Archive of Our Own

Newt’s life ended the day that word went around about a new boy. He had no interest in new people, no desire to interact with anyone or anything that weren’t Minho or his sketchbook. Yet, the words that kept floating through the building of his high school kept his interest slightly piqued. The small town he was raised in rarely saw new residents—as Newt recalls, he had been the last family to move here, eleven years ago—let alone new students. There were whispers of this boy down every hallway, rumors already spreading faster than wildfire. 

I heard he has a girlfriend back in New York

He’s way too good looking to be single

Do you think he found his soulmate yet?

Do you think he’s gay?

Truthfully, Newt had wanted to see the boy with his own eyes. He had yet to hear a name, or even a vague description, despite all of the people talking about him. It was pure creative curiosity—if the boy was worth studying as an example for the human form that they’d been working on in his AP art class for weeks.

No other reason at all.

Newt was furiously scribbling away in his sketchbook when he felt two hands heavily drop down on his shoulders. His pencil went flying forward, drawing a deep line through the page.

“Minho! Idiot, I was working on that,” He sighed, trying as best as he could to erase the large dent in the paper. After a few seconds of violently erasing, he gave up with a sigh. “Since you so obviously wanted to talk to me, talk.”

“So,” Minho slowly let out, walking around where Newt was sitting and plopping himself down in the desk in front of him. By the tone of his voice, Newt knew exactly where Minho was about to take this conversation, and he wasn’t going to like it. “That new kid…you seen him yet?”

“Minho, will you bloody shut up,” Newt groaned, letting his head drop on to his desk violently. “Hitting my head hurts less than listening to you talk.”

“C’mon man, you’re like—the gayest man walking, you’re not even a little bit excited to see who the new kid is?” Minho snickered. “Heard he’s from New York, that’s where all the hipsters are from, right? Just your type!”

“I swear, if you don’t shut up—”

“Okay! Okay, I’m done,” Minho smirked a smirk that Newt hated seeing. “His name’s Thomas, brunet, brown eyes. You’re welcome.” 

“Minho!” Newt hissed, looking around the room. There was no one there, of course, the two boys showed up to their first class of the day early to avoid the crowded hallways.

“Newt, what if he’s your soulmate? You’re almost the ripe ol’ age of eighteen, the perfect time to meet the lucky dude!”

“You, better than anyone else, should know that the last thing I believe in are soulmates,” Newt chuckled dryly.

“You want to deny proof?” Minho replied, his voice as unamused as his expression. “You want to deny that I could tell you exactly what Brenda’s thinking right now?”

“Maybe I believe in soulmates, you twat,” He sighed, opening his book up again and turning to a new page, working on sketching out a side profile. “Maybe I just don’t believe that I have a soulmate.”

“You know that like, less than five percent of the world’s population don’t have soulmates, right?” Minho chuckled at him, like he always does when Newt expresses his opinion on soulmates. “The odds that you don’t have a soulmate are ridiculously small.”

“And what if I am one of the people who doesn’t have one?” Newt placed his pencil down again, rolling his eyes and looking up at Minho. “Maybe I don’t even really believe in the whole bloody soulmate rubbish that everyone throws around, anyway. You ever think it’s all a trick of the mind? You just think that you’re reading each other’s minds? It all sounds a bit unrealistic to me. And, besides, who would want to be bound to one person forever? Especially this young! Where’s my freedom to live if I find a soulmate? I hope I don’t have one, and if I do I bloody hope I don’t meet the bloke.”

“You—” Minho sighed and shook his head. “Are one cynical son of a bitch.” And with that, he turned around, still shaking his head.

Newt picked up his pencil and stared down at the drawing in front of him. A half-finished side profile, choppy lines, poor shading.

He really needed to find a muse. 

He was just sitting at his canvas, brush delicately placed in his hand, strokes slow and purposeful as he attempted to paint the figure in front of him. Shades of nude and brown to blend the black outline in. He set the brush down for a moment, running his hands through his hair. He felt unfocused, unmotivated. It wasn’t a new feeling—quite the opposite, actually—but this time it was sudden, unprompted. It was making him purely mad; he had unfinished sketches thrown around his room, angry lines circling over every painting he tried to finish.

When he finally picked up his brush again, he nearly dropped it and ruined his whole project in the process. He was rendered speechless for a few moments, immobile for just as long. A boy—a lovely, beautiful boy—knocked on the open door to the classroom, a shy look on his face.

