Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The drumming sound of fingers being tapped against dark wood cut through the distant sounds of ocean waves crashing on the beach of the Safe Haven as Thomas stood over a desk, back hunched to look at the map in front of him.

He was stressed, to put it lightly. Supplies were limited and the only place they knew to go to search for what they needed was Denver.

The Last City.

A city Thomas, along with some others in the Safe Haven, swore to never return to. But it was really their only option.

The name was ironic, looking back on it now. The Last City sounded like it should've been a utopia, all good news and fresh air. No worries about Cranks or terrible monsters. But it wasn't like that at all. It was torture just to think about the God-awful place. It didn't deserve a name like that. It didn't deserve to sound so good.

To be fair though, the city wasn't all that bad until Thomas and his friends showed up.

Wicked had created a society that had some faint resemblance to what the world had probably been like before the Flare had struck, and the people living there were content, all things considered. Then the members of the Right Arm showed up and quite literally burnt that all to the ground.

But Thomas could not bring himself to feel any sympathy for the citizens of the Last City. They were the wealthy, the elite members of society. The people who were deemed worthy enough to have sanctuary. Who could afford life.

Life shouldn't be a luxury. That was something Thomas had decided a long time ago. Life should be a given, and he was tired of fighting for it.

He remembered touring the city with Newt and Gally, in awe of the fluorescent lights and towering buildings. He remembered so clearly how the street lamps had reflected in Newt's eyes, how they made his straw colored hair glow gold.

Thomas also remembered how later the lights had flickered and shut off, leaving Newt's eyes black holes of insanity. But those were memories that hurt too much to bring back up.

The map in front of Thomas was objectively useless. He had the layout practically memorized, constantly planning supply runs and trips, though he had never been brave enough to go out on one.

He felt mildly guilty over that, knowing that others were doing so much heavy lifting, but he figured that if anyone in the camp deserved some rest, it was the Gladers.

Their dynamic as a group had changed, Thomas realized with a sigh. Minho was quieter but lashed out quicker, the look in his dark eyes betraying the ever-present rage behind them. Gally had become more comfortable around them, though it was obvious that he was trying so hard to redeem himself for everything he had done through small acts of service, like forging new pots and pans for Frypan or bringing Thomas his meals when he was having a particularly difficult day. Fry was more guarded than before, though his humor was present as always and was a breath of fresh air. Thomas himself had decided he hated his leadership responsibilities and put down his weapons whenever he had the chance. He was tired and it was obvious, but who wasn't?

And Newt hadn't changed as noticeably as the other Gladers.

He was the same good person he had always been, breaking up arguments and already assuming a job as sort of second-in-command to Thomas, preferring to support rather than fully lead. But he and Thomas were so close that it was impossible for the brunette not to notice the subtle things.

Physically, his limp had gotten better. The warm weather and gentle exercise the beach provided was great for his bad leg, and being more mobile definitely made Newt happier. But he had frequent nightmares and hardly slept the full night.

Thomas would often wake to Newt sobbing in his sleep, writhing and shaking, terrified of his own mind. Thomas would shake him awake and they would sit and hold each other, whisper reassuring words into the other's ears.. Those nights broke Thomas' heart, but it was nowhere near as painful as waking up to see the blonde sitting up against their headboard, staring blankly ahead into the darkness. Because those nights were when it was obvious how Newt wasn't the Newt he used to be, and he couldn't talk Newt out of whatever state he was in. They just sat, pinkies locked together, and waited. What for, they would never know. But they waited nonetheless.

The lack of sleep was getting to the blonde, and it showed when he woke up in the morning with a high fever, sweat slicking his hair against his forehead and making him tremble under the blankets. He had been sentenced to a full day of bed rest and lots of fluids, which meant that Thomas didn't have his best friend with him all day.

The day seemed to stretch on forever as Thomas pulled back from the map and glanced out of one of the windows to see that the sky was a rich color of black, dotted with stars. God, he missed Newt. He missed the way the blonde calmed him down so fast when he was anxious, and it was evident he needed that now.

But Newt was sick and sleeping, and he deserved the rest.

Running a hand through his hair with one hand, Thomas picked up a pen with the other and began to mark up the map, analyzing the best routes and what the next search party should do. He had so many things to do and not nearly enough time to do them all. He needed help.

"Hey."

The voice was quiet and scratchy, the voice of a man with a cold who hadn't spoken all day.

Thomas turned around to see Newt standing in the doorway of the shack, leaned against the wall, legs clearly a little shaky.

"Hi. Why're you out of bed?" Thomas asked, though it wasn't a "you should be in bed right now". It was just a simple question, a hope that Newt was feeling better.

Newt regarded him with a fond smile, walking over to Thomas and leaning against the slightly taller boy's chest, relishing the steady sound of the brunette's heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was so familiar, so intimate. It was exactly what Newt wanted to hear.

"Feel better, honestly. Can't handle being held still all day. And," Newt tapped Thomas' temple, looking up at him. "I can hear your brain going all the way from our room."

Thomas rolled his eyes at that and pulled Newt in tighter, one hand automatically going up to his tousled hair, fingers scratching over his scalp lightly, drawing a sigh from the blonde. He was all sleep-warm and cuddly, and Thomas immediately felt calmer in his presence.

It was magnificent, how easily Newt got him out of his funk.

"Tommy, you're allowed to ask for help, y'know. You're not the only person in this camp. Stop putting so much on yourself," Newt murmured against his shirt, muffled from the fabric. He tilted his head up and planted his lips on Thomas' jaw, just a quick kiss, though it was firm and reassuring.

The kiss screamed I'm here.

Thomas released a heavy sigh he had been holding, pressing closer into Newt's body heat, loving the way it blocked the damp night air from his front.

