Archive of Our Own

Thomas sat on a stool in the music room after school, failing to play the guitar. He was about to leave, convincing himself that he was better off sticking to track, when the door opened. A boy he recognized from his history class limped through the door, his own guitar case behind his back. Thomas was always impressed by his blond hair, curling a bit past his shoulders; Thomas could never pull something like that off. He always wore frayed clothes that were far too big on him, as if he’d come straight out of the pages of a 90s magazine. Thomas found himself spacing out and quickly resumed gathering his things, putting the guitar back where he’d found it.

“I heard you struggling in here,”

Thomas had almost given himself whiplash as he met the blond’s gaze. There was no harshness in his tone, only a small smile playing on his lips. His English accent was captivating; it was refreshing in a town like this, where dialects were tinged with a southern twang.

“Struggling is an understatement,” Thomas laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “My fingers hurt like a bitch,”

His name was on the tip of his tongue. Thomas cursed himself for being so forgetful.

“I’ve been playing for awhile, I could help you,” he unzipped his guitar case and looked up at Thomas. “Thomas, right?”

“Yep,” Thomas shot him a small smile. “You’re a lifesaver…?”

He laughed again, tucking his hair behind his ear. “You don’t have to look so terrified. I’m Newt.”

Thomas exhaled, loosening up a little. “You’re a lifesaver Newt. It’s just-I know that we have history together, I should’ve remembered.”

“Don’t worry about it. Bring the guitar over here, I’ll show you the basics.”

So the two of them sat on stools across from one another. Thomas was entranced by the movement of Newt’ fingers over the frets, how he could just gently coax the sounds out of his instrument.

“Okay, enough watching. Show me what you got, Tommy.” Newt said playfully.

“Close to nothing,” Thomas joked along.

Thomas stumbled gloriously through the song but Newt only encouraged him during the lapses in sound.

“Okay, I think I see where you’re tripping up,” he gestured to his guitar. “I think it would help if I put my hands over yours,” he cleared his throat, “Sometimes feeling the movements helps.”

Thomas’ eyes widened just enough for Newt to notice. “Unless it’s too awkward, I can show you a different way…?”

“Uh, no, it’s…” he swallowed. “It’s fine.”

So Newt did just that; Thomas hoped he couldn’t hear his heart pounding. He could feel a strand of Newt’s hair on his shoulder. It was the only thing he could feel, that he could focus on. The closeness. The genuine interest Newt had in helping him, even though they had only just had one conversation. He was more exhilarated by this interaction than by spending an entire day on the track. He couldn’t possibly be this touch starved. Maybe his friend Minho had been right; he had been focusing too much on school, on the scholarship…

Newt's face lit up. “There, you’re getting it!” The notes were still pretty spread out but there was definitely a rhythm, his fingers moving a bit faster through notes.

His fingers were sore but he pushed the pain to the back of his mind, feeling a surge of determination overcome him. After another twenty minutes of practice (this time without Newt’s help). Newt had been working on learning a cover of a song, faltering every few minutes. Thomas paid it forward by giving his own encouragement until they both of them wrapped up. Once at the door, Thomas looked back at Newt with a newfound sense of confidence.

“Thank you, Newt. Seriously. I would’ve been hopeless without your help.”

Something about the smile Newt gave him overwhelmed him with nerves. “No problem, Tommy.”

Thomas thought about that moment, as he rode his bicycle through the winding streets back home. How he’d been totally clueless and out of control. He had felt so close to him. He was struck by how selfless and kind Newt was and how unafraid he was to be himself. Despite his limp when he walked, he stood tall. Despite his accent and ideas sounding so out of place, he said whatever came to mind with such ease. He listened to Thomas so intently, as if they were already such good friends. Lying in bed, reflecting on those thoughts, Thomas felt a pang of fear or maybe even longing, for Newt. He’d never felt that instantaneous connection before. He craved it; for weeks after that, they’d see each other in class or in the halls, waving or smiling like they had secrets they shared.

They began to partner up for classwork in history, Newt peppering their work time with little history factoids. Thomas would comment on his nerdiness, distract him with a joke just to hear him snort and disrupt the class, just to hear the clipped tone of their teacher asking them to quiet down, gentlemen. Just to see him flush slightly and choke out one last laugh alongside his polite apology. Thomas asked him questions on what he didn’t understand, pressing his pencil point onto the question in confusion, Newt had a habit of biting his lip before he erased Thomas’ answer, blowing the pink remnants away as he helped him deduce his way to the right answer. Strangely, once the bell rang, he couldn’t simply go up to him and ask him to hang out; he was grappled by that odd nervousness every time. He let those moments pass.
___

Thomas’ brain would fry if he sat in front of this essay any longer. The cursor blinked back at him menacingly as if it mocked him. None of his words made sense strung together the way they were. It was the weekend; Minho had texted him a few minutes ago, asking him if he wanted to hang out with the guys from track...to be quite honest though, Thomas just wanted to go somewhere by himself. He left the house, even though he knew it was far too late and there’d be hell to pay. He walked, hands in his pockets until he saw the bright neon of the FLARE club entrance, the only source of real light on the darkened city street. Thomas’ heart raced with fear and excitement as he stepped closer. Warnings were going off in his head but for once, they were distant, curiosity getting the better of him. He forced himself not to think about what any of this meant. The line was a manageable size: short enough that he couldn’t talk himself out of the experience.