“Uh-hi,” He stuttered out, voice dripping like honey with every syllable. “Is this, uh, AP art?” Newt’s hand hung limply in the air, brush not even grazing the canvas in front of him. He was busy observing the most beautiful piece of art he had ever seen.

Slightly tanned skin dotted with moles—one enticingly close to his mouth—, whiskey brown doe eyes that were so bright Newt could see them from his seat about a yard from the door. Newt willed himself to not look lower, not look at all, but god, please, not lower than his perfectly constructed face.

But, Newt was always weak when it came to pretty face’s, so of course his gaze went lower, down to perfectly broad shoulders, a nice fitted maroon long-sleeved tee covering his torso, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his forearms and his hands.

His hands.

Newt instantly had flashes of all of the ways he could put those hands on paper—sketching with pen or pencil, paint on canvas, watercolor, charcoal; millions of ways that Newt could perfect those hands. Hands with long fingers, bitten nails, constructed with veins from the tops of his hands, crawling up his wrists to his forearms like tree roots.

“Could you tell by all of the canvas’?” The teacher remarked, causing Newt to roll his eyes. Mr. Willis was a good guy, good teacher, and sarcastic. At Mr. Willis’ comment, the boy turned a light shade of pink—Newt knew exactly what two pencils he could combine to make that exact color—and shifted from foot to foot. “I’m kidding, come on in. What’s your name?” 

The boy stepped into the room fully, backpack thrown lazily over one shoulder—it didn’t look all that heavy, Newt wondered if the boy carried books around at all. Newt wondered why he had never seen this boy before even more.

“Thomas,” Newt dropped his brush on the floor, the entire room going silent. The boy—Thomas—turned to look at him with a concerned face, but Newt was already picking up his brush and placing everything back into his kit hurriedly, before running out of the door.

He ran as fast as he could to the unisex bathroom in the basement of the school, closing and locking the door behind him and sinking down to the floor. It wasn’t so much that Newt was afraid of finding a soulmate, there was a lot more to it than that.

He simply didn’t want one, simply didn’t believe in the idea of them. Minho could shove his proof in his face all he wanted, Newt didn’t buy it. So, every time a new boy entered into his life, Newt did what he did best—he ran. He tried his hardest to avoid any new males, because on the off chance that Newt was wrong, he didn’t want to break it to his soulmate that he just couldn’t be with them.

That faith only went so far, and he lost all of his faith a long time ago.

Yet, the image of Thomas was burned into the back of his eyelids. His cheekbones high on his face, his square jaw rounded out a bit with unblemished skin, his whiskey-gold eyes with long, dark lashes surrounding them, voice like honey, perfectly sculpted broad shoulders connected to a torso that had to be just as beautiful. The moles dotted asymmetrically on his face and neck—and God, did Newt want to know if they went lower. His nose, slightly upturned, but fitted to his face, full, pink lips. And those hands.

The hands would be the death of him. 

When Newt wondered if this boy would be good to practice the human form, he never imagined that he would be looking at someone who easily could be confused for a piece in a museum. He never thought he’d be looking at a natural born artform.

After that first encounter, Newt did everything he could to stay away from Thomas. He switched where he sat in his art class because when he arrived to class the next day, Thomas had decided to take the easel next to where Newt typically sat. He arrived to every class late, just to scan the room for Thomas before he went inside—just in case. He looked like a madman, running and hiding around corners from a boy he had never spoken to before.

The worst part was when he had to run away from Thomas when Minho was there. 

Newt and Minho stood in the hall, Minho rambling about something with Brenda, while Newt stood there and nodded along, drinking his coffee and not retaining a word of what Minho was saying. Newt had other things to focus on—like hands and moles and veins. 

He looked away for one second—Newt swears, it was only one second—before he looked behind Minho, seeing Thomas walking down the hall towards them. Clearly, Thomas wasn’t about to come up to Newt and start talking to him. But whenever Newt thought of Thomas or saw Thomas or dreamt about Thomas, his stomach constricted and his esophagus burned unpleasantly. He couldn’t quite put a name on how he felt.

So, when Thomas came strolling down the hallway, easy smile on his perfect lips, exposing the slightest amount of white teeth, Newt nearly lost it. His hands started shaking, and he knew it wasn’t from the caffeine.