"I know. But if I'm refusing to do something as easy as a supply run, I need to find other ways to pull my weight," the brunette rasped out, breath tickling the fluffy blonde hair his chin was resting in.

Newt pulled back at that, face set stern.

"You have done more for this camp, for these people, than almost anyone in camp, aside from the other Gladers, and they're not going on supply runs either. You have more than done your share."

Thomas shrugged and allowed Newt to connect their lips, bringing his hands up to cup the blonde's jaw, thumb rubbing almost therapeutically along the bone there. Newt sighed a happy sigh into the kiss that made Thomas' stomach flutter, something Newt never failed at. With his big brown eyes and perfectly upturned nose, Newt had this beautiful boyish face that was impossible to resist.

Thomas was gone for that boy.

After a few more minutes of warm kisses, Newt pulled back and rested his forehead against Thomas'.

"Now I'm going to help you get stuff done, and then we're going to bed and we are getting a good night of sleep. Good that?" Though it was phrased as a question, it really wasn't one. Newt would have his way, even if it meant dragging the brunette to bed.

"Yes, sir," Thomas brought two fingers up to his forehead and pulled them away in a mock salute, grinning like a doof in his tired state.

"Okay, Captain. Let's get this done then," Newt decided and they both sat down, working on their own tasks with hands joined across the table.

Two permanently changed, even damaged men, connecting each other, keeping them whole. Because things changed and that was scarier than either would like to admit, so they'd be damned to let go of the other.

Because they were both utterly in love with each other, and that was something that would remain constant.

Chapter Text

TRIGGER WARNINGS: depression, anxiety attacks, PTSD, guilt complex/survivors guilt, a pathetic amount of dialogue

Most days, Thomas struggled to feel like he was doing enough to have earned his place in the Safe Haven.

Everyday, Newt would cup his hands around his face and assure him that he had done so much for them, that he deserved safety just as much, if not more, than everyone else there.

His thumbs would brush away the anxious tears on Thomas' cheeks as their eyes met, both full of love for the other.

When Newt could tell that Thomas was having a really bad day, he would invite him to garden with him. It was soothing, sowing the dirt and harvesting the produce, especially when the sun was shining overhead and the two boys could work side by side, shoulders brushing.

But today it had just rained and the ground was soggy, too sticky to work with easily. Thomas was supposed to be trimming the cucumber plants, but he was busy admiring Newt as he gripped a weed and ripped it out of the ground, lean muscles rippling through skin tan from working in the sun.

Newt's hands were covered in tiny scars. Just little white lines that dotted across his knuckles and palms. When his hands were clenched around the root he was currently trying to rid the garden of, his skin would pull taut against his bones and his scars would become even more noticeable.

Newt has spoken to Thomas before about how insecure he was about his scars, about how they made him feel less than perfect. Thomas had shaken his head and kissed his hands, front and back, whispering about how beautiful and strong he was.

The blond's hands would tremble in Thomas' grasp but he would eventually calm down and rest his forehead to the brunette's chest, tiny puffs of air ghosting over his shirt.

Thomas was so caught in his mind thinking about Newt that he accidentally stuck his hand in the muddy ground. The cold shocked him back to reality, and he immediately looked down to see his fingers coated in brown.

He shrugged it off and continued to work, not even bothering to wipe them off.

Newt crouched beside him, a half smile breaking his usually serious expression when his partner pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. The same cheek Thomas had routinely wiped tears from after sleepless nights of awful dreams or days feeling worthless and sad.

There was rarely much speaking those days. Both boys knew what the other needed when in a bad place, and they would give it without hesitation. They could read each other better than anyone else.

Hours passed of thinking, working, and occasional talking between the two, and the sun had finally come out, drying up the ground they were knelt on. Newt stood and stretched out his back, rubbing a hand on his bad knee subconsciously. Though it had gotten better during their time at the Safe Haven, it would never be fully functional again. But he had accepted it now and learned to work with it, and it became less and less of a burden each day.

Thomas smiled fondly at the brown handprints on Newt's beige pants, before he suddenly felt a strange tingling feeling in his hands. He looked down at them and realized they were crusted in dry dirt, inhibiting some movement and making them feel trapped.

Thomas began to panic. He excused himself quickly and hurried to a bathroom where he began scrubbing at his hands under running water. The mud would not come off. It was caked on and fully stuck to his hands.

He sobbed, feeling claustrophobic and itchy at the feeling. He couldn't explain why he reacted the way he did, but it wouldn't go away.

Thomas was so focused on his hands that he didn't even hear the door open and click shut behind him until tanned hands covered in tiny white scars covered his in the sink, holding a rough towel.

Newt wordlessly soaked the towel and cleaned Thomas' hands, hushing him as his sobs subsided.

As his hands cleared, so did Thomas' head.

"I... I don't know what I acted like that. I was stuck... I'm so sorry," Thomas choked out, only to be cut off by Newt shaking his head fiercely.

"Nothing to apologize for. I understand, it's okay. It wouldn't come off and you got nervous. Nothing to apologize for," the blonde spoke softly, hands working over Thomas' in a quick but gentle manner.

Once the brunette's hands were clean the boys looked at each other with soft smiles. Thomas looked tired while Newt looked a little worried, but overall just loving.

Newt fully understand what Thomas meant when he said he was stuck. In his years in the maze, Newt felt trapped just about daily. He understood exactly how frantic it could make someone feel, how desperate.

Thomas ran his now clean hands through Newt's hair, leaning forward to embrace the blonde, who's arms circled his torso in turn. It was a familiar position and sadly a familiar feeling that accompanied it. The embrace between two men, no, boys broken, trying to hold each other together.

Traumatized was a word they had never learned, not since their memories were removed. There was no word for them to describe why they felt how they did.

Thomas didn't know what it meant to experience survivors guilt.

Newt didn't know what depression was.