The bouncer at the door wasn’t as intimidating as he expected; his eyes sauntered over Thomas’ shoddy fake ID, his mouth curling into an amused smile. When he looked at Thomas in the eyes, an unspoken sense of understanding flowed between them as quick as a surge of electricity; he let Thomas pass with one slow gesture inside. Thomas exhaled; he’d been holding his breath.

The bass of the speakers made a home in Thomas’ body, jolting his organs awake. Everyone was bathed in colors that flashed from the strobe lights. The smoke machine made everything look surreal, made Thomas feel like he had stepped in a different dimension altogether. The club was full of twentysomethings dancing to the music, seemingly lost within soundwaves. Some stood by the bar, whispering close to one another. Others, well. Others were kissing. Thomas couldn’t help but stare at them, transfixed, the curiosity burning more insistently still. He moved slowly through the crowd, eyes glued to the ground. He was too scared to make any sort of prolonged eye contact.

When he looked up, his heart had forgotten how to beat. Before him, dancing to the beat, was Newt. His hair was completely disheveled as he looked into another handsome boy’s eyes. Newt danced with his hips, slowly. Lazily, like he didn’t have a care in the world, like the music was the only thing holding him up. The guy he was dancing with had his mouth on Newt’s collarbone, his eyes closing. Thomas couldn’t look away.

Suddenly, Newt whispered to his dance partner and they parted. Newt continued his dance as if he were entranced by the beat. Almost as if he had felt the pull of Thomas’ eyes on his, their eyes met. Thomas felt an almost primal urge to run but he couldn’t will his limbs to move. He was completely hypnotized by Newt’s gaze. His face kept subtly changing as the colors intertwined with shadows to morph his features.

Pink, red, orange, yellow, green…

He almost didn’t notice Newt was making his way over to Thomas. He noticed how aware Newt was of the space around him as he walked through the sea of bodies. He tripped over people’s feet as he passed, he reached his hands out to steady himself, mouthing small apologies to those he touched. Slowly but surely, he made his way over to Thomas. The look of concentration on his face faded into a soft, friendly smile; a small dimple revealed itself on his cheek, as if it too, was saying hello.

“Tommy! Fancy seeing you here. I didn’t know you were…” Somehow, that pause completely embodied what Thomas felt. Dot dot dot. A heavy and thick silence that Thomas was getting tired of holding, tired of leaving blank.

“Me neither,” he said without thinking.

Newt laughed like he was completely free. “First time here?”

Thomas could only nod. Slowly, suddenly, Thomas found himself moving. He felt at home here somehow, with Newt. There seemed to be a sense of overwhelming love that Thomas couldn’t really describe; he was enveloped by the feeling of acceptance. He could be whoever he wanted. The possibilities were endless.

“You’re sure as hell not a guitar player,” Newt said, “But you definitely bloody know how to dance, Tommy.”

Thomas wouldn’t tell a soul, but he did love to dance. He loved being taken away by a beat, the music completely erasing his anxieties in one full movement of his body. Once he got going, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t have to think about anything else except keeping his body in motion.

“I love to dance because,” he found himself saying, “I don’t feel like myself when I do it,”

In a way, he rejoiced under the loudness of the music; the heavy bass took the words from his mouth in its hands and helped him with the weight of his own vulnerability. Something within Thomas knew that he couldn’t handle it on his own. Not quite yet. He did feel as if he was no longer in his body; he paid Newt no mind when he moved closer to him. In fact, dancing with Newt was better than dancing by himself. He kept up with him flawlessly, and as cliche as it was, Thomas felt as if they were one entity.

When Newt kissed him, Thomas surprised himself by not thinking anything at all. For the first time in a long time, his body reacted first; he was all feeling, becoming engulfed by the heat of Newt’s presence. Newt kissed him like he was something precious, handling his face with care. Thomas kissed back like he knew what he was doing, like he was sure of himself, like this didn’t throw his entire world out of balance. When they pulled away, Thomas smiled like he’d never been kissed before. Euphoria bubbled calmly in his stomach, making him feel nearly dizzy and drunk, though he had yet to drink a drop.

He didn’t need to.

“You sure as hell know how to kiss, Newt,”

Newt laughed. Thomas wondered if it hurt, smiling so much. “You want me to teach you how to kiss, too?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,”

___

Thomas took deep breaths as he reached his arms down to his toes, his fingers grabbing at the soles of his running shoes. When he looked up, the sun was slowly rising over the horizon, tinting the indigo sky an ethereal mix of yellow and orange. The orange of the high school’s track looked like a ring of fire as the sun’s rays crept closer and closer towards Thomas’ feet. He sniffed and shook out a final breath, steading into a jog and increasing his speed as he went around and around. He focused only on his racing heart and the rhythm of his feet hitting the ground. Sweat dripped from his every pore and the early morning breeze left a pink stain upon it like a fingerprint.

