished at how it makes a wave of warmth spread over his body. It’s been a week since their little getting-together, and, well, he’s pretty much doomed and very well aware of that fact. He doesn’t mind one bit, though. “I overslept.”

“Everything good here?” Minho asks, nodding in the general direction of their segment. His eyes are clouded with something akin to concern and care, for which Newt has to pat him lightly on the shoulder gratefully. There’s something very comforting about people who aren’t (weren’t) involved directly – like the taxi driver and now Minho, who, thanks to his profession as a graphic designer, didn’t take part in the actual planning – in what they were working on physically and are now fussing over.

“I suppose,” Thomas shrugs, throwing a quick, last glance over his shoulder. “I checked everything, nothing seems to be falling apart for now.”

“Good that,” Newt exhales, yet again, trusting Thomas’ words. He doesn’t need to check himself anymore. If he were to start checking everything, he would probably find something either way – a crookedly hanged painting or panel, or something equally minor which would be invisible to the visitors (and he would try to fix it and he would break something most likely, trying too hard.) “We should get back, tho. Glenn’ll probably give a pep talk.”

The three of them linger in the spot for a moment longer, heads turning around and eyes sliding over the exhibits and the exposition before they walk back towards the stairs.

It doesn’t escape Newt’s notice that Minho increases his pace, walking a few steps ahead, giving them space. Which they don’t need, because neither Newt nor Thomas is big on showing too much affection when other people are around – Newt has learned that fact during the previous week, working with Thomas on the opening of the exhibition, but their friend hasn’t yet grasped the concept and had been trying to be considerate and not act like the insistent third wheel. Which was very sweet, actually, but also kind of naïve – Newt would  never  neglect Minho, no matter how much in love he was with – anyone, for that matter; Minho didn’t need to give them space, because they didn’t need it, their behaviour hasn’t changed all that much. But Minho was being Minho, and that’s why Newt supposes he will have to lay this out flat to his best friend at some point, if Minho continues with such demeanour.

“Nervous?” Thomas asks, snapping Newt out of his daydreaming, then moves a little bit closer, sneaking his little finger around Newt’s, linking their hands together.

“Yeah,” Newt admits, trying not to die at how Thomas acts towards him,  god damn it, shit.  The emotions are unexpected, considering the circumstances – first Minho and now this,  Jesus Christ, I need to calm the bloody hell down . “I hope everything’s fine. God, I think I need some kind of a mantra or somethin’. Have you got any lucky charms or other bullshit?”

Thomas laughs quietly at that, then leans in, standing on his toes for a second to press a chaste kiss to Newt’s temple. “Just you. Come on, hurry up. The director’s probably all over the place.”

♣

Thomas was right – if Newt thought  he  was nervous, his mind changed as soon as the director gathered everyone up in the conference room. The man is pretty much shivering from head to toe, his eyes shifty and voice strained as he explains everything once again and reminds the general schedule and tasks. Glenn cares a lot for the whole thing, and it’s painfully visible that if anything major goes wrong, the poor man will break down and blame himself – that’s why Newt decides, in his mind, even more firmly to be professional and to do his best, if only not to feel guilty for letting down his boss.

Soon enough everyone is shipped off to their previously designated positions; the struggle not to act giddy is even more difficult – the anticipation for the opening is enormous. Newt can’t help pacing back and forth, waiting for the actual opening hour, for all of the international representatives to come, for all the speeches that will follow; for the huge, huge ordeal the exhibition will – hopefully – be. There was something insanely nerve-wracking about his dream finally becoming a reality.

The blonde exhales deeply, closing his eyes for a split second. The thought of his nervousness the week before during the Night of the Museums seemed almost hilarious, now that he thinks of it, having the comparison with what he’s feeling right now. The Night of the Museums was big, but not this – creative and autonomic. It couldn’t get negative reviews, because there was nothing to be reviewed by art critics (besides the exhibits, but that wasn’t the matter since those were on the permanent exposition either way). Now, it was a totally different matter – it was something they  created,  it was something that they thought of, linked and brought together, something that they wanted to present to other people, forcing them to conceive their own concept. Of  art  – really. The fear of fucking anything up is at this point bloody unnerving, so Newt just clenches his teeth (almost painfully) and decides to just roll with it as best as he can.

