Archive of Our Own

In all honesty, the hall of pink hearts and rose petals leading him in through the ship like a sexy yellow brick road probably should have tipped Thomas off from the very beginning. It didn’t, however, which is how Thomas finds himself seated in an auditorium among three dozen fifty-plus-year-olds with an internal mantra of How did I get into this situation running through his head like he’s Emperor Kuzco. 

Instead of the South American jungle, Thomas is floating in a 97,000-tone hunk of metal surrounded by infinite miles of water with no escape. No merciful jaguars either, but maybe a leviathan will decide it’s both hungry and tired of hiding itself from the world and swallow the ship whole.

(Better yet, Thomas survives and goes on to prove the existence of Ancient Gods, becomes a paragon of marine biology and the world of science, and retires by the age of twenty-five. That’d be something to tell the grandkids.)

As Thomas continues to sit in his seat, watching a woman set up a microphone in front of a curtain with a sign on it that screams the letters LHC at him in bright, glittery font and regrets all of his life choices, he allows himself to reminisce back to a simpler time where a younger, more hopeful Thomas lived.

“Hey, excuse me!” Thomas – younger Thomas, approximately two hours ago, practically a baby – jogged up the length of the docking ramp, calling out to a stranger walking in a slow pace and staring down at his phone. The person’s head has twitched just so in Thomas’ direction as he flagged down the stranger, who finally turns to no doubt see Thomas, out of breath, waving at him like an absolute idiot.

Finally catching up to him, huffed an out of breath, Thomas said, “Hi,” while taking a moment to marvel at how much high school track has failed him. “Sorry, I, uh. Is this dock seven? It’s just. There are no signs, and I’ve never been here before, so, uh. Yeah.”

Thomas watched as the guy – blonde, with a weirdly good posture that he honestly feels a little envious of, and the type of complexion that you don’t keep in the sun too long. The European in Thomas can relate – took out one whole AirPod and, while Thomas’ brain busied itself with despairing Oh god, he can’t hear me said, “Yes, this is number seven.”

Thomas sighed in relief. He didn’t feel up to running the length of the pier again. “Oh. Excellent.”

“Yeah,” the guy said, taking out the other AirPod – Thomas felt special – “They’re currently replacing the signs. There are meant to be temporary ones out, but I guess they skimped out on a couple.”

“Guess so,” Thomas said and, since this was going to be a long few days on a watery death trap, he figures he’d better start making friends as soon as possible, offered his hand to the stranger and said, “I’m Thomas.”

“Newt,” he had told him, and took Thomas’ offered hand, grinning. He’d followed Newt inside where they proceeded to talk for the remaining few minutes until Newt was called away, and Thomas followed the call for All passengers this way, please, which he hadn’t known would be the beginning of his untimely and feeble demise.

Now, Thomas sits beside a man with a beer belly and a Hawaiian shirt, and a woman with prosthetic breasts that look like they were done when prosthetic breasts were still in the trial stage, watching a blond man-bun who looks like he would have spent his teenage years running around and shouting Free Love! enter the stage. As the ship departs from Not Dock Seven, Thomas wonders what else Newt lied to him about in their twenty-minute exchange.

If ‘Newt’ even is his real name.

Thomas creates a list in his head of people never to trust, and adds Blondes with AirPods and Cute Accents at the very top. Below it, he scribbles Men with Cute Accents. No Matter How Trustworthy They Sound just to really drive it home, and also because previous Thomas was a fool and future Thomas has equal potential to be just as foolish.

At number three: Walter White. He loves Breaking Bad, but Jesus fuck.

His thoughts are interrupted by the high squealing complaint of the microphone, and three muffled taps to it after. The man-bun on stage leans in close to the microphone, bending to accommodate rather than adjusting the height of the stand, and begins to speak.

“Hello everyone,” he says, his voice ringing out within the small amphitheater too loudly. “First and foremost, on behalf of myself and the rest of our crew here on the Castaway, I would like to thank you all for being here.”

Castaway. The ship Thomas is currently floating off in is named Castaway. He doesn’t think he’s heard anything more fitting in his life.   

The man goes on after everyone has stopped clapping, “Right, now allow me to introduce myself. My name is Vince, and I will be your events director for the duration of this cruise. If at any point over the next few days you have any questions, concerns, or queries, I invite you to seek out either myself or one of our friendly staff. You’ll recognise any of the faces at the back of the room, just over there.”

Vince points and everyone turns to look. Thomas does not. Boob lady brushes against him, and he is unsure whether or not it is entirely an accident.

(He feels mean. Thomas is just stressed and a breath away from a panic attack, and he’s sure she’s a nice lady no matter how disproportionate her breasts are from the rest of her. Hey, if it works for Dolly Pardon.)    

“That being said,” Vince’s eyes begin to sweep over the small crowd, “Welcome everyone to our twenty-fourth annual Lonely-Hearts Cruise! Where we know that you’re never too old …” Vince’s eyes settle on Thomas, then, and he watches the confused twitch of the man’s brow, sinking back into his chair, “… to find love.”