But his feet weren’t the only things propelling him forward; his brain had started to spin out of control like an overheated motor, sputtering out thoughts that clung to his brain like smoke. He ran faster and faster, trying to distract himself but now his lungs were aching, the pain spreading over them like tar. A shuddering, desperate cough brought him to a stop, forcing him to bring his shaking hands to his knees. His mouth was overwhelmed by the taste of bile. When he regained his composure, he walked slowly up to where he’d left his water bottle; on his way there, he thought he saw the silhouette of someone, hidden by shadow, sitting on the bleachers. Watching him. He drank several big gulps of water before spilling some on his hands to cool his face. It was then he realized who it was. The very thing, the very person, he’d been trying to outrun.

Newt.

Even though he couldn’t see his eyes, Thomas brought his gaze down to his pristine shoes. Newt made no move to come and talk to him and for that, he was grateful. So he went back to the starting line, taking his deep breaths, swinging his arms from side to side, running a hand through his sweat gleamed hair. A seemingly rehearsed pattern, now that he knew he had a spectator. Thomas didn’t want to think about what Newt was thinking, didn’t have any interest in thinking at all; a corner of his mind nipped at his curiosity anyway, taunting him.

What did Newt see when he looked at him like this, crumpling like a paper doll, over the mere thought of him?

His feet hit the ground with the ferocity of a gunshot. He kept running until the world around him blurred; he was a mouse, spinning in his little wheel.

By the time he came around again, Newt was waiting for him. His breath was taken from him as if some inexplicable force had reached in, grasped a fistful and held it in his chest, clenching and unclenching. He was wearing his favorite coat, the one that was far too big for his lanky body; which didn’t say much, as everything he wore didn’t fit him. His hair was disheveled as always; the sun loved him, painting him gold with its embrace. He had gotten out of bed and walked directly to the track.

“Tommy,” Thomas hated how his body jolted alive at the lilt of Newt’s sleepy accent.

“Tommy, you can’t keep doing this,” Newt sighed. “You can’t keep avoiding me like this.”

They were inches from each other, but Thomas felt the vast empty space that separated them all the same. Newt’s tired eyes were fraying at the edges as if a light had been snuffed out in his irises.

“I know,” Thomas whispered, trying to scrape enough courage to raise his voice, yet he found none. He tried to find solace in their shadows that tore a void into the earth’s floor. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to slip in.

“Look me in the eye, Tommy!” Newt’s hand wanted desperately to touch Thomas, but he restrained the thought, his fingers curling into his sleeve as if Thomas’ skin would burn him.

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to shove me under the rug. You think you’re the only one with something to lose?”

Thomas willed his eyes to meet Newt’s. Suddenly he found himself feeling so unbelievably small, as if he were sitting in Newt’s palm.

“No, Newt I’m sorry, I-”

Newt laughed bitterly. “I didn’t come here to forgive you, Thomas.”

Even though the air was cool, he still felt a warmth in his stomach when he thought of the previous night, beckoning him to feel. Thomas had climbed the tree in Newt’s backyard to get through his second-floor window. Newt had been expecting him; these little midnight visits had become routine. He had pretended to be asleep but he heard the sound of his floorboard creaking and a Thomas’ quiet gasp behind him. The window came down with a small thunk.

Then: Thomas’ freezing fingers greeted him as he wrapped his arms around Newt’s body.

“Stop,” Newt’s voice whined, reverberating in Thomas’ head, “Cold…”

Thomas’ had laughed softly, the sound escaping like a ghost from his lips.“Don’t leave your window open then, shuckface.”

They got impossibly closer to one another; the sheets rustled in a corner of Thomas’ mind. as the memory of Newt turned to face him. Thomas could only see the outline of him in his mind’s eye, could see the faint movements of his eyelashes as he blinked. He could still feel Newt’s heart pulsing underneath his fingertips…

Newt smiled. It was all it took for Thomas to come undone.

“You know I can’t do that,”

He had given him that look, that dangerous look that made Thomas want to say I love you. Even if he didn’t know what it meant quite yet. Instead, he’d kissed him, in the corner of his mouth. It would have to do, for now. Newt’s mouth formed into another subtle smile as he did so, as if he knew exactly what it did to him.

“I just want to go slow,” Newt had whispered. “I want to make the moment last.”

Once the sun peeked from under the clouds, Thomas would leave him. He’d leave him and go back to a simpler world in which he wasn’t in love. But, his mind coaxed him, they were here now. Their own private universe was only as big as Newt’s room.

Thomas looked at him in the eye and he swore, in moments like those, Newt’s eyes did more than look; they reached for Thomas’ heart and cradled it.

“Okay,” Thomas could feel the shape of the word on his lips.

So they slowed and moments stretched like a blanket over them both, as if that was something time allowed. Thomas kissed Newt’s neck, small little gifts along his skin. He’d left a mark near Newt’s only mole; Thomas’ favorite spot. Newt’s quick gasp still sent a wave of electricity through Thomas’ body, even in recollection. He had felt Newt’s chest rise. He’d kissed him gently afterward, as if Newt might have shattered from under him. Yet Newt surprised him by slowly picking up the pace; he’d grabbed a few strands of Thomas’ dark hair, kissing him as if there was barely any oxygen left for them both. Thomas had let himself get lost in the sensations of Newt’s touch, his brain unable to think beyond the present moment.