Newt looked at Minho quickly, racking his brain for the best excuse he could come up with to get out of his hallway right now.

“I have to go to the art room!” He spluttered out, picking his kit of brushes and pencils up off of the floor. “Big project, human form, y’know? Due dates, midterms, whole bloody thing.” Newt began to walk backwards throwing his thumb over his shoulder in what was definitely not the direction of the art wing.

“Newt, it’s October. Midterms aren’t until January.” Minho replied, blank facial expression and bored tone of voice.

“Can’t hear you, gotta go!” And with that, he was running down the hallway to the art room, closing the door behind him with large, panting breaths. He sat on one of the stools, rubbing his right leg and trying to ease some of the pain he caused by running and putting weight on his bad leg.

“Bloody leg, bloody soulmates, bloody Thomas,” He hissed quietly, still running his hands on his leg in the silent art room. He welcomed the silence, the emptiness of it all. He had no fear of running into Thomas, which meant he had no reason to run, and the room would be empty for the first three periods of the day. Meaning that Newt could stay here for as long as he needed.

Headphones blaring The Smiths in his ears, Newt sat on the windowsill of the art room drawing in his sketchbook, the sun coming in from the window acting as perfect natural lighting. Newt wasn’t even paying attention to what he was drawing—this was the first time in weeks that he had had inspiration like this, inspiration at all, and he wasn’t going to question it.

Though, maybe he should have, considering when he stopped to take a sip of water, he looked down at his paper and realized he was drawing out Thomas’ side profile in perfect detail. Newt vaguely noted that this particular piece was the most accurate drawing of the human form that he had done, but he didn’t want to focus on that thought right now. Possibly not ever.

He let out a groan into the empty room and briefly glanced out of the window, looking out at the trees surrounding the high school. Newt saw no one outside, a bit surprised considering out beautiful a day it was.

As he scanned the courtyard, he caught one glimpse of a person, by himself, sitting under a tree fairly close to the building, eating french fries and reading what looked like a decently large textbook.

Thomas.

Of course, Thomas. Newt barely believed in the idea of love, so when the quick glance at the other boy had his heart beating quicker than usual, his hands shaking subtly, he groaned loudly into the quiet, empty room, throwing his sketchbook across the room. He couldn’t point out what aspect it was that made Newt so attracted to Thomas—what kind of gravitational pull that the boy had for dragging Newt into his orbit.

Maybe the world revolved around this mysterious boy with constellations made out of moles dotting across his face.

Newt had about five minutes before his art class started—three hours, seven minutes, and forty-two drawings of Thomas later—and God, was Newt simultaneously looking forward to seeing Thomas, but dreading seeing him at the same time.

When the bell rang to signify the end of third period, Newt began to pace around the room. Thomas was coming, Thomas sat directly next to his regular spot, which means that odds are, Thomas would be sitting next to him today. Thomas was going to come into the room, his unnaturally pretty face glowing in artificial lighting, and his hands.

So, when Thomas came in before anyone else, walking slowly, without purpose, Newt began to panic. He almost picked up and ran again, but thought better of it once he really thought about it.

How bloody crazy would you look? Running away from him in an empty room, especially since the poor bloke hasn’t done a thing wrong.

Thomas took his seat—directly next to where Newt sits every single day—and started to take out his kit of brushes, ignoring Newt’s presence entirely. A part of Newt would have none of that; internally, he demanded that Thomas pay attention to him, at least lookat him. Yet, another part of him, equally as loud, was telling Newt to pay less attention to Thomas, than Thomas was paying attention to him. 

Proper logic. Newt thought, a grimace coming to his face. My brain can’t even decide whether I want to run or be as close to this twat as possible.

 But when Newt sat down next to the brunet with full intent to ignore him, Thomas looked up and smiled shyly at him.

 I’m a god damned goner.

“I’m Thomas,” He said, holding his hand out for Newt to shake. Newt stared at his hand, perfect shade of pale, pink skin, veins protruding proudly. He realized he had been staring for too long when Thomas pulled his hand away slowly, a small smile still on his face. “I noticed you bolt out of here there other day. I wanted to see if you were alright, but you were out of the room before anyone could even get a good look.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Newt replied curtly. If he didn’t speak to Thomas, then maybe Thomas wouldn’t speak to him, and maybe this entire obsession with Thomas and his god damned hands would dwindle down to nothing.