The events director goes on to explain the general rules of the ship as well as how the next few days will proceed while Thomas sinks further and further into despair. A deep haze settles around him and wild buzzards nest in his ears, blocking his senses. Thomas feels nothing in the Void, which is actually pretty nice; it quells the anxiety and fears, and his only hope is that he doesn’t accidentally begin to cry in the waking world, and then that becomes a whole thing.

What is he going to do? He isn’t technically a passenger on this ship, meaning he has no accommodation or access to the facilities. Once he retrieves his bags from the loading area, then what? What will they do once they realise he isn’t a passenger? Will they throw him overboard? Is that still a thing?

The over-dramatic part of Thomas’ brain whispers Yes.

The high squeal of the microphone returns and rips Thomas from his dissociative comfort bubble. He blinks around to find that the speech is over, and people are beginning to file out. Wasting no time, Thomas jumps up from his seat and excuses himself past in the politest way possible while dispelling an air of life-or-death urgency, and bolts from the room in an orderly fashion.

He stumbles upon a bar, first, and opts to collapse there for the time being, maybe even get one drink in before they throw him into the Pacific. The bartender (another blond. What’s with all the blonds?) casts him a mostly unconcerned glance out of the corner of his eye as Thomas fumbles to take his phone out of his pocket and continues to polish glasses like he’s an extra in a detective movie.

Tapping the first speed dial, Thomas listens as the tone rings out for three short beeps until a bored voice answers with all the monotoned drawl of someone checking their nails, head tilted 12 degrees to the side, “Ahoy, matey, how do the surly seas treat yee on this glorious –”    

Thomas does not wait for her finish and shouts, “Teresa I fucked up!” into the receiver. The bar hand shoots him a look.

Teresa yells on the other end, voice growing distant as she no doubts rips the phone away from her ear. She returns after a moment, and says, “Yeah, uh huh. That, Thomas. That right there is the reason we broke up. You screaming into the phone like that. Jesus.”

Thomas frowns, “You said it was because when you kissed me it felt like you were kissing your brother.”

(She did. It was momentarily brutal, but Thomas got over it pretty quick. To this day he is too scared to ask what she thought when they were doing other things.)

“That too,” Teresa says. “Okay, wait. What have you done?”

Thomas grips the counter. “Teresa, I’m on the wrong cruise ship. They were doing some shit with the docks and I got confused, and I don’t think this boat is heading to Hawaii!”

Teresa is quiet for a moment, no doubt struggling to wrap her brain around the information. Thomas himself is, admittedly, still trying. “Okay? Well, do you know where the boat is going?”

“It’s. Uh. Hang on.” Thomas flags down the bartender, who has since shuffled closer and is very obviously eavesdropping, “Where’s this ship heading to?” 

“It docks in San Diego in four days,” he says, and Thomas feels his stomach drop.

Thomas closes his eyes, thanks the guy, and repeats the information back to Teresa. “What do I do?” he says, “Janson’s expecting me in Honolulu by Wednesday! Oh my god, he’s going to fire me.”

“He’s not going to fire you, you’re the best thing that’s happened to him and his team in years,” Teresa says. “Look, the best thing to do is call and tell him.”

Thomas almost falls off the bar stool. “Tell him? Tell him what? That I got on the wrong fucking boat like an idiot?”

Teresa says, “Well. You did.”

“Teresa.”

“You did! I’m not blaming you entirely, but it’s what happened, Tom. No getting around that. Look,” She says, “Just call him and say, Listen, David –”

“I don’t think his name is David?”

“Oh, whatever. Say, Listen, buddy. I’m going to be a little later than you’re expecting me, but something major has come up, and it’s unavoidable. Then when you get to San Diego in four days just hop on the first flight out to Honolulu.”

Thomas says, “I’m not calling my boss “buddy.” And you make that sound so easy.” Thomas drops his head into his hand and groans, “He is going to skewer me. I should have just gotten a plane ticket in the first place, why did I listen to mom?”

“He’s not going to, Thomas, okay? He needs you and your brain.” Teresa explains, gently, “And you listened to her because she was right. You’re overworked and need a break. Stress isn’t good, Thomas, especially at our age. Do you want to suffer a heart attack before your thirty? Is that what you want to happen?”

Thomas allows Teresa and the three years of medical school she has under her belt to rant at him for a few minutes. Half listening, Thomas makes a short plan in his head that consists mainly of talking to a crew member and possibly figuring something out in the meantime until the ship docks in San Diego. While she is telling him about all the strokes he will have by the time he hits middleage, Thomas chances a look up and spots a familiar face in a white uniform heading his way.

“Teresa?” Thomas interrupts, “I have to run, but I’ll call you later, okay?”

He hears her yell, “It’s going to be okay love you bye!” in one breath as he is closing the phone, and jogs up to Newt and manages to catch him before he slips by into the next hall.

“Hey!” Thomas cries, grabbing hold of his elbow and stopping him in his tracks.