They both knew they had to come up for air eventually. Thomas’ thoughts crashed into one another all at once as he looked into Newt’s eyes. Suddenly, the inexplicable something was constricting his chest. He couldn’t breathe, he didn’t feel like himself. These hands on Newt’s body weren’t his own. He looked at Newt and it was like he didn’t recognize him. Oh god, what was he doing!?

“Tommy-”

“Just,” Thomas hissed, as if his voice had stung him. “Don’t call me that.”

Don’t call me that like that, he’d thought. The memory only swept through his mind in seconds that stretched into hours.

“We do everything in the dark Thomas,” Newt said. “For once, I want us out here in the open, I don’t want to hide anymore.” he extends his arms to the space around him.

“Teresa knows, Newt, I thought we were careful-” Except, Thomas knew, he wasn’t careful.

Teresa Agnes was Glade High’s blue-eyed devil. With one twist of her wavy black hair, she could unravel someone from the inside out. With one stare, the depths of hell could freeze over. She wasn’t a part of the rumor mill, she built it up from the ground herself. She specialized in secrets and she always knew exactly where to put pressure on the wound. Thomas’ great mistake was simple: he had met her curious gaze in the cafeteria. When Teresa Agnes looked someone in the eye, she had them ensnared around her finger. Thomas could only stare back at her, hopeless like an insect trapped in a web.

“Hello, Thomas,” she said, picking up a tray nonchalantly. “What’s on your mind?”

Thomas only swallowed, focusing on his various lunch options instead. Her eyes were burning holes into his skin. He scratched his neck.

“A certain blond, perhaps?” she suggested with a smirk, savoring the secret like candy, her eyes willing it to come out and play on Thomas’ features.

“Sonya’s nice, yeah,” Thomas replied, playing dumb. “A bit young for me though.”

He busied his fingers by searching for the crumpled up lunch money in his pocket. He smoothed out the bills and gave his money to the lunch lady with a smile before making his way to his usual table. His eyes scanned the room, desperate to catch Minho’s eyes before becoming a slave to Teresa’s relentless inquiries. Teresa licked her lips, unfazed, like an animal awaiting a feast.

“No, not your type…” she drawled out the sentence, stretched it like a rubber band, hoping Thomas would snap under the pressure and take the bait.

Thomas held his breath; god, looking at her was like looking at an oncoming train.

“No, her brother seems like a much better fit, don’t you think?”

“Thomas, dude, c’mere!”

His whole body sighed with relief at the sound of Minho’s voice. He gave his best friend a weak smile. He was free from Teresa’s clutches at last, but only because she let him. The girl had so much power, Thomas didn’t doubt that the earth itself asked her permission to rotate around the sun.

“So?” Newt said without a shred of fear in his tone, which instilled yet more fear in Thomas. Even though he was already a couple inches shorter than Newt, he towered over Thomas in a way he never had before.

“So?” He almost choked on the word. “What do you mean so?”

“Thomas, it’s Teresa, of course she bloody knows. It was only a matter of when she’d let it slip. ”

“Newt, the whole school will know-”

“Know what,”

These were dangerous waters and Thomas risked getting overwhelmed by the tide. Newt, forever his siren, threatened to capsize his entire world.

“I need you to say it,” Newt whispered against his lips, both of his hands on his cheeks. “Just once,” Newt knew better than to ask this of him; the answer would end up doing more harm in the end.

“Class starts in an hour, I’ve gotta go change,”

“You’ve still got plenty of time,” Newt was right, as he often tended to be. “Why would it matter, Thomas?”

Thomas ignored him, slinging his gym bag on his shoulder before getting on his bike. Newt just watched him as he pedaled away, tendrils of frizzy blond hair blowing every which way around his face. Thomas let the morning breeze wash over him. Tears stung his eyes. He almost hadn’t seen Newt step in front of him. His feet shot out instinctively from the pedals, seconds before the bike could push Newt to the ground.

“Please Tommy, please,” Newt panted, clutching at his leg, “I’m sorry, please just...talk to me.”

Thomas kept one hand on his handlebars and wiped at his eyes with the other. Newt pleaded silently with him, his eyes glassy and vibrantly green, like a raindrop had somehow fallen in.

“Get on. It’s not the most comfortable seat, but...” Thomas’ voice was hoarse, not entirely his own. “We can go to Frypan’s.”

Newt did as he was asked without a word, struggling to hook his leg over. After a minute and a deep breath, Newt managed to seat himself, refusing Thomas’ help. He barely touched Thomas’ sides, as if afraid he might leave a mark. Thomas corrected his hands so that they were securely around him. “It’s okay. Just hold on.”

So, he does. Thomas doesn’t know how Newt’s hands could be so warm despite the cold.

Newt got off silently when they arrived, reluctantly accepting Thomas’ help this time. He insisted on opening the door for Thomas. Thomas only nodded in thanks. Frypan had made a rustic space out of his restaurant; nearly everything was made of wood and plants of all types hung from the ceiling, straining towards the sun in prayer. The booths and chairs were a faded, rusty red. Coming here felt like stopping to eat after scaling a mountain. John Denver crooned softly from the radio in the background.