♣

The slightly burning sensation on his tongue is actually quite pleasant – Newt grips the glass filled with champagne more securely in his slightly clammy hand, letting himself wallow for a moment in the calming feeling caused by those few sips of alcohol.

It worked.

It bloody  worked , surprisingly so. Famous and important guests who had been invited arrived, the opening celebrations and speeches were made, and the official opening of the exhibition finally happened. There were no mistakes, no slip-ups so far; crowds of people swarmed the designed segments, looking, talking,  contemplating . Photographers appeared and Newt’s sure he caught a glimpse of someone interviewing with the director, too. Everything was going smoothly, people seemed to be interested – whether specifically invited critics and ones involved with art in any way or those who were lured to the museum by Minho’s posters or mass media and online advertising. It was, up to this point, a success.

After the official part, which also consisted of the groups making the first tour guides of their sections (in which, in group’s A case, everyone – Frank, Luke, Newt, Teresa, and Thomas – had a chance to speak), is over, everyone mingles around, enjoying the nice atmosphere and mixing in with the crowds, going to see other parts of the exhibition – the finished and nicely polished, whole product. The discreet command from Glenn to ‘enjoy themselves’ spreads around the museum workers quickly, completely easing the last bits of their nerves. No one’s going to refuse – and even though Newt stays close to what they worked on to provide, possibly, some information to curious visitors, he allows himself to snatch a glass of (well-deserved) champagne from one of the trays carried around and  does  enjoy himself.

The chatter is quite overwhelming but otherwise, it’s peaceful, despite the masses of people surrounding Newt. The man moves closer to the wall, away from the actual exhibition space, then looks around, searching for either Thomas or Minho (preferably both), who he lost track of at some point. It’s easier said than done, though – people are everywhere; Newt has got to stand on the tip of his toes, as much as his bad leg let him, before he finally spots Minho a dozen meters away, talking to a girl and a boy with a smug expression gracing his face (and flirting with both of them at the same time). Shaking his head with resignation, Newt decides to let the guy have his fun and opts for Thomas instead, eyes searching and head snapping back and forth.

Minutes flow by but Thomas doesn’t seem to be anywhere near so Newt sneaks his phone out and texts the younger man; soon enough he’s making his way over to the 90’s segment, swiftly maneuvering between groups of visitors.

“Hey,” Thomas voices out as soon as Newt notices him by one of the installations. The brunette bids goodbye to an older man whom he was talking to before, then trots over to Newt, nursing a glass of champagne himself.

“Minho’s busy,” Newt explains with an indignant tone in his voice, but just for the sake of it, really. His mood and spirits are up, thanks to the overall nice atmosphere – and most definitely thanks to the success the exhibition seems to be. “And I couldn’t find you.”

“Sorry,” Thomas grins goofily, grabs Newt’s arm, and steers them farther from an installation that appears to be attracting people (the older man from before included). They find an empty bench and take their seats; Newt leans back, propping himself against the wall, extends his legs and crosses them in the ankles, then lets his eyelids droop halfway closed.

“This is sick,” he mutters, more to himself than to Thomas, suddenly feeling drained out of any energy. The concept of not having to work anymore on anything connected to this event is so alien to Newt that it almost freaks him out.

“Totally,” Thomas agrees, inching closer and pressing his arm to Newt’s, taking a sip from his glass. Newt turns his head a little and stares at him – Thomas’ bangs are gelled to the side; he’s sporting a neat side-parting, which makes Newt feel stupid about his usual messy mop of hair, now that he realizes that both Thomas and Minho settled on wearing more elegant hairstyles. He had too little time to get ready properly, though, so he couldn’t do much about it even if he had intended to in the first place. None of this changes the fact that Thomas looks bloody  good , though. Newt should be grateful for a moment of peace to appreciate it. “I can’t believe it’s over, though.”