So they were both left searching for the answers to their minds, to the deepest pockets of their conscience that felt empty or sometimes too full of all the wrongs things. And in those times, which were often, that they felt those places to be too much, they found each other as their answers. Because they didn't know the right words, but they knew each other.

Chapter Text

In his four months at college, Thomas had learned a lot.

One, that he needed to fix his sleep schedule. Going to sleep at 2:00 AM doesn't work if you have to wake up the next morning for track practice at 6:00.

Two, his roommate, Minho, had amazing friends. Friends like Teresa, who felt like a sister with all the teasing they did, but also knew just how to make him feel better. Or Gally, who Thomas couldn't decide if he loved or hated.

Or Newt. God, Newt. He and Thomas met in art history, a class Thomas decided to take to fill up his schedule. Of course Newt was in the class because they actually majored in art and adored everything about the subject. Newt was all long legs and gorgeous blonde hair. Slender but strong, toned muscle under his skin from hours upon hours of skating and hockey. They were gorgeous.

Three, Thomas was bisexual. Or pansexual, or whatever. Or maybe it was just Newt, because he had never been attracted to anyone who wasn't a girl before, but as soon as he looked at Newt and saw that perfect crooked smile, he was head over heels.

Newt didn't know, obviously. Thomas couldn't tell him. That would be insane. There was no way that they felt the same for him, not when he had boys and girls alike swarming them at all times.

Between the accent and the openly friendly personality, Newt was close to perfection.

And yes, Thomas was plenty confident, he knew he was attractive and was a nice person, but this was all new to him. He didn't even know he could feel the way he did.

But everyday he spent around Newt, the more in love with him he became.

Over the months, Thomas and Newt had become inseparable. They spent all of their free time together, and if they were busy with a game or race, the other was always there to support.

The look on Newt's face whenever they scored a goal during a hockey game was enough to make Thomas swoon.

And whenever he would smile at Thomas from the sidelines during a race, mouth open in a cheer, Thomas had to catch himself when his knees went weak.

They walked to and from classes together, even though Newt's classes were across campus from his (but Newt didn't need to know that).

But most of their time was spent just existing peacefully with each other. Whether it be studying or just laying together, they felt content with one another.

That's what they were doing when it slipped out.

"I think I'm gay," Thomas blurted, laying on his back on Newt's bed.

They had been talking about nonsense for the past few hours, comfortable in the quiet of Newt's dorm room.

Newt rolled onto their stomach from where he had been staring at the ceiling and looked at Thomas.

"Yeah?" They asked, the question clearly not meant to confirm what was said, but to encourage Thomas to continue.

"Yeah. I mean, not gay, but like..." he paused, searching for the right word. "Not all the way straight," was what he settled for.

Finally, Thomas worked up the courage to look over at Newt, who had a thoughtful look on his face. They looked gorgeous here, bathed in the soft light of the starlight lamp Newt had. It changed his hair to a purple color and stars speckled their face.

"Me too, if it makes you feel more comfortable that you said that. I'm all the way gay though." He chuckled, before their expression became more serious once again.

"But really, I fully support you and thank you for telling me. It was really brave. I hope I can help you figure out what you're feeling." Newt's smile was so soft and so loving, and Thomas had never felt safer in his life.

"You already have helped me." Thomas' filter was apparently nonexistent in this moment.

Newt tilted his head to the side, curious. "Hm?"

"I like you a lot Newt. You're the first not-girl I've ever liked and I don't know what to do about it and it's making me so nervous and I don't know what to do because i've never felt like this before and-"

"Can I kiss you?" Newt (graciously) cut off Thomas' rambling.

"Yes, please yes."

Then Newt's lips were on Thomas', impossibly gentle. The brunette pushed himself up to a sitting position so that Newt was no longer hovering over him and cupped his hand around the other's cheek, thumb stroking over the cheekbone there.

His other hand came to rest on Newt's hip, fingering at the hem of their sweatshirt. He carefully tilted them back so that Newt was laying on the bed and Thomas could take his time showing him how much he loved them.

And that he did.

Chapter Text

Newt had an impressive collection of mugs, to say the least.

When he had moved into his new apartment with Minho and Thomas, finding affordable dish ware proved to be more challenging than expected, so a Goodwill trip was in store.

When Newt walked through the door into the barren kitchen laden with mugs, a tradition began. Every time someone new walked through the door to their apartment, a new mug was added to the collection in their honor. Sometimes the new guest would bring a mug, sometimes one would be bought for them.

Whatever the case, the mug collection was a staple.

Even after the three had settled down with well paying jobs and replaced cracked and broken plates and cups with new dishes, the mugs, situated on the third shelf from the bottom above the coffee maker, never moved. It only grew.

Fortunately, they had deep cabinets.

And of course the three had their signature mugs. Even some guests did as well. Thomas' mug boasted his status of world's best great aunt, while Minho's had a photo of a woman none of them knew (dubbed Tracy) photocopied on the front.

Frypan's mug announced his membership of the World Knitting Association, and according to Alby's mug, he was the founder of Mike's Window Repair. ("That would look great on your resume!" "Not funny, Thomas.")

Of course, the "Rockin' Boss Lady" mug went to Gally (Minho's choice). Brenda's was simply in the shape of a purple frog, and Teresa's said, "I'm a mom. What's your superpower?"

The "covfefe" mug made its home at the front of the shelf, right next to Newt's mug, a plain mug covered in the face of somebody's dog, and the words "My Wiener is My Best Friend!" They all knew it was referring to the dachshund pictured, but it was funnier to imagine the other meanings.

The mugs had become a major part of their home. Those mugs had been hosts to various beverages, from coffee and tea to soda or vodka. Nothing didn't belong in the mugs.