Newt blinks down at Thomas’ hand on him with momentary confusion, before replying with a slow, “Hi?” His eyes then rove up and down Thomas’ body, and he remarks, “You don’t look so good. I get it, first time on the water can be a bit rocky” – Thomas vehemently ignores the pun, no matter how much he secretly appreciates it, and how good it sounds coming out of Newt’s mouth – “but you get used to it after a day or two. Why aren’t you in uniform yet? Are you having trouble finding your room?”

“Why aren’t I in uniform?” Thomas glares, “Why did you lie to me?”

Newt’s confusion levels continue to climb. “What do you mean?”

“That wasn’t dock seven!”

Newt cocks his head. “Um, yes it was?”

“No,” Thomas says, “It wasn’t, because this isn’t my boat.”

“You –” Thomas watches Newt’s eyes widen as the penny, finally, drops to the floor, and then light up with humour. “You’re a passenger? You’re here for the over 50s singles cruise?”

Thomas bristles. A couple walks by and eyes them strangely. He takes Newt’s elbow, again, and steers them off to the side.

“Yes,” he hisses, “I am a passenger, but this isn’t my boat. I’m meant to be on the way to Hawaii right now, not San Diego!”     

“Hawaii?” Newt asks, expression changing, suddenly. “Can I see your ticket?”

Thomas turns over his ticket to Newt, because he’s already accepted death and if Newt wants to hand him over to the captain then so be it. He’s had a pretty good run so far. Twenty-two years isn’t bad.

Newt stares at the ticket a moment, eyes roving over the small slip of paper, humming and nodding some before finally angling his body toward Thomas and pointing at the dock number in the upper left corner, the source of all his problems.

“You see that?” Newt says, “The printer didn’t quite make it all the way to the edge. That’s meant to be a 9, not a 7.”

Oh. Right.

Brilliant.

“Also,” Newt continues, tone dripping in sarcasm, “The name? Because the Castaway sure looks a lot like Exhibit Sea.”

The pun. The stupid pun is the reason Thomas chose that boat in particular. From this day on puns will be known as the thing which ended his life and his career. Maybe he should just jump ship himself and save the crew the trouble.

Thomas opens his mouth to say something unbelievably witty and rude in rebuttal to Newt’s less than appreciated sarcasm when, like the God of thunder himself has decided to pull in a favour for his buddy Leviathan and smite Thomas instead, he hears his name called – boomed, more like – from down the open deck. Both Thomas and Newt turn to see Vince power walking toward them like a champ. A scary champ, but one who Thomas’ high school track coach would be proud of.

Vince catches up to them, the sea air ruffling the loose hair around his bun. His eyebrows are pinched inward, and Thomas takes an involuntary step closer to Newt.

“You’re Tom, right?” Vince asks, defying all kinds of logic.

“Uh … Yes?” Thomas says, glancing at Newt who only shrugs, equally as confused.

Vince throws a thumb over his shoulder. “You haven’t signed on yet. And why aren’t you in uniform? Are you having trouble finding your room?”

“Um.” Thomas’ voice cracks at the end. He clears it and starts again, “I left my luggage somewhere?”

Vince gives him an odd but fairly patient look. “Collection is one level below,” he says, and Thomas pretends to nod appreciatively. Vince then looks at Newt, and says, “And you need to be at the pool right now, Isaac.”

Newt’s nose scrunches up, and Thomas bites down a smile. He knew that wasn’t his real name. “Yessir. Just need to stop by my room first, and I’ll head right over,” Newt says, with a chilling glance toward Thomas before hastily walking away, his hair ruffling in the wind as he goes. 

“Me too,” Thomas says, hurriedly, “I was headed right where I, uh. Need to be right now. Thank you, Vince, helpful as always.”  

Thomas exits before Vince can say anything else. The last thing Thomas sees before turning the corner is the bartender’s smirk and head-shake as he continues to polish the sparkling clean glass.

As it turns out there is one member of the crew who failed to show up and, by some divine intervention, his name just so happens to be Thomas as well.

Thomas – Thomas prime – blinks at the chart in absolute astonishment at the employee board where it reads Klingenberg, Thomas beside room 199 of the crew quarters. Beside that reads Events Councillor. Shaking his head, Thomas grabs his luggage and makes the journey down to the crew quarters, tracking down room 199. He is pleased to find that there is a smaller room assignment chart in the hall just in case he’d gotten distracted by one of the hundred ferns covered in heart-shaped twinkle lights along the way and forgotten.   

The room …

Well. The room is the size of a broom closet, but it has a porthole and is technically not his, so Thomas figures he can’t complain. At least it isn’t a bench on the lido deck.

The real issue emerges when Thomas pulls his uniform out of the closets and discovers that Tom – real Tom – is about half his height. Also, he apparently spells Tom as Thom, which is the most offensive shortening of Thomas in existence.

“Ew,” he groans in displeasure, and pulls out a sharpie from his bag to scribble a small as on the tail end of the name tag.  