“Yeah,” the exactly-voicing-out-his-thoughts (yet again) deal doesn’t help Newt with leveling the amount of admiration for Thomas that seems to have suddenly washed over him. He doesn’t do much, but smiles lightly at the younger man, bumping their shoulders together. Thomas smiles back, his eyes filled with warmth. “Kinda weird. Everything’ll go back to normal now.”

“You mean back to guiding school trips?” Thomas chuckles quietly; Newt follows suit, even if he’s not keen on the idea. At least they will also have to show off this exhibition, since it's going to last at least a couple of weeks. It doesn’t seem so bad.

“Pretty much.”

“Can’t wait,” after observing how Thomas downs the rest of his alcohol, Newt catches his wrist gently and guides their hands between their thighs, where he intertwines their fingers together comfortably, so the onlookers cannot see. “Man, I’m dead tired. The thought of those elementary bastards doesn’t help.”

The irony makes Newt burst out laughing (it gets to him every time, actually,) because he can still remember when Thomas was making fun of  him  for having to put up with the kids. Even if they are dating now, it’s a nice thought that karma has bitten Thomas in the arse for teasing Newt, and it never fails to cheer him up when they are talking about this.

“Ya’ll deal, Tommy.”

“Yeah. Good thing I’ll have you around, right?” Thomas cackles merrily, squeezing their clasped hands tighter. The proximity is comforting; warm. Newt has to restrain himself from leaning in even closer. So he just nods in affirmation, feeling the corners of his lips tug up, once more.

“Bloody right.”

♣

It’s well past 9 pm when everyone is finally leaving. As soon as the guests and visitors disappear, the museum workers set off to check if everything is alright and clean up a bit – Newt, though, is sent off to the locker room to fetch Minho’s (who came around eventually, utterly pleased with himself for some reason) and Thomas’ things (“You won’t be runnin’ around with a broom with your bad leg, and that’s that.”). He’s waiting by the entrance, already wrapped in his outer clothes, holding an armful of his friends’ ones to his chest, desperately wanting to walk out for a smoke but knowing he can’t, not yet. Even though he’s pleased with how everything went today – with how everything will seemingly pay off in critics’ hopefully lauditive reviews – right now he just wants to go home and bury himself in his bed, then sleep for at least ten or twelve hours. Fussing over something that you really care about is a tough, tiring job.

“Finally,” the blonde lets out an overly exasperated sigh when Thomas and Minho appear in the entrance hallway, their pace mild and laughing at something. His foot taps impatiently on the tiled floor when the two wrap themselves in their winter clothing, then Newt almost pushes them outside when they dawdle.

“Calm, bud,” Minho chuckles, shielding his eyes from the falling snow they have to face as soon as they step outside. “We’re goin’.”

Not intending to respond verbally, Newt just rolls his eyes and digs in the pockets of his coat in search of the pack of cigarettes (and a lighter) – it’s difficult, considering the fact that there’s a hole he forgot to take care of in the right pocket, and that’s why the lighter seems to be gone. He stops, ironically, calling for Minho and Thomas to do the same, and buries his hands deeper into the folds of fabric, fingers searching for the small object.

“If that’s not a sign for you to stop smoking, then I don’t know what is,” Thomas provides cheekily, not too helpfully, guessing with perfect aim what Newt’s doing and poking him lightly in the arm. The blonde shakes his head and snaps back, “Shut your pretty face, Tommy,” but smiles nevertheless. Because he’s in a seriously good mood, and not even the need to go home  instantly  (or the missing lighter, in that matter) is going to change that soon.

“Anyways,” Thomas continues, joining Minho in the process of snickering at Newt’s frantic searching. “I took the car today, I’ll drive you guys home.”

“Now you’re talking sense,” Newt hears rather than sees Minho slapping Thomas on the back merrily because he finally found the bloody lighter (the little bastard slipped to the hem of his coat, he doesn’t have the slightest idea how that’s even possible). He pops the cigarette into his mouth, lights it, takes the first, blesses puff, and looks over at Thomas, sending him a thankful smile.

“That’s awesome, Tommy.”

“At your service,” the younger man smiles back and moves closer to Newt, hooking their arms together. The prospect of not having to take the bus sounds very, very appealing. “Shall we go?”