Currently, Thomas' mug was filled with coffee that was admittedly more cream than coffee, as it was eleven o'clock at night, and Newt still wasn't home from work.

While Thomas and Minho worked more basic 9-5 jobs, Newt worked in forensic science, and sometimes they needed his services past bedtime. That's just how it was.

Minho went to bed early after instructing Thomas to tell Newt he said goodnight, as he worked as a fitness instructor and classes usually started at six in the morning.

But Thomas didn't work until noon the next day, so he stayed up for Newt, just like almost every other night he had come home this late.

A quarter past eleven, the front door slipped open with a soft creak, and Newt shuffled into the hall, toeing off his shoes and shedding the layers of jackets and scarves covering every inch of his body. Newt didn't take well to the cold.

And then he just stood there, looking a bit lost.

Thomas got off of the couch and walked to his boyfriend, smiling as big as he could. Newt offered him a small smile back, but it was feeble, forced.

"I'm going to make some tea," Newt said, brushing past Thomas and into the kitchen. Thomas sighed, already knowing Newt was having one of his bad days. They became more frequent in the winter, when the sky was dark before he ever had the chance to see the sun and he was always shivering, fingertips never quite warm enough and skin always too dry.

A crash from the kitchen made Thomas flinch and he hurried to see what had caused the noise. He was greeted with the sight of Newt standing, frozen, in the middle of the tiled floor, staring down at the shards of a mug.

Neither boy moved for a minute. Then two. Then Newt dropped to his knees, frantically trying to pull all of the fragments together, like they would be magically fixed if he could just hold them all in his hands.

"Newt, stop," Thomas crouched beside him, gripping the blonde's wrists and tugging them away from the pieces and forcing him to drop them. There was a cut down the center of Newt's palm, and Thomas looked at the offending piece of ceramic to find the face of a dachshund smiling up at him, blood on the jagged edge.

"My mug," Newt whispered, quieter than Thomas had ever heard him speak before.

"It's okay," Thomas soothed, pulling the boy to him and kissing the top of his head. Newt was shaking the smallest amount; minute vibrations against Thomas. "We'll get a new one. How about you be covfefe for a while, yeah?"

"I broke my mug." Clearly this was about more than the mug. Newt usually had the steadiest of hands. Dropping a mug wasn't normal behavior for him.

"And we can make it better. But right now, let's just clean this up, not with our hands, and then can you tell me what's going on?"

Newt took a trembling deep breath and nodded, pulling away from Thomas to get to his feet. He pushed his tears away with the heel of his palms, face red.

"Sorry. I don't know why I'm acting like this," Newt sounded so embarrassed that it felt like a punch to Thomas' gut.

"All good. You're not the first person to drop a mug in this house."

Rest in peace banana mug.

If only took three minutes to put the shards of the wiener mug into a Tupperware to glue together in the morning, and after, Thomas dragged Newt to the couch with a cup of tea brewed in a mug covered in types of cheese.

"Did something happen at work today?" Thomas asked, hating the way his boyfriend wilted at the mention of work.

"It's stupid, Tommy. Really," Newt insisted, but it only took a stern look from the brunette for him to give in. "There's just so much horrible stuff that comes into work. Little kids, moms, young boys. And I know that I signed up for this and for all of the bad, but I didn't realize how much it would get to me.

"They brought a piece of evidence into the lab today to test for fingerprints, said that they would connect us to the victim. They were on a pair of scissors that the victim had used to try to escape. Well, I found the prints, sent them in, and they belonged to an eight year old. The victim was eight. And they're dead now. How do I not get attached? That's a baby, Tommy. I don't know what to do with that information. How can I be okay with this?"

Newt's eyes were steely, tears barely forming, clearly holding them back.

"You're not supposed to be okay with it, Newt," Thomas said. "You should be so angry about it that you want to kill the guy who did it. But you're better than him, so instead, you'll just catch him. That's what you do. So cry, please, because I'd rather see that than see you hold it in and then be worse later."

And that was all it took for Newt to break down in wet sobs, lungs rattling in time with his heaving gasps for air.

Thomas had never seen Newt cry like this before. His depression usually came in the form of numbness; nights spent lying awake in bed with too many questions and no answers and feeling nothing at all. And now Newt was feeling one terrible emotion in every part of his body, in every hair follicle and in the way he grit his teeth.

But when the cries began to subside, an empty feeling settled in his stomach, but not in the cold, pit-like feeling of depression. It was relief, a weight lifted out of him and airlifted to another time. Right now, he was with Thomas and his work wasn't at home. It remained in the sterile lab that made his office, and he allowed the shame and grief to stay there as well.

With shaking hands, Newt brought his mug to his lips and sipped, almost gagging at the amount of milk Thomas had added.

And when he looked up, Thomas was right there, and he was smiling, and Newt let that feeling stay.

Chapter Text

Being in the Safe Haven was better than Newt ever could have imagined. It was peaceful there, and he could spend his time doing things that he loved instead of actively fighting for his life.

One of those things was gardening. As soon as he had healed and adjusted to his new life, Newt has been appointed as head of the gardeners. It has taken months for him to break out of his habit of calling himself a keeper, but he eventually managed.

Newt loved the time he spent in the vegetable gardens, pulling weeds and harvesting their produce. It made him feel accomplished. And, he always knew exactly what he was doing, so there was never any unknown.

Being a gardener also meant that he got to spend ample time in the sun. He loved it, the feel of the sun beating down on his skin, making him sweat in a way that was comfortable and familiar, reminding Newt of his time in the glade.

He was done gardening for the day and the sun had long set. Newt was sitting beside Thomas with the other Gladers at a picnic table near the bonfire, some artificial lights powered by the generator keeping them out of the dark.

"The tomatoes this harvest were massive," Newt couldn't help but boast as he speared one out of his salad and popped it into his mouth, chewing with pride. He swallowed before continuing, "I used a new fertilizer and they grew like crazy."