“Are you sure? You didn’t look fine, you don’t really look fine right now, either,” Thomas paused, looking Newt up and down, sending flames up Newt’s spine. “You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m fine, okay? It’s not really any of your concern, anyhow, is it?” Newt started to unpack his own supplies, staring down at his hands and focusing intently on what he was doing, avoiding looking at the boy next to him. “Just—just do art, or something, please, Thomas.”

“Can I at least get your name?” Thomas replied. He did a good job at avoiding how rude Newt was being to him, and Newt couldn’t decide if he was impressed or severely pissed off.

“Isaac.” Newt grimaced at his own name with disgust. “But, you can call me Newt.”

“Newt,” Thomas said with a small grin. “Newt.” He said again, much softer this time, like he was tasting the name on his tongue, like he was looking forward to saying it again.

“Yes, Newt, that is in fact my name,” Newt scowled, while Thomas let out a short laugh and another smile, this one larger than the others, sending Newt’s heart down into his stomach. “Get to work, Tommy.”

“Tommy, yeah?” As soon as the words came out of Thomas’ mouth, Newt realized just what he had said. Tommy. Like a term of endearment.

Am I endeared by him.  

“Shut up,” He hissed, praying to every god that he didn’t believe in that his blush wasn’t as obvious as he felt it was. A slip of the tongue, all it was. Yet, the name suited the other boy well, fit him like a glove.

Fit him like the t-shirt he’s wearing. Perfectly.

Newt didn’t need to be giving this boy nicknames; he shouldn’t be doing it. It seemed as if he was already too attached, and Newt couldn’t have that.

The two boys sat in silence as the rest of the class came piling in, sitting in their respective seats. When Mr. Willis arrived and told everyone to start working on their projects, Newt pulled out his portfolio, setting the unfinished painting down on the easel in front of him. He sighed at the painting; if only he could draw everything as well as he draws Thomas. As if the boy was familiar to him, rather than a complete stranger that had come from an entirely different part of the country.

Newt reached down, going to grab the light-peach paint sitting in between him and Thomas, when their hands brushed, both going for the same paint. Newt pulled his hand back like he was burnt, causing Thomas to chuckle softly from the seat beside him.

“Go for it, it’s all yours,” Thomas said to him with another small smile.

And that’s how it all started. Small smiles and paint.

“Minho, my head is absolutely killing me,” Newt groaned, setting his head down on his desk. They were waiting in their first period chemistry class; the room empty apart from them. They both preferred to get to class early—Minho, so he could get a head start on all of the homework he hadn’t done the night before; Newt, so he could avoid Thomas as best as he could.

“Were you drinking, Isaac?” Minho said, attempting to hold back his laughter. “What have we talked about. You’re a lightweight and your hangovers are absolutely wicked.”

“Damn it, Minho. I didn’t drink last night, I don’t have a bloody hangover.” Newt growled. “My head has been hurting since yesterday, I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

“Hm, weird.” Minho replied plainly, turning back to his own desk to finish his work. “Hey, what’d you get for—”

“Hey, Newt,” Thomas came walking in, bags under his eyes, sweatpants and a t-shirt clothing him. It was the sloppiest he’d seen Thomas look in the few days since he had met him, although the boy seemed like the type to keep himself put together well. It’s a wonder how he still looked so buggin’ good, eyebags and sloppy clothing aside. “How are you?” 

Since the day before, Newt had become unexplainably soft for the other boy.

Soft? More like borderline-creepy, Newt.

So, maybe, possibly, Newt had spent hours up the previous night, ignoring his own pile of schoolwork, looking through Thomas’ social media accounts for any relevant information he could use to strike up a conversation.

Although, it seemed as if he didn’t necessarily need to do that, considering Thomas was able to walk into a room and start a conversation with Newt entirely naturally.

“Wait, since when are you in this class?” Minho asked, interrupting Newt’s thoughts, thankfully, because he still hadn’t answered Thomas and the silence was probably beginning to feel uncomfortable for everyone else in the room.

“Ah,” Thomas said, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish smile. “When I transferred, they didn’t look at all of my credits right. They had me taking sophomore year bio, like I took last year, when I should be in,” He waved his hands around, gesturing to the room. “Y’know, junior year chemistry.”

“Why are you meant to be in biology?” Newt tilted his head to the side, and a small smile broke onto Thomas’ face.