The second problem follows soon after – this being at the current moment, but the actual 5^th problem of the day. The 4^th is the fact that Thomas is still thinking about Newt’s straight back and tapered waist, and the way his hair swirled around his head like cotton candy pulled from a dream as he walked away ... He is aware that it’s been less than five hours.

Must be the sea air.

Anyway: the second problem.

As it turns out, Thom is the size of a twelve-year-old, and the pants he is meant to wear cut off mid-calf. Which would have been fine if Thomas had either the confidence or the legs for it, but he unfortunately has neither, so.

So, this is how he finds himself standing in front of the employee board, searching for Newt’s name and room number. He eventually finds it: Isaac with the name Newt written over it in angry black marker, followed by a hyphenated last name beginning with Ross and ending with Thomas-isn’t-going-to-try. Room 205.  

Thomas wastes no time in rushing down the hall toward Newt’s room, praying along the way that he is still there. As luck would have it, he only has to wait a few worried moments after knocking before the doorknob creaks to the side, and the door opens to reveal Newt. He takes Thomas in with a look of occasion-specific monotony.

“Can I help you?” Newt asks, eyes quickly doing a once over from Thomas’ head to feet and back. He tries not to twitch, tugging at the pants he holds behind his back.

“Hi, uh,” Thomas begins, “Did you have a moment, I – why is your room so much nicer than mine?”

Newt’s eyebrow quirks and he glances behind him at his larger, less dungeon-like cabin, obviously seeing nothing wrong. “I don’t know,” Newt says, once he turns back around and Thomas has lost sight of his irritatingly nice profile, “Maybe because I actually work here.”

Thomas smiles, stiffly. “Fair enough. Can I come in?”

Newt doesn’t blink. “No.”

“But I have a problem.”

“Other than the main one?”

Thomas tries not to outwardly flinch. “Yes.”

Newt regards him for a moment which stretches on far too long for Thomas’ liking, before finally sighing. “Fine. What is it?” 

Thomas pulls the unfortunately short pair of pants out from behind him and shoves them in front of Newt. The left pant leg flings up and slaps Newt in the side of the head. He stares at him in utter perplexity, and when he still fails to react Thomas fills him in.

“They’re tiny,” he says, “I can’t fit into them.”

Newt shakes his head. “Okay?”

“They all like this,” Thomas enunciates, hoping to drive the meaning home, but Newt merely shrugs in response.

“So then roll up the ends and turn them into shorts, I don’t care. They weren’t meant to be yours,” Newt says.

Thomas bristles. “Okay, sure, and walk around for three days with my pants undone?”

“Four,” Newt corrects, “And this is a singles cruise for older rich folks with lots of money, so you might be doing them all a favour by giving them some eye candy. It’ll be fine. Could even get some cash out of all this, after all.”

“I’m not a hooker,” Thomas says.

“Sugar baby,” Newt says, tone offended, and shakes his head at Thomas. “And no, you’re just a pain in my ass.” Newt leans out of sight for a moment, and returns with a towel flung over his shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m already late. Both times because of you.”

In a moment of pure desperation for not wanting to re-enact Titanic, Thomas slams his palm on the door frame and effectively boxes Newt in. Newt yelps and jumps back at the sudden obstacle, and before he can shout Thomas begins to plead.    

“Please, Newt,” Thomas says, “Can I just borrow a pair of your for now? I promise I’ll make it up to you. Also, what’s an events councillor?”

Newt stares at Thomas for long enough without doing anything that the unwavering eye contact begins to make him uncomfortable. It leaves him wondering if Newt will just push his way past with force (an option that Thomas really can’t hold against him, he isn’t that obtuse) before something passes over Newt’s face, and he closes his eyes.

“And an events councillor is like a host. They check on the guests and make sure they’re having a good time,” he says, and shakes his head once again. “How did you manage to have the same name as a guy who was supposed to work here? You’re just full of dumb luck, aren’t you, mate?”

Thomas shrugs. “Must be a gift.”

Newt does not comment. Pushing the door of his room further open, he slips past Thomas and shoves a card into his hand, which Thomas realises, a moment too slow, is his room key.

“Top drawer, you can borrow my uniform in the meantime. Tell Vince there’s been a mix-up and he’ll give you a new pair,” Newt says, and then points down at his key card. “Please try not to lose that. I’m by the pool, all day and every-bloody-day. Oh, and crew members get discounted drinks at 9 pm. I like cider.”

Thomas watches Newt walk away, again, standing outside Newt’s open room with Newt’s key card, about to borrow Newt’s clothes, feeling slightly off-kilter.

Thomas walks out on to the deck side that the Lonely Hearts Club has reserved and immediately feels lost. Newt said he is by the poolside all day every-bloody-day, which would be fine if this wasn’t a multi-level upon multi-level behemoth sized ship, and Thomas knew where to begin looking.

Also, how does Thomas pretend to work here while simultaneously not working because, like? It isn’t as if he is getting paid, or anything — Thom, whoever and wherever he is, sure is getting an easy paycheck, the bastard. And speaking of paychecks; Thomas’ heart lurches into his throat at the thought of what Janson will do to him when he fails to show up on time. Probably cut his pay by a day or two, that seems on brand.