Frypan nodded, his cooking abilities agreeing. "They're juicy too. Even better than Glade tomatoes."

"Cheers to that," Minho said, raising his cup. They all brought their own cups to his, creating a loud clanking sound. All of the Gladers constantly found themselves missing the general peace that came from Glade life, so they had created a sort of competition between the Glade and the Safe Haven to attempt to boost their spirits and make them miss their old home a bit less.

They would constantly try to find things the Safe Haven had that were superior to the Glade and focus on those things, trying to highlight how good their new lives were. It worked most of the time, but Newt still found himself missing the nights around the bonfire that smelled of wood that didn't grow at the Safe Haven. He missed the noises of the Glade, the constant chatter and sounds of life that surrounded them. But he forced himself to try to find those things here, in the Safe Haven. There was no use in dwelling on the past, he had learned.

Newt was broken out of his thoughts by Thomas, who had been exceptionally quiet during their meal.

"Your hair is different," he blurted, and Newt cocked and eyebrow at him.

"Sorry?" He asked, shooting a glare at a snickering Minho.

Thomas seemed to regain his senses at that point and blushed a little, shaking his head.

"Never mind."

"No, Tom Boy! Tell us all about Newt's hair! We know you've been looking at it, if you've noticed something has changed," Minho crowed, trying to hold in a full belly-laugh.

Newt was a little flustered at this point. It felt as if he was being left out of an inside joke, like he didn't get to hear the setup, just the punchline, which was Thomas. Thomas had been staring at his hair? Enough to notice it?

"Shuck off, Minho."

"No, Thomas is right," Gally said after a minute. "It got lighter. You've been in the sun so much, Newt. Probably bleached it."

Frypan nodded as well. "And it's longer."

"See! It's not just me! Make fun of them too, Minho!" Thomas protested, gesturing at the other two boys.

"Oh no, slinthead. Don't drag us into this," Gally shook his head while he and Frypan stood with their dinner plates, probably bringing them to wash.

"Oh, you know why I'm talking to you specifically, Greenie. I'm gonna leave you two alone to talk this one out," Minho grinned evilly and following the others.

Newt was confused. Had he been wrong? Was Thomas not the punchline, but Newt?

Thomas opened his mouth to explain, but Newt cut him off.

"Are you guys making fun of me? Is my hair bad?" Newt's nose was boyishly scrunched up, looking like he was getting ready to be defensive.

"Shuck, Newt, no. You're hair looks fine, I promise," Thomas was quick to try to calm Newt.

"Then what's been going on? Because recently they keep making jokes about me and I-"

"Newt," Thomas interrupted, voice soft. "When have they made jokes about you?" He turned so that he was straddling the bench, facing Newt.

"Last week they kept making comments about me wearing one of your shirts because mine got dirty and they kept laughing at me, and then the other day when we went down to swim at the beach they kept laughing at me and I'm sick of it, because I never know what I'm doing wrong," Newt spoke faster as he went, feeling uncomfortable telling his friend about all of that. He was usually the calm one, the one that stopped drama, but, in his defense, he wasn't used to being the butt of a joke. Especially one he wasn't in on.

"Oh, Newt," Thomas' voice was gentle. "They haven't been laughing at you, they've been laughing at me."

Newt stared at him, disbelieving.

"They were laughing at me because I let you wear my shirt, that I wanted you to wear my shirt. And when we went to the beach, I couldn't stop looking at you. And tonight, they were making fun of me because I've been looking at you so much that I noticed that your hair is a few shades lighter than it used to be. They're laughing at me because I'm in love with you, Newt," Thomas spoke quickly but calmly, like he was fully ready to have this conversation, eager even.

Newt just looked at him again before breaking out into a massive smile.

"It's about time we figured this one out, huh?" Newt said, and despite his chipper tone, Thomas could hear the relief in his voice over not being made fun of.

"Yeah... it only took us three years."

Thomas reached over to Newt to put a hand on his knee, smile growing when the blonde covered it with his own.

"We're bloody morons, aren't we?" Newt snickered, huffing out a laugh.

"Morons, idiots, slintheads... Plenty of words for it."

Thomas couldn't help but stare at Newt. His hair was almost bleached white from all his time gardening in the sun and was longer, just brushing the line of his cheekbone, which were dotted in freckles, also revealed by the sun's glow. His eyes were as dark as ever though, the same color as the picnic table they were sitting at, and even darker in the low lights. His features were sharp in way that didn't make him look cruel, but elegant, casting shadows over his face. He looked beautiful.

If asked, Newt wouldn't deny that he didn't even notice Thomas' gaze on him because he was so busy studying the other boy. His upturned nose and dark hair, barely visible dimples that Newt had no trouble noticing and strong jawline. It was nice, seeing Thomas so relaxed and happy. His expression was no longer permanently hard and and stony. Peace looked good on him.

"Would it be alright with you if I kissed you?" Thomas asked Newt quietly, barely even given a second to process his own question before Newt was nodding.

And that was how their friends found them minutes later, lips pressed together, kiss made slightly awkward by the smiles on both of their faces.

Chapter Text

Parties had never really been Alby's scene, if he was being entirely honest, but his friends enjoyed them, and he's be damned if he wasn't a good host.

Which was how Alby found himself sitting on a worn leather armchair in his frat's living area, reclined with an expression and posture that exuded confidence and ownership. His closest friends were all spread out in a wobbly circle that stretched from the chair he had claimed to the couch, and then in an awkward curve back to the armchair.

Directly next to him was Zart, with Ben on his other side, both on the floor, which was strange because Newt, his best friend since childhood, usually filled one of those spots. But not tonight.

They hadn't had any sort of argument that could've made Newt angry enough to move away from him, and besides, Newt wasn't a petty person. He would've talked to Alby before doing that.