Minho and Newt nod simultaneously and they take the first few steps away from the museum building when a shout resounds behind them.

“Boys! Wait up!”

Newt’s the first one to whip around, only to see Glenn jogging down the stairs, waving at them. The chain of thoughts which can be categorized as did-I-do-something-wrong-or-did-they-or-did-something-happen runs over Newt’s mind so fast that he forgets to put down the cigarette and just holds it between the index and the middle finger of his left hand, while the right one is still securely wrapped around Thomas’ forearm (which he should be scared of, too, not knowing if the director accepts romance-at-work deal; which he probably doesn’t and which also won’t ever be a problem in their case, but Newt guesses they should be cautious). It’s not often that they have a chance to speak to their boss face-to-face – not the younger workers, at least.

“Sir?” Minho raises his eyebrows; his tone is careful. Newt knows his best friend has got to be thinking the same things right now. But the director is smiling at the three of them, his eyes sparkly and his cheeks flushed healthily.

“I just wanted to thank you,” the man explains eventually, his smile growing even wider. At that, Newt relaxes and slowly sneaks the hand holding the cigarette behind his back. Just in case. “You all did a great job. For now seems like everyone loved the show.”

“That’s great,” Newt smiles, at the same time letting himself press closer to Thomas, for no apparent reason. (For a very apparent reason – everything went bloody fucking well, and what other confirmation do they need than from their director, who, mind you, is worldwide known?).

“Exactly,” Glenn affirms with an enthusiastic nod, his eyes jumping from one boy to another. “Thanks to this exhibition, we’ll be getting a bigger budget, so you can expect higher salaries from next month,” and honestly, Newt just wants to scream and cheer at that,  god damn it , and one quick glance at Minho at the other side of Tommy tells him he’s not the only one at that. Brilliant.

“Thank you,” Minho is the first one to voice anything out. Glenn just laughs and shakes his hand in the air. “That’s… really great, boss.”

“You should thank yourselves, guys. You worked hard,” it’s officially the first time Newt has seen their boss in such a good mood; and if his good mood means also more money for them, he is eager to do his best at work, not only for his own satisfaction. “Which reminds me,” the man points his gaze at Thomas suddenly, his voice now more serious, but the smile still plastered to his face (which is sort of weird, now). “Thomas, I know our deal was a little different, but I think we should end the internship-“

Everything crumbles down in the split second – Newt’s eyes go so wide they almost pop out, Minho’s speechless and Thomas stiffens; Newt can practically feel the impossible stiffness taking over the boy’s body at the word none of them expected. The cigarette falls to the ground, heart thrums in Newt’s chest wildly – angrily, because what the bloody hell? – and he already opens his mouth, ready to take the matter into his hands, even if it means risking his own position, but the director continues smoothly, apparently not noticing the sudden shift in the behaviour of his three employees.

“-and hire you regularly. What do you say? Or will it collide with your studies?”

“I-I… Huh?” Thomas stutters stupidly, staring at the older man. The steam leaves Newt immediately, and,  damn it, thank god . If Glenn threw Thomas out, that would be the most unfair thing ever. Ever. Not to mention that Newt has already had the thought of working with Thomas, in one way or another, sealed in his mind for good – he’s not sure he would be able to put up with such an unexpected change. “I mean- Of course. Of course, I agree, sir.”

“I’ll see you in my office on Monday, then,” Glenn says. “Thank you, the three of you, again. Excellent job today, excellent.” The man bids them a quick goodbye and moves away in the direction of the museum’s parking lot.

The three men stand where the director left them for a while longer, too dumbstruck to move, the snow slowly melting on their heads and shoulders. The day qualifies as a great one, now, Newt thinks with finality, not able to find any words for the moment. Just, wow.

“Holy shit,” a mumble comes from Thomas eventually. The man looks dazed, disbelief written all over his face, eyebrows knitted together adorably because he’s got to be the first intern to have the position guaranteed and their internship shortened; Newt – feeling so, so proud - just has to turn a little, facing him. Thomas’ lips form the brightest of smiles just as Newt’s hands wander to the collar of his jacket, gripping at it tightly. It’s nice, so nice, so unexpectedly good – so unexpectedly  better,  the snow is falling and they all are startled and surprised and happy. Minho’s there to witness it, and Newt hasn’t planned that – hasn’t even thought of that beforehand, not really; but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, before he can reconsider this, before he can wonder if he really means that (he does).