Teresa’s right, he should call.

And he will. Soon. But first, there is a nice, empty lounge chair with Thomas’ name on it, sitting beside a convenient platter of punch. Plus, Teresa said he should relax and think about all the potential strokes and cardiac arrests he would be preventing.

He’d stopped her before she could get on to erectile dysfunction. He didn’t need to hear it, like, ever, but especially coming from her. She only said it to scare him, anyway, which it did not.

Well, not entirely.

(“And that would really put a damper on all fish related boners for the next year, or so.”

“Teresa,” Thomas said, spinning around in his ergonomic swivel chair and examining his nails like a Bond villain, even though she couldn’t see him over the end of the line – and maybe it was a little childish, but it felt good at the time. But also, she started it – “I’ll call your mom and tell her how you used to let Brenda sneak in through your window.”

“Thomas,” Teresa began, tone clipped, and Thomas smiled. “I’m twenty-three,” she said, and Thomas allowed the silence to stretch on just enough for her to groan, “Oh fine.” and hang up with only minor vengeful muttering.)   

The woman in the sun lounge beside him looks about as thrilled to be on this cruise as Thomas is, mouth set into a thin line and expression somehow still stony even hidden behind the heart-shaped sunglasses she wears. Thomas wonders if she brought them for the occasion. Her white blonde hair falls in one gentle ring over her left shoulder and does not move in the wind. Thomas wonders again, with scientific bewilderment, what hairspray she uses. Her white bathing suit, shoes, and poncho reflect light like a sun mirror.

Thomas falls back into his lounge chair with a huff and tugs at his pants (Newt’s pants, ironically too long and had to be rolled up twice at the ends), wishing he also brought along some sunglasses.   

Thomas pours himself complimentary fruit punch and sits back when the woman beside him, without moving an inch of her body, because that would have infringed on her Avant Garde aesthetic, says to him, “What are you in for?”

Thomas almost chokes on the drink, suddenly remembering his cover. “I, uh,” he splutters and watches woefully as a piece of nectarine fly out of his mouth and stain Newt’s white pants. He wonders if Newt will make him hand scrub it clean. “I work here.”

“Huh,” The woman says, “You’d willingly do that to yourself?”

Some people would. “The pay’s good,” Thomas says.

The White Lady hums.

“Also, there’s cheap drinks at 9pm,” Thomas adds, and the lady hums again, this time with more interest. “I’m, uh. I’m Thomas,” he introduces himself, figuring he should at least do what he can to help his situation. “I guess I’m your event councillor.”

“Ava,” the woman greets in return. She frowns behind her sunglasses, “That’s a thing?”

Thomas shrugs. “Apparently so.”

“Well,” Ava says, finally proving that she is not made of alabaster by actually moving her arm to reach for her drink, and bring it to her lips, “Summer camp never ends, I see.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Thomas says, taking another sip of his drink and placing it beside him before leaning back into his lounge chair, and closing his eyes. The waves and the salty sea air allow him to drift off to sleep.

It lasts thirty minutes at best, before Thomas wakes to a loud crash of something specifically flat and round, commonly wielded by a member of the elderly community, flying straight into his drink. Thomas cries out, back arching off the chair and arms flailing in bewildered shock, blinking around his now too-bright surroundings. To the left, someone shouts, “Sorry!” and Thomas turns to see a lady – Boob Lady, she returns – waving at him with a sun-visor and an apologetic grimace. Thomas gives her a two-fingered wave and collapses back into the chair, heart pounding. His hand instinctively reaches for his phone with that internalised need he has to text Teresa every time he is feeling anxious.

Thomas breathes deep and drops it between his thighs. Beside him, Ava has disappeared.      

He names species's of fish in his head in alphabetical order to try and calm down and makes it to the Bluntnose Knifefish before the sound of a slipper scuffing against the tile distracts him, and Thomas peeks one eye open to see that another woman has come to sit next to him. Her face is softer than Ava’s in the way that her eyes probably don’t shoot out laser beams, and she smiles politely at Thomas, smile lines prominent and cheerful.

“Edna has awful aim,” she says, shaking her head fondly. Thomas wonders if they knew each other personally, or if some kind of bonding exercise went on that he missed. “Are you okay?”

Thomas blinks, first at Edna and then back at the newcomer. Unlike Ava, she wears her obnoxiously glittery pink name tag, which dangles carefree from her flowery poncho. Mary, it reads.

“I’m fine,” Thomas says, dusting his pants. “Thank you.”

Mary seems satisfied with this and sinks back into her chair with a deep, sated sigh. “Beautiful weather,” she says. “I’ve heard stories from friends that’ve gone on cruises who said it just rained the entire time. Can you imagine?”

Thomas shivers involuntarily at the thought. Even though he foresees himself as being one of those marine biologists who are at it in all kinds of weather, even pouring, and donned in a coat to hang out with the fish and study them. But.