“What can I get ya, gentlemen?” Frypan himself said playfully when they sat down, a smile just barely escaping the confines of his beard. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you two,”

“I’ll have a coffee to start,” Newt answered, smiling politely back as if he had pocketed that blunt, serious version of himself for the time being.

No sugar, a dash of milk, Thomas thought.

“For you, Thomas, Mr. Track Star?” Frypan joked with twinkling eyes, pointing his pen in his direction.

“Just Thomas is fine, Fry,” Thomas replied. “I’ll have my usual,”

“Usual…” Frypan noted in his messy scrawl. “Just let Brenda here know when you’ve made up your mind, Newt.”

“Yessir,” Newt saluted him. The word sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Frypan must’ve noticed, because his laughter boomed across the restaurant. He always got a kick out of Newt trying to sound American.

Brenda had their drinks over a few minutes later, disrupting the tension with small talk. Thomas didn’t feel like contributing, so he just watched Newt be his usual charming self. He always knew what to say or when not to say anything at all. He knew when to laugh. What didn’t he know, Thomas found himself wondering, on more than one occasion. It was still a bit too early for the school rush; there were only a couple of people dotting the place, all of which were conversing well out of earshot.

“So,” Newt said after he’d ordered and she’d left, pouring a dash of milk on his coffee, watched it spread and dye his coffee beige. He was trying to make this seem like a lazy, Sunday morning conversation. Like they did this all the time.

“Why does it matter, Thomas?”

Despite the place being nearly empty, Newt spoke softly and with caution. Talking with Newt about these sorts of things made Thomas feel as if they were both on the same tightrope, trying to meet each other in the middle. There was no hostility or exasperation in his voice this time, only concern, which was almost worse. Thomas took a sip of his water. He knew, Newt knew he was stalling, but he granted Thomas that small luxury anyway. Most of all because he didn’t know quite how to answer that.

He surprised himself by being honest. “I don’t know, Newt.”

Newt sighed. “Okay. Let’s try this: I’m gonna ask again. I’m gonna ask again, except this time, don’t rush to answer me. And I know you think this is ridiculous but pay attention to how you feel when I ask it. Take a deep breath. Don’t think about your answer, you don’t even have to look at me. Just tell me,”

Thomas did think it was ridiculous, he thought feeling anything at all was ridiculous. But he honestly did not have it in him to argue with Newt and make a scene in Frypan’s respectable establishment. So, he did as Newt asked.

“Why does it matter, Thomas, that the whole school might find out about...us?”

Thomas took a deep breath and let it travel all the way down to his stomach. When he tried to exhale a reply, a tight knot stood in the way, making everything worse. He was so unsure he could speak over it that it took him several minutes before he answered, again, in a voice not entirely his own. He suddenly felt five years old again.

“I’m scared. I’m scared that people will look at me differently.”

He said this to Newt’s eyes. Didn’t think about the rest of him, because it’s too much at one time. He counted the freckles on his cheeks like stars. He barely registered the sound of their plates being set down in front of them, barely smelled the wonderful scent of bacon and fresh toast. He thanked Brenda but it sounded as if he’d said it underwater.

“I’m scared that I’ll become another whisper in the halls, like ‘Hey, did you hear that Thomas is bi? Yeah, he’s been seeing that Newt kid, apparently…’”

Because he’s not just that Newt kid. He’s not just anything, he’s so much more.

His heart pounded in his ears, because he’d never said the word out loud before. Bi. Bisexual. In regards to himself. He never thought he’d find himself in this context. “I’m scared that my parents will say it’s a phase or worse, that it doesn’t exist. That my feelings don’t exist.”

That you don’t exist, he thought.

“I’m scared that my coach will hear about this too and be supportive. But not in that genuine sense, in the like, ’our team is “Diverse And Accepting of Everyone’ way. That my teammates, Minho - won’t know how to talk to me, like everything will change.”

“Thomas,” Newt met Thomas’ pinkie with his own. “You keep talking about everyone else,” he took a sip of coffee as a way to cushion the weight of his next words, “How do you feel? Forget the team, school, your parents - how do you feel?”

At that moment, Thomas’ heart spoke to him.

I feel unsteady, I feel like I have a head filled to the brim with bees, I feel like I’m constantly tiptoeing the line between what’s real or what’s fake. I don’t know if what I feel for you is real or not. I feel like I don’t know myself. I feel like there’s everything I thought I knew and then there’s you. For the first time I’m not in control and it scares me, this feeling completely takes me away from anything remotely familiar, from what I thought I was supposed to do, I feel like I shouldn’t give a shit what anyone has to say about anything but I can’t help it-

In the midst of it all, he grabbed Newt’s hand. It was the only thing keeping him grounded, as if he didn’t trust himself to find his way back to reality.

“I feel,” Thomas sighed, “I feel-When I’m with you, I don’t think about anyone else. And when you look at me, I feel like you see me. Like you expect nothing of me, I don’t have to be the star player of the track team, I don’t have to be the successful son, I don’t have to be anyone. I’m just with you.”