His eyes scanned the room and finally found the mop of reddish blonde hair, even darker with the dimmed lights in the building.

Newt was leaned against the front of the couch across from him, chin tilted back to make eye contact with a brunette that was leaning over him. Said brunette had his head down to Newt's level, knees on either side of the blonde's body, framing him with the couch as the background. Alby couldn't tell who the brunette was, as his face was down to stay fully looking at Newt.

But he had full view of Newt's face.

His eyes were sparkling and his lips were stretched back into a relaxed, happy smile, not a big one or anything too out of character for the blonde, but enough to be different from usual. His arms were thrown over the dark haired boy's knees on either side of him, lifting his shoulders a little above what would generally be comfortable, and his bad leg was stretched out awkwardly in front of him, but he looked so genuinely relaxed that Alby had to wonder who this boy was.

Newt's smile twisted into a playful smirk, a common expression of his, and his lips moved in a quick sequence of what Alby guessed were words, and the boy above him threw his head back in laughter, and Alby finally saw his face.

Thomas.

Newt's roommate, that he had met at the beginning of their freshmen year of college, that Newt had instantly taken a liking to. Thomas had followed Newt around like a lost puppy, which he closely resembled with his big brown eyes and upturned nose. It didn't take long for the two to become inseparable.

And Alby had to admit to himself that he had gotten jealous.

He had embraced by now that he had liked Newt as much more than a friend since they were little kids, but never done anything to further their relationship. Newt seemed more than content as friends, and Alby loved him far too much to risk losing him over a crush.

But his acceptance didn't mean that he didn't feel the swell of jealousy in his chest when he saw the look of sheer adoration in the blonde's eyes when he looked at Thomas, now fully visible in the lights. He practically glowed, and he looked so far gone for that boy that Alby couldn't even find it in himself to throw a pity party, because how could he when the boy he loved so much looked so happy?

Alby had grown used to the jealous nag by now. Newt was a cute British boy that smiled at everyone and was impossible to dislike. People flocked to Newt, even if they weren't attracted to him, just saw his friendly grin and open demeanor and felt a sort of comfort in his presence. Alby couldn't even blame them, seeing as he had done the exact same thing back in the sixth grade, when Newt had moved into the house next door.

He sighed and pushed the feeling down, keeping it locked in a Newt-sized hole in his heart. God, he had never seen that boy look so happy before.

Thomas was a good kid, Alby decided. He was sweet with Newt and had pretty clearly been in love with him since they first met.

Alby thought back to the second month of living in the dorms, when he had gone to his first class of the day to see that Newt and Thomas' normal spots were empty. He had immediately asked their professor where the boys had gone, and raced to the bathroom when he got an answer.

He was about to push the door open when he heard heavy breathing from the inside. Alby had physically recoiled as his brain raced with ideas about what they were doing, when his thoughts were silenced by quiet shushing sounds on the other side of the door.

"You're okay, Newt," came a low voice. "What can I do to help you through this?"

Newt was having an anxiety attack, something not uncommon for him. And while he usually sought Alby out during one, this time it was Thomas who was there for him.

"I... I don't know," Newt's voice, distinctly British, was raspy and choked out when he spoke.

"Is it okay if I touch you?" Came Thomas' reply, and he imagined Newt nodding, because the heavy breathing suddenly became muffled, like Newt's face was now pressed into Thomas' shoulder on the receiving end of a hug.

He could imagine Thomas holding Newt the same way Alby usually did, and he couldn't deny how much it hurt.

Murmured words that Alby couldn't make out were exchanged in the bathroom, and eventually, the breathing slowed to a more consistent speed.

Alby walked away from the restroom feeling hurt and betrayed when he knew he didn't have any right to, and that made him feel even worse. He skipped class and went straight back to his dorm.

After that, Alby had caught Thomas doing research on how to help someone through an anxiety attack multiple times, and one time saw him walking into a seminar the school was hosting about anxiety and depression in young adults and how to cope with it.

He was making an effort to make Newt feel better in any way he could.

Newt never came to Alby during an anxiety attack or an episode again after that, and he hated that relief wasn't the emotion he felt. He felt sick to his stomach because he knew that Newt was moving on from him.

A loud laugh shook Alby out of his head, and his eyes focused on Zart, who had let out a hearty cackle at something Ben had said. They laughed until they were doubled over while Ben watched on, clearly proud of himself for making Zart react like that.

Zart had seen right through Alby's "I like him as a friend!" facade the day they met. They had pretty quickly tried to introduce Alby to other boys, but it just didn't work. He was stuck on Newt.

He had zoned out again. This time he came back when he heard his name being said.

"Alby?" Zart questioned, head tilted to the side. Their eyes shimmered like they knew exactly what was wrong, which they probably did, considering Alby had sort of been staring at Newt and Thomas.

"I'm fine," his voice came out sharper than he meant it to, but Zart just shook their head sadly and looked away.

It wouldn't be long until Newt and Thomas finally admitted to each other how they felt, so Alby vowed to hold onto the feeling of being Newt's closest friend for as long as he could before he had to let him go.

Alby knew he was being unfair and possessive, thinking that one boy would own all of Newt's attention, but he felt so hurt being around Newt and Thomas together that he felt it would be best to stop making efforts to be around Newt. He deserved to be in peace and to be happy, and he wouldn't get that with Alby hanging around, third-wheeling.

Tonight, Alby decided, would be their last goodbye, an unknown farewell to a long friendship. And Newt wouldn't even know it. He'd be too busy with Thomas to see the look of pure regret in his best friend's eyes.

Chapter Text

Gally was twelve years old when his parents sent him to Saint Mary's School for Boys, a Catholic boarding school for children ages ten through eighteen that boasted the highest average grade point in the country, zero expulsions or suspensions every year, and well-rounded, obedient boys after graduation, ready for the workforce.