“I’m only a sophomore, I took extra science classes because, well, it’s actually a passion,” He let out a small chuckle. “Crazy, right? What sixteen-year-old boy is into science, of all things?”

“So, you’re like, crazy smart, huh?” Minho said, wiggling his eyebrows. “How do you feel about doing this assignment for me, I’m not so big on chemistry.”

“Sure, gimmie,” Thomas replied, reaching for the paper. “Oh, I did this last semester.”

“Last semester?” Newt spoke, finally. It was as if his mouth was filled with cotton. “Are you crazy smart?”

“Uh,” Thomas looked between the two boys. “Not really?” 

“Whatever you say, Tommy boy,” Minho rolled his eyes, watching Thomas get to work on his homework.

“Uh—it’s Thomas,” He avoided eye contact with the two boys, instead focusing on the paper in front of him, pencil flying over it as he rapidly answered the questions.

“Okay, Thomas,”

“It’s done,” Thomas said, handing the paper back to Minho with a straight face.

“W-what the fuck do you mean it’s done?”

“I mean that it’s done, that I finished, here you go,” Thomas smiled, taking a seat next to Newt. He was ashamed to admit it, but when Thomas decided to sit next to him, it sent a small wave of satisfaction through Newt, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent from smiling.

Minho shot a look at Newt, then turned to look at Thomas, before turning back to Newt with a knowing look on his face.

“So, Thomas, why do you look like such shit?” Minho asked bluntly. 

“Had trouble sleeping, I guess. I’ve had a massive headache all day long and no matter how much Advil I take it won’t fix it,” Thomas shrugged his shoulders before rubbing at his eyes.

“No shit, huh?” Minho smirked, and the look on his face turned absolutely devious. “How would you like to come sit with me and Newt outside during lunch, huh?”

“Uh,” Thomas answered, his eyes going wide. “I mean, if that’s okay, y’know, with uh. With Newt.”

Newt wanted to laugh, he wanted to laugh in Thomas’ face and call him an idiot. How could Thomas not tell already that Newt was entirely infatuated with him?

“Newt’s fine with it, see you at lunch!” With that, Minho face the front of the room, waiting for their teacher to arrive.

Thomas was sitting at the easel, concentrated, his tongue poking out from the side of his mouth cutely as he focused on every brush stroke. Newt was in a trance, staring at the art next to him instead of staring at the canvas in front of him—the blank canvas in front of him. The only thing his hands could draw was Thomas, it was driving him absolutely mad. The thought had crossed his mind, several times, really, about just coming clean and doing something about his Jupiter-sized obsession with Thomas.

Newt went over every possibility, most of them blowing up in his face, before a thought came to him.

Is Thomas straight?  

“Hey, what’re you staring at?” Thomas laughed, turning his head and looking at Newt with sparkling eyes. He set the paintbrush down, turning his entire body on the stool to face Newt. He narrowed his eyes, looking at Newt’s project. “Why’s your canvas blank?”

“I-I?” Newt replied. “Tommy, please stop asking questions.”

“But—” Thomas started before biting his lip and turning to look at his own piece. “Okay.”

He sounded so…dejected. A kicked puppy look, was the best way Newt could describe it. He looked as if Newt had just broken his favorite toy as a child, as if Newt really had the power to make him feel that upset, and that was the last thing Newt wanted to do.

When did he get so fucking soft?

“Uh—Tommy,” Newt coughed awkwardly. Talking to Thomas should definitely not be this hard. “So, you like science, yeah? What d’you want to do?”

“Mechanical engineering,” Thomas blushed and looked down at his hands, as if it was something to be ashamed of. “I like physics.” He gestured down to the small pile of books under his stool, the top book being a large physics textbook. Newt vaguely recalled that Thomas had been reading a textbook about that size when he saw him from the window of the art room.

“Tommy, you’re brilliant,” Newt sighed. “You seem as if you’re ashamed of what you want to do, who you want to be. Don’t be. You’reintelligent and, well, anyone who spends their free time reading about physics must be dedicated.” 

“Thanks, Newt,” Thomas’ smile was comparative to the sun and all Newt wanted to do was take a picture and draw it in perfect detail later on. “What about you? Any career plans?” 

“Once I get out of this hellhole? I want to draw. That’s all,” Newt looked at his canvas, and then back at Thomas’. “I want to be inspired, I want to be happy.”