Thomas took a bite of toast. He didn’t feel so...blocked, anymore. His appetite had been buried underneath all of that emotional turmoil. He promised himself he wouldn’t look at Newt, but some promises were meant to be broken.

Newt smiled tenderly, encouraging a smile out of Thomas, too. “That’s the most open you’ve been with me,” he said.

As he said it, Thomas felt his chest expand. Suddenly, he no longer felt so alone; for the first time, he noticed Newt next to him. In a different way entirely than at the club, or even in class. He didn’t notice Newt as a crush, as the source of his current crisis, but as a human being. A human being as flawed as Thomas was.

And, for the first time since their crazy, shared chapter of life started, he didn’t feel so alone.

___

Thomas heard the doorbell echo throughout Newt’s house. He stared at his shirt and smoothed it out, ruffled his hair. He jumped out of his skin when he saw the knob turn. He was surprised when Newt’s sister, Sonya, opened the door.

“Hey, Thomas. Are you ready now?”

She saw the look of confusion on his face and giggled, her blue eyes bright. “I saw you trying to make yourself look pretty for my brother through the peephole.”

He felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment, which only made her giggle more. “Don’t worry about it. I mean, I don’t get why you feel the need to look good for him when he looks like an actual slug, but. To each their own, I guess.” An involuntary laugh escaped Thomas, suppressing his nerves.

“Lizzy, are you terrorizing him?” he heard Newt’s voice come down the stairs. Then he came into view, going down one foot at a time. His hand gripped the railing.

“Yes,” Sonya replied bluntly, “I’m trying to drive him away before it’s too late but he won’t budge,” she shrugged her shoulders.

Newt laughed at that. “I have a feeling it’s already too late.”

As Thomas stared into Newt’s eyes, he couldn’t agree more. His hair was tidier than he’d ever seen it, actually combed and tied up neatly in a bun. A stray hair couldn’t help but betray him, as it had slipped out over his face. He wore a flannel button down over a white shirt and khaki shorts that exposed the two adjacent surgery scars on his legs. Thomas was glad to see he had felt the need to make an effort, too, though the clothes were so unlike him that they almost made Thomas laugh out loud.

“Blech,” Sonya gagged. “You guys are making me sick. Just go upstairs already,” she waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the stairs. “Don’t forget to keep it PG, there’s a child in the house.”

“Yeah right,” Newt replied, “You’re only a child when it’s convenient.”

Sonya scoffed, sticking her tongue out at her brother. She didn’t bother retaliating. Thomas let Newt lead him up to his room. When he stepped in, he realized he had never seen it in the daytime before. The white light of the overcast day filtered in through the infamous window, allowing Thomas to see the faces smiling at him from their respective photographs. His family, his bandmates, his friends. People he recognized only through Newt’s stories about them.

Thomas liked that he hadn’t bothered to clean before he came; his homework was sprawled all over his desk, a few pairs of shoes were untied and dirty on the side of his bed. His guitar seemed to be the only thing in its place, gleaming on its stand next to his bookcase, filled to the brim with books and graphic novels. A few were already stacked on top of each row.

“Pretty nice crib you’ve got here,” he said after his eyes had scanned through the entire room.

Newt snorted. “Please never say ‘crib’ again,”

“What? I know a nice crib when I see one. I’m the authority on cribs. And you’ve definitely got a nice crib.”

“Tommy?” Newt grabbed Thomas face in his hands, tilting his head as if he were going in for a kiss.

“What?” Thomas’ voice had shrunk to a lovestruck whisper, his eyes already half-lidded.

Just as he was about to kiss him, Newt smiled. “Shut up.”

Thomas laughed, stole the kiss and pushed him away. “So, where’re your parents?”

“Wow. You sure know how to set the mood. They’re away for the day, spending time together. Why?”

“No, it’s just,” Thomas admitted to the wood floor, “I got all worked up and nervous about meeting your parents since I woke up this morning and it turned out it was all for nothin’.”

“Are you saying you were ready to meet the parents?”

“Not at all but I would be lyin’ if I said I hadn’t rehearsed a few polite lines in front of the mirror a few times,”

Newt snorted again. “Polite lines? Like what?”

Thomas widened his eyes and put his hands up defensively. He tried to be serious but the smile that creeped up on his face gave him away. “Don’t make fun of me! Y’know, a few polite lines, a few witty jokes.”

.He made an attempt at a horrendous English accent. ‘What a nice house you’ve got here!’ He gesticulated wildly. “‘The flowerbed looks spectacular, Mrs. Newton!’ that sorta thing. You make being charming look so easy,”

Newt laughed and hit him with a pillow. “Oh my god, you’re a fucking dork,”

Thomas furrowed his eyebrows as if he were hurt. Newt paid him no mind. “You obviously didn’t rehearse enough. They would’ve seen through all that bullshit. And for the record, the charm’s all in the accent,”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “I think you’re right. You’re bein’ a stone cold bully right now and I’m still so maddeningly attracted to you.”

They spent their time as they saw fit: Newt played Thomas a song he had been writing on his guitar, they complained about teachers, Newt told stories of a road trip one summer, Thomas talked about all the stupid phases he had gone through with Minho. After a while, Newt got up from the bed, stretched and turned on his stereo. Thomas recognized the singer’s voice; this was one of Newt’s favorite bands. The voice was smooth and soft, almost strong. A perfect presence to fill their comfortable silences as they appreciated each other.