To earn a spot at Saint Mary's School for Boys, a student must be granted a scholarship because of his outstanding grades and interest in extracurriculars, or have parents wealthy enough to send said student to Saint Mary's School for Boys.

Saint Mary's School for Boys was located in Burlington, Vermont, an entire 1,042 miles from Gally's hometown of Charlestown, South Carolina.

Gally earned his spot at Saint Mary's because his parents paid for him to be there. His father was a politician who sponsored Saint Mary's in exchange for endorsement in his elections.

Saint Mary's School for Boys was held in the highest esteem by followers of the Catholic faith all over the United States and beyond, and whatever or whomever they promoted was viewed as chosen by God himself. For a Catholic, being able to send a child to Saint Mary's was of the greatest honors.

When Gally was twelve and in his first year at Saint Mary's School for Boys, he was placed in a tiny dormitory with a single window, two beds, two desks, a small wardrobe, and a boy with golden hair. When Gally stepped into the tiny dormitory with a single window, the boy with golden hair stuck out his hand and, with a chin lifted just above parallel to the laminated wood floor, said in the most absurdly English of voices,

"My name is Newton, but please call me Newt."

And Gally stared at him for a moment longer than what was seen as socially acceptable, but the boy did not waver. His hand remained hanging in the stale air of the tiny dormitory with a single window, until Gally nodded and reached out to meet him there, in the stale air of the tiny dormitory with a single window, and said with a voice that expressed a pride in his name that he had not truly experienced before, but felt with this boys hand in his own,

"I'm Gally."

— — —

Five years later and Newt and Gally remained roommates, though they'd since been upgraded from the tiny dormitory with a single window to a slightly less tiny dormitory with one slightly larger window. The two boys were in their second-to-last year at Saint Mary's School for Boys.

Gally took up woodworking and many hands-on classes, putting his strong build and tough mind to use, as their head administrator Mr. Anderson told him. He made average marks in his classes and joined the rugby team, but other than that, he chose to remain more or less uninvolved in school activities. He didn't need to prove himself to any administrators. Gally was at Saint Mary's School for Boys because his father paid a good amount of money for him to be there.

Newt, on the other hand, was involved in everything. He was editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, ran track and played soccer, volunteered at the school's food kitchen, and was vice-president of the student body, second in command to Albert, a senior. Newt made top marks in every class and excelled at standardized tests. His uniform was always clean and neatly pressed. Newt was so involved because he was at Saint Mary's on scholarship, and if he didn't prove he deserved said scholarship, he would be sent back home to a disappointed family across the ocean in Bristol.

But Newt also was involved in the lives of his fellow students. He helped younger boys tie their ties. He escorted them to the nurse when they had a nervous stomach or a headache. He was a shoulder to cry on when one missed their family back home or was scolded by a teacher. Newt was adored by the boys of Saint Mary's and lovingly referred to as many of the boys' stand-in mother.

Despite the affection from his peers, Newt was viewed quite differently by his teachers and the administration. His smile resembled more of a smirk that teachers saw as mischievous, and he was defiant in a way many students weren't. He made eye contact with teachers and was unapologetic when late to class. Newt stood up for himself.

Now, Newt was not the only student at Saint Mary's School for Boys who stood up for himself. But he was the only student that was at Saint Mary's on scholarship, and with parents who held little influence in the world. The rest acted up and talked back, but their annoying presences meant hefty bills that went straight to the pockets of the administration. So those boys were able to act up without consequence.

Saint Mary's School for Boys boasted a zero percent expulsion rate and promised parents that all boys attending the school would graduate in a timely manner. On the books, there were almost no write-ups for the students. To an outsider, it may seem that Saint Mary's School for Boys had no need for write-ups or punishments, that all the boys were perfectly behaved. But in truth, Saint Mary's used methods of punishment that were more discrete. Methods that required no write-ups.

It wasn't uncommon to find a boy walking around the campus with bruised knuckles or in the nurse complaining of an unexplained ache. Newt was one of these boys.

He came back from class later than his peers with hands glowing a bright red and walking a funny way, flinching when he sat on hard surfaces.

Gally would try to get Newt to tell him what happened (though he could pretty much guess) but Newt would just smile at him with this strange, faraway look on his face and shake his head, before grabbing a change of clothes and disappearing into the bathroom. He never changed in front of Gally. Not when he had something to hide.

— — —

"Newton."

Gally was snapped out of his thoughts when he heard his friend's name said so harshly. He looked up from the book laid out on his desk, a United States History textbook, the kind with pages that smelled dusty and left a chalky residue on one's fingertips, to find Mr. Turner, his history and geography teacher, glaring down at Newt from where he stood over his desk.

From Gally's view, to Newt's back right, he could see the deliberate rise of the blonde's back in his navy sweater vest as he inhaled slowly and lifted his head to meet Mr. Turner's cold gaze.

"Yes, sir?" Newt's expression could only be described as bored. He showed zero concern for the situation that was brewing with him at the center.

"I asked you to turn to page 362." Pure hatred oozed through those seven words; a contempt Gally had heard directed at Newt from a dozen teachers a hundred times before. No matter how hard he tried, all of his core teachers resented Newt.

So he stopped trying.

"M'sorry, sir. I was reading page 294 and got distracted."

"Distracted, hm? What on Earth could possibly be more important than the United States' involvement in World War Two?" Spit sprayed from Mr. Turner's mouth with each word, dotting the pages of Newt's textbook with dark spots.

Before Newt could even open his mouth to explain what on Earth could possibly be more important than the United States' involvement in World War Two, Mr. Turner slammed a hand down on his desk.

"First you come in late to my class..."

"—There was a boy in the hallway who couldn't find his class."