“I love you,” the statement feels raw, not affectionate or sappy in the tiniest bit when it’s out. But it’s true, and Newt’s sure of that as soon as he’s done speaking. Thomas’ eyes cloud with surprise, then widen, then squint; and he’s laughing loudly and kissing Newt harshly in the next second, arms wrapping around the blonde’s waist as he brings them closer together.

Minho whoops somewhere in the background when they part for a moment, only long enough for Thomas to say “Right back at you, Newt,” and Newt feels the heat coming up his face when Thomas kisses him again, not subtly at all, teeth and tongue and obnoxious noises, but he can’t do much about it; it’s there, it happened, the words were said,  for the first time . It’s final and it’s serious, and Minho is probably going to haunt them with the memory of the scene happening right in front of him for the rest of their lives – but it’s perfect at the moment, so Newt decides that, yeah, he can bloody live with that.

Chapter Text

There’s a drop of lukewarm sweat trickling down his temple, and another one slipping behind the neck of his t-shirt; it’s the most annoying – and kind of gross, if he’s to be honest – feeling ever, but he cannot do much about it, having both of his hands occupied.

Thomas sighs exasperatedly, grips the steering wheel impossibly tighter – knuckles going white and forearms shivering slightly with the effort – and tries not to shake his head vigorously from side to side to somehow get rid of the irking perspiration. Minho’s right, he should get the car's air-con sorted out as soon as possible; or, well,  buy one  in the first place. It’s easier said than done, though. He managed to drive without air-conditioning through the whole of May (which was surprisingly hot), and the shit is expensive, okay, so it’s difficult to get one now that it’s already June.

The t-shirt starts sticking to Thomas’ back, though. He peels one of his hands from the sticky wheel and opens the window to his left; the wind that starts howling around the car is so strong that it feels as if Thomas’s head were to fall off right this instant, but he decides he will have to deal. He doesn’t really wish to look like a wet rat, not today.

The man’s breathing slows down, now that he doesn’t sweat like a pig anymore, but the nerves come back, stronger with every meter closer to the campus.

“This is some shit,” he mutters to himself, wishing Minho was there with him. But Minho’s done with the academic year, his exam postponed to September, and he’s on a two-week long leave in Korea, so that’s not happening. Thomas has to live through that alone – and even though he knows it will be better in the corridor that doesn’t feel like a metal can that’s about to give him a sunstroke (because that’s how his car feels like at this moment), the fear of waiting there alone is terrifying.

Newt’s getting his master’s degree today, and Thomas is scared shitless.

Of course, Thomas is confident that Newt will get the best grade, and that he will earn the degree with no problems. The older man has spent a shitload of time writing and perfecting his thesis, he barely had any corrections to make after his promoter had read the whole thing. Not to mention that Newt had studied for over two months before the exam, he revised everything from the end of the 18th century up to the most contemporary art – he probably knows everything about every current, every trend and direction that has ever appeared in modern art. He is absolutely ready, Thomas is sure of that. But Newt has been pacing around the flat, dumbstruck and nervous, for almost a month, wringing his hands and whining (“Oh my god, Tommy. I’m never gonna pass this.”, “Thomas, what was this about the secession architecture I always forget about? I can’t remember, Jesus Christ. Bloody hell, Thomas, ya were supposed to remember that in case  I  forgot!”), feeling insecure and anxious. And even though Thomas had mostly laughed at that and tried to console him – now that the exam day had finally rolled in and Thomas was on his way to the university, he became nervous.

“He’ll pass,” Thomas utters under his breath like an idiot, just for the sake of it. He doesn’t doubt, neither in Newt nor in his knowledge. But the thought of waiting alone makes cold shivers run down his back in giddy anticipation.

There’s only so much he can do not to sprint to the uni building after Thomas has found a free place in the parking lot, and soon enough the man finds himself jogging inside, one hand balled into a fist and the other carrying a bouquet of congratulatory flowers.