Newt realized what he had said almost immediately after it left his mouth, and, hell, he was losing his brain-to-mouth filter.

“I-I mean,” Newt stuttered. “Not that I’m not happy now, I just—”

“Newt,” Thomas interrupted, a serious look in his eyes. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You want to be inspired and happy? Fuck, be inspired and happy! Find your soulmate, fall in love, all that shit.”

“Must be easy for someone who believes in soulmates,” Newt snorted. “The rubbish doesn’t feel real to me. It seems too artificial, it seems as if it would be easy to do that to yourself psychosomatically and think that you’re reading someone else’s mind, when in reality you’re just so stuck on what you should believe, that you don’t think about logic.”

Thomas hummed softly, opening his mouth to reply and resting a hand on Newt’s knee hesitantly, when he suddenly squeezed his eyes shut tightly, drawing both hands up to his ears.

“Tommy? Tommy, what’s wrong?” Newt stood up, hesitantly touching Thomas’ hands over his ears. “Are you alright?”

“No, fuck, God,” Thomas groaned. “I have this ringing in my ears and it won’t stop. It’s like a bomb just went off in front of me, I can barely hear.” He groaned again, scrunching his face up in pain. “Shit, Newt, I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Let’s take you to the nurse, yeah?” Newt said softly, stroking some of Thomas’ hair back. “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t know,” There were small lines of tears running down his face, and it broke Newt’s heart. He tugged on Thomas’ arm, dragging him up and supporting as much of his weight as he could without hurting his leg, pulling him out of the room and down the hall without explanation. “Newt, you-your leg.”

“My leg is fine, Thomas,” Newt grunted out, trying to pull Thomas as far as he could. 

Then, the ringing started in Newt’s ears, too.

When he woke up, Newt was lying in a bed in what looked like the nurse’s office, but to him, all hospitals and medical rooms of any sort looked identical. He heard a slight shuffling next to him, so he opened his eyes fully, the artificial light in the room burning his eyes like he had just stared into the sun for too long. He rolled over, turning to face what looked like an unconscious Thomas.

Tommy?

“Yeah?” Thomas replied, not even bothering to turn or open his own eyes. Newt opened his eyes to speak again when it finally hit him.

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

“What do you mean you didn’t say anything? I heard you say Tommy,” Thomas finally opened his eyes. “Fuck, at least the headache finally stopped. 

Newt narrowed his eyes at Thomas, “What the bloody hell are you doing? Why are you acting like that? Like—like you can hear my buggin’ thoughts?”

“Newt, honestly, for someone so smart, I think you’re being really dumb,”

“What are you talking about, Tommy? What the bloody fucking hell is going on?” Newt sat up, almost to the point of yelling, and he briefly noticed that his headache had suddenly disappeared as well. “Thomas. What’s going on?”

Can you hear me? Thomas thought, testing out the only theory that he had.

“Why did I hear that? Your mouth wasn’t moving, Thomas. What did you do to me?”

“What are you talking about—what did I do to you? I didn’t do anything. Ever think that maybe this is all real? That maybe you found your soulmate? Because that’s what it looks like.” Thomas spat out at him, enraged that Newt was fighting him on this. 

Because even Newt could say that this was too much of a coincidence. Too real. 

“I-I have to go,” Newt stood up quickly, almost toppling over from disorientation. Thomas was up in less than a second to make sure Newt didn’t fall, and simply because he was bitter, and scared, and confused, Newt pushed him away, almost falling down again. “I can do it myself. Stay away from me, Thomas.”

And he turned his back on a devastated Thomas. 

“Where’s Tommy-boy?” Minho asked, his mouth filled with sandwich. 

“Please, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Newt grumbled. “It’s disgusting.”

“Y’know, you’ve been in such a good mood the past few days, that headache really must be killing you, huh?” Minho smirked at him, that knowing look immediately spreading across his face.

“Minho, can you please shut up?” Newt spat. “I don’t want to talk, my headache is gone, Thomas isn’t here, so can we stop fucking talking?” 

Minho looked at Newt in shock, before shutting his mouth and lowering his head to take another bite of his sandwich.

The two sat in uncomfortable silence for what could have been hours, but was only about ten minutes, before Minho couldn’t take it anymore. “Listen…Newt, I—”

“I don’t want to hear that you were right about soulmates, please,” Newt sighed out, defeated. He couldn’t argue it anymore, he could just stay as far away from Thomas as possible. Running forever doesn’t sound too bad. They only had three periods together, and Newt could easily avoid him during lunch, and then sit in different seats in the other two so he really wouldn’t have to interact with him. Perfect.