"...then you doodle on your assignment instead of reviewing it with your peers..."

"—I felt confident in my answers."

"...and now you have the nerve to disrespect me in my own classroom!" Mr. Turner was yelling now, his voice echoed around the brick walls and wooden desktops. The room was practically made to amplify sound, and with Newt seated in the front left corner of the room, it sometimes felt like all of the yelling and anger bounced off of every surface in the room and went screaming towards him, all confined in his corner.

The echo of Mr. Turner's voice eventually trailed off to leave the room in perfect silence.

Newt didn't speak. He just met Mr. Turner's hard gaze with his own, defiant and proud. It was the same look he had sported their first year here with Mrs. Messay, who screamed at him for not turning in an assignment, and Dr. Blathe in year two, after he dropped a ruler on the ground. It was the same look every year, no matter who the teacher was.

At first, Gally thought that perhaps Newt was a trouble child. He thought maybe Newt deserved the yelling. Maybe he was doing things wrong. But then he began getting in trouble for smaller things. His chair squeaked when he pushed it in, he left a paintbrush soaking in a water cup after class. Anything Newt did, a teacher found a problem with.

"All of you, to lunch. You're dismissed early. Newton, go to Mr. Anderson's office." Newt opened his mouth. "Now."

— — —

Twenty minutes later and Gally was sat at his usual lunch table with Albert, who they called Alby, Thomas, Minho, and Frypan. Lunch was spaghetti with meat sauce, a lunch that always consisted of the boys with red stains around their lips and teasing about each other's loud slurps.

Another ten minutes passed and Gally felt a hand on his shoulder. He tipped his chin up to see Newt standing behind him, weak smile on his face. Gally slid to the side (with a groan from Minho as he knocked a perfectly twirled bite of pasta off of his fork), allowing Newt to drop onto the bench beside him, a small portion of spaghetti in his hands.

His hands, which were wrapped in white strips of bandage, the kind that didn't do much of anything except for hide the damage done underneath. Gally would bet a hundred dollars that underneath the gauzy white wrap were red knuckles getting ready to tip into black and blue territory.

Newt just smiled at Gally when he saw the other boy notice and picked up his fork, shoving it into his pasta. His wrapped fingers hindered his ability to twirl the fork though, and Gally felt the blonde sag beside him as the noodles slipped off of the silverware and plopped back onto his plate.

And for the first time in his life, when Gally turned to look at Newt and asked if he needed help, there were tears in the Brit's eyes. He dropped his fork to the table with a clatter that silenced all of the boys in a ten foot radius and stood, hustling out of the cafeteria. The other students watched him go, before the chatter slowly picked up again.

Except for Albert, who they called Alby, Thomas, Minho, and Frypan. They remained quiet. Newt had never cried in front of them before. He had joked about how much the teachers hated him and laughed that the food was cold when he constantly got to lunch late, but never had he cried before.

They all wanted to stand and go after Newt, but if they did, the lunch supervisors would catch them and return them to their tables. Newt was only able to escape because he was Newt. Any chance to get the boy in trouble was a plus for the staff.

— — —

Gally was seventeen years old when he received his first handwritten letter signed by a hand other than his parents’. He stepped into his dorm room with a stomach full of spaghetti dinner to feel a cool breeze wafting through the room. That's odd. Newt doesn't usually leave the window open.

Sitting on Gally's desk was an unmarked cream envelope, sealed with nothing but a single piece of clear tape. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the small tin cup on his desk in his slightly less small dormitory with slightly less stale air than his first year and slid the blade under the fold of the envelope, slicing it open.

The letter tucked inside was folded neatly into thirds, creased at the folds so that Gally had to smooth it against his desk once laid out flat in order to read it. In a familiar scrawl, one he had seen on many a homework assignments left on the desk beside his own, read the words,

Dear Gally,
Hello, my friend. I hope you enjoyed your dinner and have had time for your meal to settle before reading this letter. I will try to keep what I have to say short, but give me some grace. I've never written a letter before, and I don't really know how to, but here goes.
When I first moved into this school, I was scared beyond my wildest imagination. I had no clue what to expect, but I was terrified. I stepped into a room similar to this one (though slightly smaller) and found it empty and filled with a stale air that I couldn't bare. Then ten minutes later, you stepped through the door and the room suddenly didn't feel so small anymore.

The room felt a bit colder now. Maybe he should close the window.

But then classes began, and it was like the whole world began shrinking on me, and I couldn't breathe. The teachers here hate me, and I've accepted that now, but it's making me quite tired, mate.
The only time I didn't feel quite so tired was when I was in this dormitory with you. We talked about nonsense for hours, but it felt meaningful because I was talking to you. Everything feels meaningful with you.

With his eyes still fixed on the letter, Gally walked slowly to the window, intent on closing it. Since when was it this cold outside?

But I'm just tired now, Gally. Tired of flinching when I hear the smack of a ruler or I walk past a staff member. I just want to rest, but they don't let me. They haven't let me in a long time.
I feel like I'm tumbling out of control. I don't know who I am anymore, but I'm always just so angry. At myself, at this school, at everyone. But never you. I've only been around this long because of you.
But I'm now finally taking back control. I'm so sorry for what I've done, but I need to now. I hate myself for leaving this burden with you, but you are the only one who cares. Please don't be angry with me, and I hope you don't mourn me. I've never felt clarity like I feel now, writing this letter. Know that this is the best thing I could have done for myself.

He was at the window now. Why were there handprints in the snow on the windowsill?

You were a better friend than I could've asked for, Gally. Don't you dare go and blame yourself for this, my friend. You were the best thing that could've happened to me, and I just wish I could've been more for you.

Gally looked out of the window into the snow globe world. Why was the snow red? It was usually white.

I love you, dear friend.
Newt

And then he screamed.