It was hard to tell how long they spent laying on the bed, holding hands as they stared off into space and rambled on about everything under the sun. Thomas’ eyes settled on Newt’s thighs, where the scars ran in faint pink lines. He ran an absent-minded finger through the one closest to him.

“You know it’s odd,” Newt watched him as he did it. “You’ve never asked about them,”

“I just figured it was off the table,” Thomas replied. “You never talk about it.”

“If you had met me a few years ago it would’ve been,” Newt said honestly, “But now I just wait to see if people ask. They hardly ever do, even if I can tell that they want to.”

Thomas looked at him. Newt was still looking at the scar, even though Thomas had stopped tracing it.

“So, how did they end up there?” Thomas asked him.

Newt laughed quietly and Thomas couldn’t help but feel like they were the only people left on the planet. “I’ve had the disability-cerebral palsy-since I was born, started going to therapy at two, stopped going at fourteen. Had the surgery at eleven,”

He listed off his life in bullet points; he had told this story millions of times. “I spent most of my childhood wishing to be like everyone else. Then in junior high I realised I might like boys and I was like, ‘there’s really no use in trying anymore, is there?’”

He mimicked his thirteen-year-old self, making Thomas smile.

“I used to wear oversized clothes so that people wouldn’t see my leg braces. Now it’s just a part of my style, a choice; back then, it was a necessity, my only option. Or rather, the only option I gave myself.”

He brought his eyes to meet Thomas’. “I decided to reinvent myself freshman year. Over the summer I had realised that my insecurity was crippling me because I let it. So, on the first day of school that year, I wore shorts and people stared. I fought that insecurity off by pretending that I comfortable with myself. And eventually, I guess I believed it.”

“I get that,” Thomas murmured, “The reinventing yourself bit.”

They scooched up so that their backs were on the headboard. “When people saw me be comfortable with myself, they were generally more comfortable with asking me about it. It was so much easier to make friends after that. I couldn’t believe that it was the only thing standing in their way.”

Newt stretched his legs out and hooked one over Thomas’, playing a footsie, of sorts. “But that’s not all, is it?” Thomas observed.

“No, it’s always more complicated than that. I was still getting in my own way. You know, ‘I’ll never be loved because of this thing,’ all that rubbish.”

His eyes were glassy now, the words hitting a nerve well within him. A tear made its way slowly down his face, staining his freckles. Thomas reached over and caught it with a fingertip.

“It’s been a few years, but I have bad days where I just...revert back to that scared little boy. When we had first started hanging out, I was scared out of my mind. ”

Newt sniffled and wiped at his nose. “I was scared because I had seen you as this jock, right? I was worried sick because I can’t run that well, or for very long. What if you had wanted to go jogging or biking, whatever? Those things are important to you and I want to be a part of them, too.”

There was a pause as tears kept falling silently from Newt’s face. Thomas noticed that he couldn’t keep eye contact anymore; his eyes were transfixed to the window, to the splashes of rain sliding down the windowpane, making a watercolor of the leaves outside.

“Look at me,” Thomas’ voice was gentle. “Newt…”

When the words finally reached him, turned to look at him. His face was splotchy and red, his eyebrows were slightly creased. “I haven’t been in a relationship that lasted more than twenty-four hours,”

His head is on Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas runs a hand absentmindedly through his hair. “But that’s not their fault. I just can’t bear the thought of them seeing my flaws. I can’t bear the thought of burdening them so much that they’ll get fed up,”

His subtle sobs filled the silence as Thomas thought.

“It would be pretty stupid of me to miss out on...you because you’re different from me. That would make me very lonely because everyone is. The way I see it, we just need to recognize that they’re there. The differences, and just...love them, because chances are people aren’t loving them themselves.”

It took Thomas a long time to learn that. He had been a judgemental kid growing up, he always made assumptions about people. It had made him feel lonely because he didn’t feel like he could approach anyone. Joining the track team forced him to socialize with people who wouldn’t have thought about talking to. Now, they were like brothers to him.

“So, why can’t you accept your differences?”

Thomas took a deep breath. “Because loving myself is too easy, Newt. If that makes any sense.”

Newt hummed in understanding.

“Plus,” Thomas said, a grin spreading on his face. “Why love myself when I’ve got someone that does the loving me, for me?”

Newt elbowed him painfully, playfully. “Who says I love you?”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Thomas basked in the color of Newt’s blush.

They hadn’t realized they had fallen asleep until they both heard the front door open, the voices of Newt’s parents announcing their return. Thomas nearly jumped out of the bed, eyes immediately drifting to the window; a force of habit.

Newt’s hand on his shoulder brought him back down. “Have those polite lines handy, Tommy?”

Thomas chuckled and looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Newt?”

“Yeah?” Thomas wanted to wipe that smug look from his face.

“Shut up.” he settled for kissing him on the cheek before heading downstairs.