But staying on this thing for longer than he has to? Indoors? Trapped with no escape?

Horrifying.

“I really can’t, ma’am,” Thomas says. “I’ve always loved the smell of salt water. The sound of waves. It’d be a real shame for all that to be drowned out with a storm.”

“Do you spend a lot of time by the water?” Mary asks.

“Usually,” Thomas nods. “This is … my first time working on one of these. I usually prefer my seawater full of algae and microbes.”

“Oh?”

Thomas sits up, “Oh, uh. Marine biology, I mean. I don’t … I don’t do that in my downtime. Although clownfish do tell the best jokes.”

Mary smiles warmly at Thomas; however, it is very clear that it is just out of pity for not understanding his poorly executed attempt at humour. He clears his throat and asks, “Are you, uh. Having a good time, so far?”

Mary nods. “So far yes, I am. Thank you. So, you study?” Thomas bites the inside of his cheek and just opts to agree. Mary looks pleased. “Fantastic! You do look like a smart young man. I dabbled in biology and chemistry myself before settling into medical.”

“You’re a doctor?” Thomas asks.

Mary nods, taking another sip of her martini. “Yes, for many years. I prefer teaching, though. Call me crazy.”

Thomas’ ears perk up like a dog (that’s what Teresa tells him happens, a lot, mostly when someone is talking about bioluminescent phytoplankton), and he asks, “Where do you teach?”

“The university of Washington,” Mary says.

“No way,” Thomas grins, “My friend is studying there right now. Medical wing.”

Mary’s eyes light up. “You don’t say! My, small world. Oh, I think I could use a refill. Would you be so kind, sweetheart?”

It takes Thomas a very long moment to realise that she is, in fact, asking him to get her that refill because he is, in fact, a quote-unquote employee. Duh.

“Oh,” Thomas says. “Oh! Yes! Right away, ma’am.” 

The rest of the day passes relatively quickly. Thomas does odd jobs here and there like bringing guests more drinks and helping other guests by being the fourth player in games of bowling or shuffleboard, before they are eventually called for dinner in preparation for the 80s Rock n’ Glow deck party. Which, according to Vince, is a swinging (no pun intended) way to begin the week.

Thomas asks him for a new uniform, explaining that his is exactly the size of a tall munchkin, and imagines him with a tie-dye shirt, and pink and yellow daisies sticking out of his man-bun.

Thomas already has the clothes for tonight’s theme, straight from his regular, day-to-day wardrobe. He’s not sure how he feels about this, to be honest. Stellar, Teresa’s voice cheers happily in his head, and he makes a mental note to call her later, and his mom tomorrow. 

Thomas skips dinner, the rock of the boat and his current situation in life turning his stomach upside down, and opts to skip dinner. He dresses, ditches his contacts for his glasses, which also fit perfectly with the theme, and calls his mother. Lying on his tiny single bed and staring at the glow of the sun setting through the porthole on the wall, he tells her how well the cruise is going, and how he’s, again, very thankful to her for purchasing his tickets as a graduation gift.

Thomas spots Newt in the corridor along with the rest of the staff. He goes to walk past but Newt, catching sight of him, clicks his fingers urgently, and Thomas promptly makes his way over.

“What?” he asks, and Newt looks at him as if throwing Thomas overboard is still an option. He wears a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and blue tortoiseshell glasses– non-prescription, though. Ha, poser. Although he does pull them off admirably. Thomas adjusts his own, eyes a little dry in combination with the sea air and having his contacts in all day.

“You serve food and drinks tonight. Like you work here. You’re welcome, by the way,” Newt says, and Thomas frowns.

“Yeah, okay. But for what?” he asks.

Newt leans in close to whisper, and Thomas gets a whiff of peppery cologne. “Vince was confused how your uniform was mixed up,” Newt says, with a pointed look, “Because apparently you said to him, and I quote – I need a new uniform, it’s for someone else.”

Thomas winces. It hadn’t been the most thought out excuse to tell Vince – if it all – but by that point, he’d had three glasses of punch while listening to Mary tell him about her younger years in the cabaret before moving on to med school.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Oh yeah,” Newt mimics, glaring. “You know, for someone in your situation you aren’t doing much to help yourself. Getting drunk with rich middle-aged women isn’t exactly pretending to work, you know. And, yes, I did see you almost take that shuffle puck to the head. Might have knocked some sense into you.”

Thomas puzzled over how Newt had somehow seen that happen without Thomas having a clue where he was all day, whilst another part of him, with boyish giddiness, feels pleased over the fact that Newt had been watching him.

Still, he continues to wince, “Sorry.”

Newt continues to stare at him for a long moment before sighing and rolling his eyes heavenward. “Don’t apologise to me. You’re just lucky I was the one Vince came to ask about your little exchange. Since we knew each other, he said,” Newt adds, with another pointed glare.

“What did you tell him?”