“That’s not what I’m going to say,” Minho sighed. “Although, I was right, that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is…Thomas seems like a good guy, and whatever you decide to do, you’re my best friend and I support you in it. But I really think he could be good for you, really think he could make you happy.”

Minho looked up at him again, sandwich gone, standing up. “Plus, I’ve seen all of the pictures you’ve drawn of him. Did you forget I have a key to your house?”

Before Newt had a chance to reply, Minho looked somewhere above Newt’s head, nodding, “Hey, Thomas.” He looked down at Newt again. “Remember what I said. I’ll see you later.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows at Thomas, and turning and walking towards where Brenda was sitting with a few of her friends.

Newt briefly thought about how nice it must be to love someone, and be loved, too. 

“Listen, Newt,” Thomas sighed. “Is it okay if I sit? I just want to apologize.” 

“Apologize?" 

“Yeah, I really pushed that soulmate thing at you, and I got mad, I really didn’t mean to,” He sighed again, sitting down in front of Newt. “If you want me to leave you alone, if you want to pretend like this didn’t happen, that’s fine. Whatever you want.”

Thomas looked down at his hands, his eyes closed. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I—Tommy,” Newt stared at him, realizing that he would never be able to form words good enough for this moment, good enough for Thomas.

It’s okay, Tommy. I’m not mad.  

You’re not? What do you mean? You were mad this morning. What changed? Despite the fact that the two were talking in their heads, Thomas’ facial expressions were as reactive as ever.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to react like that. 

You reacted just fine, it’s okay, Newt. It’s okay.

The two boys stared at each other, sitting underneath a tree, reading each other’s minds. If no one knew better, they would assume they were just crazy. But the way that everyone was looking at them, was as if they knew what was going on. As if they knew that the two boys had just come together.

“Do you want to go sit somewhere inside? Somewhere quiet, hm?” Newt asked, standing up. “Hey, wait. Tommy, how did you know about my leg?”

Thomas turned a dark shade of red, looking away from Newt as he stood up too. “I pay attention, okay? I first came to the school and you were…you were the first person I saw. And maybe it’s creepy that I looked constantly searched hallways and classrooms to look at you quickly, but, can you blame me?”

Newt let out a soft laugh, fighting off a blush better than Thomas had. “And to think I literally ran away from you.” 

“What? How dare you!” Thomas said, mock-offended. “If I use the term…soulmate, are you gonna run?” 

No, Tommy. I think that I’m coping decently well, right now.

I like when you call me Tommy.

Oh, yeah? Thought that your name was Thomas, hm?  

Doesn’t sound right coming from Minho. Sounds right coming from you, though.

Bloody sap.

Later that night, both boys in their own beds, laying with the lights off, eyes closed, spoke to each other, a constant stream of communication between the two. Every thought that passed through one’s mind, the other could hear loud and clear. It was slightly overwhelming for Newt, at first, but as the two boys talked more and more, Newt was slowly learning how to cope with all of these voices echoing in his head.

My parents were a bad case of soulmates, I guess, Newt thought. My mother died in a car crash, and once my mom died, my dad went mad.

Yeah, they say that losing your soulmate…makes you empty, or something. Like there’s a hole inside of you that only they could fill.

Yeah. He killed himself.  

Fuck, Newt. I’m so sorry. Rest in peace.

Yeah, yeah. Rest in peace. Newt sighed, although no one could hear.

You know, I can hear you, asshole. Even though you forget. Newt could hear the teasing tone of Thomas’ thoughts resonating through his head, and let a small smile grace his face.

Alright, Tommy. I’m going to try and sleep, yeah? You get some shut eye too, I want to see you up bright and early tomorrow. Gotta shock Minho, and all.  

Goodnight, Newt, I’ll see you in the morning. The smile in Thomas’ voice was louder than his words, and it made Newt smile until his cheeks hurt.

Goodnight, Tommy.  

Newt turned onto his side, his mind going blank of all thoughts, including Thomas’. 

This boy is going to be the death of me. I’m going to love him, aren’t I? Newt thought in a sleepy haze.

Before he fell asleep, he heard an echo of Thomas’ voice.

I’m going to love you too.