As he predicted – the corridor belonging to the Art History Institute on the fourth floor is empty. Thomas sits down on a bench near the staircase, placing the flowers carefully next to him. He didn’t plan on buying them at first – after over half a year of dating, Thomas is well aware of the fact that none of them are keen on such cliché gestures – but then decided he needed something,  anything , to show Newt his support. And pride (if Newt didn’t pass – which in no way was a case, honestly – he would have to think of something to get rid of them – fling the bouquet down the stairs or something, whatever).

His legs jump slightly – up and down, up and down, up and down, and Thomas has to steady his breathing a bit. Newt doesn’t know Thomas is here. The brunette has secretly taken a day off from the museum to arrive here and be there for (and with) Newt when the older man was about to get his degree. It wasn’t meant to be a surprise, exactly – it was just, that Newt didn’t let him take the off-day, saying it wasn’t necessary, refusing Thomas’ offer to drive him there, or to at least pick him up. But Thomas did take leave either way (which is kind of silly, seeing as he had to pretend he got ready for work and that he left just before Newt did; he drove to the nearest café, ordered a coffee, drank it, dropped by at florist’s and – when he was sure Newt’s exam started and he wouldn’t meet him randomly on campus – drove to the university), and here he is now. Overwhelmed with nerves and anticipation.

Thomas is not sure how long such exams last, but Newt’s been inside – supposedly – for about half an hour now, so Thomas straightens his back and looks expectantly towards the professors’ offices, guessing the man will appear soon. Soon-ish.

It’s not until almost twenty minutes later that Thomas’ head snaps up at the sound of a creaking door opening. The man focuses his eyes at the end of the dark corridor – he sees a figure, covered partially by the open door, and he can hear a muffled conversation. He recognizes Newt right away, though, so Thomas springs to his legs, rakes a hand through his hair in an attempt to look a little better after the battle with the sweaty forehead and then wind, then hides the flowers behind his back.

It feels like an eternity before Newt closes the door and finally moves towards the stairs – towards him. There’s nothing to help Thomas decipher how it went. He can see that Newt is holding himself upright, his head slightly bent forward, a bit of his limp visible – nothing unusual. It makes Thomas calmer instantly, even if it could also mean that Newt has totally boomed the exam. Which he didn’t, Thomas is still certain about that. But the nerves,  oh god .

Newt’s like five meters away when he finally lifts his head and spots Thomas, flicking his bangs to the side. He looks so good like that - in his perfectly cut suit with a narrow tie, his hair combed a little more precisely than usual - that Thomas has to force himself not to race forward. He tightens the grip around the stalks of the flowers, almost crushing them, as he observes how Newt’s eyes widen in surprise and his eyebrows wander up.

“Tommy?” the blonde inquires weakly before he even reaches him. Thomas falters for a moment, hundreds of thoughts swirling in his brain – because what if Newt failed, what if the flowers and his presence here are a mistake, what if he makes everything worse?

“At your service,” Thomas replies eventually, levelling his voice so it doesn’t waver and betray his nervousness, and covers the distance separating them in a few final steps. Now that he has a closer look, Newt seems tired, bewildered, a little pale; although not devastated or depressed, which is a good sign. “So how did it go?” the brunette urges, when his companion doesn’t appear like he’s going to speak up anytime soon.

“What are you doing here?” Newt asks back instead, knitting his brows together and Thomas is close to screaming at him in frustration.

“Newt.  How. Did. It. Go .” Thomas grits out, this time almost breaking the flowers still hidden behind his back. He doesn’t think he can take it anymore, sweat breaks out onto his forehead again – this time not from the heat, but from the sheer strain he’s feeling.

The stare Newt gives him for the following seconds is steady and mysterious, but then the blonde breaks into the brightest of smiles and laughs. Thomas chucks the bouquet at him before he hears Newt say “I passed with the best note”, then throws himself at the older man in a congratulatory hug, squishing the flowers between them.

“I told you, you’re the best, you’re the best,  I fucking told you ! You’re so stupid, oh god, I love you,” Thomas spits out the words, quickly, excitedly, and too loudly, but they’re alone in the corridor and Newt is shaking with laughter as Thomas rocks them from left to right in the bone-crushing embrace.