“I said there was another guy meant to be doing your job first, but he cancelled last minute, and you filled the position. It’s technically not a lie. Well, not completely. By the way,” Newt says and waves a hand, gesturing to Thomas’ clothes, “How did you know to bring clothes like that?”

“Uh,” Thomas says, tugging self-consciously at his yellow striped shirt, three buttons undone with a white undershirt beneath, tucked into faded jeans, and says, “These are just my clothes.”

Newt blinks at him, the slightest bit of humour flashing in his eyes and curling the corner of his lips, and hums. “Well, at least you remembered the name tag, this time.”

The 80s Rock n’ Glow deck party is, in short, profoundly boring. Thomas, along with drinks and finger food, is given glow sticks and ring necklaces to hand out to the guests. The former sits in a small canvas bag by his hip, while the later are spread over both hands like bright, obnoxiously large rainbow coloured bangles.

“You look comfy,” Newt comments with a smirk, at once point during the night, perfectly unburdened by his half-empty platter of hors d'oeuvres. Thomas throws a bangle like a Frisbee at him as he walks away, and the neon yellow ring lands on his head like a crown. Newt’s laugh echoes over the disc jockeys sub-par record scratching.  

Thomas watches middle-aged men and women flirt with everything and anything that moves, which includes him, sometimes. A couple culprits include Edna, with a few too many cocktails in her, asking Thomas if there was anything she could do to make up for almost decapitating him. The second is a guy named Roger who tells Thomas all about the three luxury yachts that he owns, which he would be happy to show Thomas if he should ever want to check them out.

Thomas scurries off when he feels the latter’s index finger begin to curl through the belt loop at his hip, and decides to find a nice, dark corner to hide in for the remainder of the evening.

On the way to Salvation, he feels a tug on his sleeve, and Thomas instantly tenses up until he looks down and finds Ava at a table on her own. Her phone is flashing the opening screen of candy crush, and she is staring up at him with something akin to relief.

“What do you have there?” she asks.

“Vodka lemonade,” Thomas says, “But I could probably find something stronger if you like.”

“No, this is fine,” Ava says, and reaches up for a drink. Thomas bends to give her better access. She takes two of the remaining three on the platter. “You wouldn’t happen to have some Advil on you, would you?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Sorry.”

Ava sinks back in her chair, somehow managing to slouch elegantly, and takes a very long sip of her drink. “How about anything stronger?” she asks, and Thomas has absolutely no clue if she is joking or not. After a while of him not answering, Ava shrugs and says, “No matter. Sit with me.”

Thomas instantly straightens, “Uh, I’m on the clock, still and –”

“You’re a host-person-thing, aren’t you? Meant to be indulging the guests, and all that?” Ava asks, and Thomas nods, stiffly, “Good, well. Indulge me.” She pats the table, “Sit.”

Thomas sits, mostly because he is afraid of what might happen to him if he doesn’t – Ava’s laser eyes even more prominent under the neon blacklight – partly because his feet are killing him and he hasn’t eaten since this morning. Stomach growling at the thought, Thomas finds himself searching the crowd for Newt and his plate of mini foods.

Ava pushes the second drink towards Thomas. “Oh, no thank you. I’m okay. I had, uh … a lot earlier,” he says. Ava shrugs and pulls it back.

“Just thought I’d offer,” she says, “You look as happy to be here as I do.”

“Why are you here, Ava?” Thomas asks, before he can stop himself, and tenses when Ava’s sharp, periwinkle blue eyes flash at him, and he rushes to rectify: “I just mean you don’t look like you want to be here, so I was wondering why you’d purchase a ticket.”

“I didn’t,” Ava says. Her hand hovers briefly beside her mouth as if a cigarette should be present, but she realises that it is not and allows her arm to drop back down to the table miserably. “My niece did. She thought I should take a break from work and relax. Maybe even meet someone.” Ava says that last bit with a drop of digest hanging off the tip of her tongue, and staining the inside of her teeth.

“Oh, um.” Thomas says, desperately grasping for words, “Maybe it will be good for you?”

“That’s what my third husband used to say,” Ava says, and downs the rest of her drink. “Besides, I’m married to my work.”

“Fair enough,” Thomas says. He also feels like that, some days, at the ripe age of twenty-two. The disc jockey begins to play an awfully covered version of Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf, and he contemplates taking that drink after all.

Thomas collapses by the bar at exactly 9 pm, in the section around the back reserved strictly for crew members, stomach growling with a vengeance. The bartender, the blonde one who single heatedly crushed all of Thomas’ hopes and dreams with The ship docks in San Diego in four days, is here again. He is polishing that glass, again, leading Thomas to wonder if he hasn’t moved since this morning.

Thomas flags him down, and he approaches almost instantly.

“Hey, man,” he says, “What can I get for you?”

Thomas’ brain has apparently dissolved half its cells in battery acid, as the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Food.”

“Alright,” he says, flashing Thomas a row of perfectly straight, white teeth, and pushes the menu in front of him. “What would you –”

“Burger and fries,” Thomas says, stabbing his finger at the first option on the page, and the bartender smiles, again, and flits away to tell the kitchen. Thomas throws his glasses in front of him and massages his eyes and temples with a low, drawn out groan.