___

Minho was on his front porch steps, waiting for him. Thomas grabbed his keys from his pocket and locked the door when it clicked shut. The two boys only nodded at each other in greeting before walking side by side in silence. The twittering of birds and the breeze blowing leaves about filled the pause. That’s what it felt like. A pause. They weren’t running from anything. It allowed them to catch up to one another.

“I saw you,” his friend said. “With him, at the track.”

His eyes snap up to meet Minho’s in a panic. All hope at being discreet drained like the color from Thomas’ face. “How-”

“I know ya like to run the track before school and I thought I would check to see if you were there.”

“Min, I-”

“Y’ know you could’ve told me, right?” His eyes meet Thomas’ for a second before blinking back to his shoes.

“I was going to. Eventually. At some point.”

Suddenly, the world was no longer at a pause as words rushed from their mouths. They tumbled through the air, a cataclysm of unspoken emotion.

“Were ya afraid to tell me-”

“No, I just-” Thomas’ heart was beating progressively faster with inexplicable fear.

“Because I don’t want you to feel-”

Minho, I -”

“We’ve been friends for so long and-”

“I can’t really explain it,” Thomas said, arms in the air. “Minho. Okay? And I’ve tried to, believe me, I have, but it just happened.”

“Do ya have to? Explain it?”

Did he? The question echoed in his mind and he realized that he was so extremely hyper-focused on trying to rationalize his feelings. Trying to explain them to himself, rehearsing what he would say if this topic were to come up.

“I guess I don’t...I'm just...a bisexual mess. And I like ‘im. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?” he asked Minho a question, this time, as if he held all the answers.

“Yeah,” Minho stopped and looked at Thomas. He opened his arms and they embraced each other. “It should be.”

So they stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, holding one another. Thomas was stepped in the center of an abandoned hopscotch game.

He didn’t know why, but Thomas began to cry. He hadn’t realized how much he had held in; his ribcage had been a makeshift dam. All of that desperate, shaking fear leaked from his eyes and onto Minho’s jacket.

As long as Thomas was loving, what could be wrong with it? What was there to be ashamed of?

___

5:30 AM. Thomas is on his third lap when he feels someone climb on his back.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Newt whispered sarcastically in his ear, kissing his cheek.

“Mornin’” Thomas said and ignored how the pet name made his heart skip. He wrapped Newt’s long legs around his body and continued running.

“Woah! Free rides, sweet.”

“Don’t...get used to it,” Thomas panted. “You’re not as light as you think.”

Newt scoffed. “Oh Tommy, you flatter me.”

After completing the lap, Thomas slowed, pretended to waver and lose control from exhaustion.

“What the-Thomas-!” and suddenly, they spilled onto the ground, a mess of tangled limbs, laughing like little kids.

When there was no sound, when the aching of their stomachs was the only thing that remained, Thomas rolled over so that he had his arms on either side of Newt’s head.

“Ow, you have your hands on my hair,”

“Oh, sorry,”

“S’okay.” Newt laughed. His face was painted pink by the heat, sweat shining on his cheeks. “Nothing to be sorry for,”

He tried to reach up to kiss Thomas, so Thomas met him halfway.

“Last time I checked,” Minho’s voice was easy to recognize. The boy was big and boisterous, filling up any space he entered. “The track was made for runnin’ and not makin’ out.”

Newt blinked in shock and tried to move away. Thomas just gave him a look and reached out a hand to help Newt stand. “What, you gonna tell on us?”

“Nah, I’ll let ya go. Just this once.”

“Oh thank god. We’ve been spared.”

“Watch that sarcasm, Murphy,” Minho said, looking at Newt. “I’m Minho.”

“Newt.” There’s that smile. “Good to finally meet the man, the myth, the legend,”

“Same could be said for you. Anyway, are we runnin’ or what? Meet’s coming up soon.”

Surprisingly enough, the world didn’t end when Minho’s hand met Newt’s. The earth actually stood still when Thomas’ two completely different worlds collided.

As he ran and Newt watched, Thomas found himself reflecting on something Newt had said on the phone the night before.

“Y’know, this is probably not going to last, Tommy.” His voice was soft and wearing thin with sleep.

Thomas tried to object but Newt cut him off. “No, no hear me out. It’s not gonna last. But that’s okay. Alright?”

Thomas stared at the glow of his alarm clock in the darkness. “It’s alright because some people are meant to only be in our lives at certain points. To teach us things about ourselves.”

He could feel the pounding of his heart. Thump, thump, thump. “And what have I taught you?”

“That I need to trust others more,” he said. “I need to stop assuming how other people feel about me and not giving them a voice.”

There was something so oddly intimate about speaking on the phone with someone he cared about. It felt as though the world had muted itself; not even the crickets stirred.

“You taught me that...I matter. My feelings matter. That I have a lot more love in me than I’ve been givin’ out.”

It felt freeing to say that to his ceiling. He felt light, suddenly. A strange kind of emptiness overcame him but it wasn’t the melancholic kind. It was that he wasn’t holding anything back.

“So when we’re old and gray,” Newt whispered through the line, his voice crackled a bit. “And I’ve forgotten you...I’ll remember the lesson.”

“Thank you.” his words were two outreaching hands, handling them with great care. “I'm glad you were the one to teach it to me."