“Thank you,” Newt laughs some more as he pries Thomas off of himself and pushes him away. “You’re ruinin’ the flowers, though.”

“Nevermind,” Thomas swats at Newt’s shoulder because it really doesn’t matter. What matters is that Newt got his freaking master’s degree. “You’re a genius.”

“Yeah, not really,” Newt refuses but the smile is still there, persistent and all the time. “I’m glad it’s finally bloody over, though.”

“We should celebrate,” Thomas says confidently, grabbing one of Newt’s wrists and pulling him towards the stairs.

“You mean to stay at home and laze around?”

“Yes,” the brunette turns around to gaze quickly at the older boy. Newt appears to be relaxed and utterly happy, and a sudden wave of fondness and admiration hits Thomas. Newt has been so stressed out lately, that he most definitely deserves a lazy day. Or a lazy week. They will have to talk about taking some free time from work, Thomas muses as they make their way to the car.

Newt chatters happily all the way back to their apartment. Thomas finds himself laughing along with the older man – though he doesn’t really know what’s so funny about an exam, they do it anyway, pretty much just sharing the excitement and happiness. Newt makes a little bit of fun of Thomas for actually bringing him flowers, but the younger man knows it’s a half-hearted act only, and notices with satisfaction that Newt puts the bouquet carefully in a vase, then places it near the TV when they’re back in the flat. They play rock-paper-scissors and Thomas wins, so he heads to the shower first while Newt orders pizza and waits for his turn.

It’s warm and nice when they finally settle down on the couch to watch The Goonies. The words circling between them are carefree, the conversation is not serious and that’s what relaxes the atmosphere even more. It’s easy and languid, and they just lounge on the couch, eating messily and staring at the softly humming TV. It’s familiar and perfect, and Thomas doesn’t remember the last time they reposed like that, without the guilty vibes involuntarily radiating off of Newt (“I should be studying, not watching a buggin’ movie.”).

Halfway through the movie the pizza is gone, and so are the remains of their motivation to do maybe something a tad bit more productive; Thomas crawls over closer and leans on Newt’s side, hooking his legs over the blonde’s one, ignoring the fact that it will get  too  warm in no time, thanks to the flat being the attic.

Newt automatically adjusts their position to a more comfortable one, then intertwines their fingers lazily, muttering a soft and random ‘I love you’ (which Thomas probably isn’t mean to hear, but he does and he smiles, the fuzzy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach), leaning his head on Thomas’.

“It’s hot,” Thomas voices out after a while. But he doesn’t move an inch. He feels Newt shrug his shoulders, albeit carefully so, so Thomas’ chin doesn’t slip off of his collarbone.

“Your flat, your fault.”

“ Our  flat,” nudging a finger into his boyfriend’s ribs, Thomas stresses out at the familiar by now saying, because they’ve had this conversation a thousand times already since they moved in together in February. And, obviously, Newt likes to complain or make Thomas guilty if  he’s  the one complaining. It’s just a bicker, though, nothing serious. “Thank you very much.”

“Whatever you say, Tommy,” Newt mutters eventually and presses a kiss to the top of Thomas’ head, at which Thomas almost melts into a puddle of goo. Not caring about the heat, he hugs the older man closer and lets his eyes slip closed, enjoying and marvelling at the nice, sleepy atmosphere.

Truth be told, he was scared about that at first. About living together, especially after such little time, as it seemed. But Minho –  Minho,  for fuck’s sake – couldn’t stop talking about it, whining both to Newt and to Thomas that they should move in together (“Guys, it will be easier. It’s still winter and Newt needs help with his leg, right? And, like, we won’t have to pick one another up every time if you just live together. It’s either I visit yours or you visit mine, no more ‘We have to wait for Tommy’ bullshit and such. Guuuuys.”), and he was so insistent that they finally talked about it seriously – the two of them only. And somehow, they agreed. And three days after ‘the talk’, Newt moved in, quickly, definitely, and just like that. Picking Thomas’ flat to live in was an obvious choice since he put so much money and work into it, and Newt didn’t mind at all (though it didn’t stop him from complaining once in a while, just to tease Thomas, really).

At the beginning, it was weird. Learning the quirks and habits of the other one, readjusting their routines so they matched more-or-less and didn’t clash, learning to share a place with someone who wasn’t exactly family, fairly dividing the chores. Thomas was very,  very  afraid. He knew some traits or features became apparent only after you spent your whole time with the other person. He was afraid that Newt would find him boring after some time, or annoying, or whatever; he was also afraid that Newt would turn out to be different than the person Thomas fell in love with – he doubted that honestly (because Newt was one of the best things that has ever happened to him, and there’s no denying that) but the slightest trace of fear lingered somewhere inside him.

The biggest challenge, though, was sharing the bed in the long run. Because Thomas loved his own space, and so did Newt. The younger man wasn’t a big cuddler when it came to sleeping and he knew for a fact Newt wasn’t, either. It was nice – and  needed  – to fall asleep spooning, or embracing, or touching in any way once in a while, but not every night. Thomas was so, so afraid of that that he confided in Minho – he didn’t want to put Newt off by saying he didn’t want to snuggle together, he didn’t want to disappoint him, he didn’t want to appear cold or not loving enough – but Minho just laughed at that (loudly and obnoxiously), and assured him that of all people, Newt wouldn’t mind. And he didn’t, as Thomas learned after some time of living together. It was quite perfect – there were nights when they would cuddle sweetly, but most of the time, they fell asleep slightly apart, only their hands or shoulders, or backs touching, and it was everything Thomas had ever wished for.

And thankfully, the time they spent living together proved all of his doubts and insecurities wrong – living with Newt was perfect and Newt was even more incredible than before. They watched shows together, they played together, they ate together (Thomas usually cooked because Newt was a disaster in the kitchen, so he was reduced to the role of a helper who passed Thomas cutlery or spices), they went to uni or work together if their classes or shifts matched, they met up with Minho, they hung out. And whenever any of them needed some time alone (and they sure did, sometimes), one of them would stay in the bedroom and the other in the living room. Or they would just sit on the couch, losing themselves in their own stuff. It was easy and natural, they weren’t arguing about that or getting mad at one another.

Thinking back to it now, Thomas feels like bursting out laughing, remembering how super careful he acted for the first week – he was aware of everything he did, everything he said around Newt. He tried not to disturb him, not to interfere too much with his habits, tried not to overwhelm him with anything. Which was hilarious because they’ve been together for some time already, and he didn’t act like this –  never , actually – not after they had only become friends, not after they had only started dating. But eventually, everything sorted out nicely (especially after one night somewhere by the end of February, when they were coming back from Minho’s –  Minho’s!  – exhibition, excited and so, so happy for their friend; and Thomas was a little drunk on the wine while he stumbled up the stairs, and Newt’s hands felt heavy and warm and somehow electrifying on his hips. Thomas’s not sure how he managed to unlock the door while being pressed against it with Newt’s mouth wandering on his neck, but he did, and they staggered inside; the heating wasn’t on, it was dark and cold and messy because they didn’t have time to clean up before they left. Newt tripped over a hoodie and they fell on the couch heavily, where they made out for what felt like hours, hot and bothered and passionate, until Thomas couldn’t take it anymore and demanded they move it to the bedroom; they did, and the bedding was cool where it touched Thomas’s skin, and his lips felt swollen and he might have bitten at Newt’s collarbone a little too harshly, but clothes were flying to the floor, hands were roaming and breathy moans were escaping them; Newt’s fingertips tickled on the insides of his thighs and Thomas was scared and Newt was scared too, but the atmosphere was heavy and loving and they did it. For the first time, and Newt was caring and they were gentle and passionate and they weren’t in for romance – but it was  romantic  and  perfect , too; if they hadn’t been comfortable with and around each other before, they certainly were after that night).

 And having Newt here, almost all the time, whenever Thomas needs him, or wherever he needs just his presence, or his sarcasm, or his scolding, or whenever, in turn, Newt is the one needing  Thomas  – is the best feeling in the world.