It’s now or never, Thomas thinks, pulling his phone out of his pocket and staring at the lit-up screen woefully. The time is 9:02, meaning it would be just after 7pm in Honolulu. Thomas hopes that Janson won’t be too angry with him for calling at this time and, biting the bullet, scrolls to his name in the contacts list and hits call with his eyes shut.

The dial rings out for long enough to give Thomas hope that he won’t answer, and he can shrug and say, Oh well, and try again tomorrow. However, it isn’t long after that the dial stops, and Janson’s broken accent says, “Hello?” in that low, faintly aggravating drawl.

His voice instantly raises Thomas’ stress levels, and the Irish blood running through Thomas’ veins fizzles with cultural disappointment whenever Janson speaks.

He clears his throat and says, “Hi, sir. It’s Thomas.”

“Thomas …” Janson begins, and Thomas can almost hear the computer code in his head scrambling as he attempts to remember why that name sounds so familiar. “Oh, yes, Thomas. Hello. Is there something you needed?”

“Yes. I know that you were expecting me in Honolulu on Wednesday, but I’m afraid that there’s been a, uh. Slight delay in my travel plans. Something has … come up, so I might be a day or two later than expected.”

Janson is quiet for a moment during which Thomas holds his breath until his lungs burn, and finally says, “Two days?”

Thomas internally winces, “Or one. It’s hard to tell.”

“Thomas,” Janson begins, and Thomas can see him in his mind's eye, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning purple, “You are aware that we are doing very important work here.”

“Yes, I am, sir, but –”

“And that important work runs on a very tight schedule.”

Thomas closes his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“And now,” Janson says, accent clipping angrily, and Thomas feels his blood pressure rise higher, “You’re telling me that my main research assistant is going to be out of commission for a couple of days?”

“I –”

“You know, Thomas, I took a chance when bringing you along on this team. I took a chance on you – young and inexperienced because I saw something in you beyond the test papers and degrees.”

And multiple PhD in biochemistry and marine biology, which he graduated top of the class, you soggy old man, a voice chirps angrily at the back of Thomas’ head which sounds suspiciously like Teresa’s.

Janson continues, “So in that being said, I expect you would have made more of an effort to be here on time.”

Thomas covers the reliever with his hand a lets out a low wail he hopes no one hears, dropping forward until his forehead rests on the bar top. “I understand that, sir, and I am very sorry. I will be there as soon as I can, and I promise this won’t ever happen again.”

Janson’s only response is a stiff, crude hum before hanging up. He remains there for a few minutes, hoping that the atoms around his body will be so kind as to rearrange themselves and allow him to melt into the mahogany wood.

Soon enough a voice appears to his left, pulling him out of his slump.

“Hello, sunshine,” Newt says, coming to sit on the stoop beside Thomas, who turns his head to look at him. His glasses are pushed up on his head, creating a sort of faux headband. The yellow glow ring Thomas threw at him hangs around his neck. “What’s eating you?”

“I think I might’ve just got fired,” Thomas says, just as the bartender returns.

“The kitchen will have your food ready in about ten minutes,” he says. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“Just water,” Thomas says, and then glances over at Newt, “Oh, and a cider.”

“Coming right up,” The bartender smiles, and then turns to Newt. “Hey, Newt.”

“Hi, Ben,” Newt greets back, and meets Ben’s offered fist with his own. “What do you mean you just got fired?”

“Maybe,” Thomas says, “It was a very one-sided conversation.”

“What do you do?”

Thomas takes a deep breath and says, “I work – or will work – in Honolulu in the marine biology sector.”

Both Newt and Ben raise their eyebrows, impressed. “So, you’re interning over the summer?” Ben asks, handing him a tall glass of water.

Thomas wrings his hands, and takes a drink of the water, drains half the cup, slams it down like it’s something stronger and tells them, “No, I just work there. I’m uh. Postgrad.”

“Post – wait.” Newt says, waving a hand in the air as if he wants Thomas to stop, or rewind, “Postgraduate? How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” Thomas says. 

“And you’re a full-on scientist?” Ben asks.

“Well,” Thomas says, taking another sip of water with a shaky hand, “Marine life naturalist with a doctorate in biochemistry.”

Ben whistles.

Newt leans forward and regards Thomas with one elbow on the bar, chin in his hand, “So when did you graduate high school, then?”

Thomas gets that itchy feeling in his palms, the one he always gets when people look at him the way that Newt and Ben are looking at him now; amazed but slightly unnerved. Like he is an alien. Or the second coming of Einstein.

“I was 16,” he says.

Newt is quiet for a moment. Then, he says, “So you’re a scientist with a PhD, who graduated high school at sixteen years old – which, bloody hell – and you were still stupid enough to get on the wrong boat?”

Thomas feels something in him die, a little, at those words. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

Ben laughs, gleefully. “Did you see the hallway of pink hearts and rose petals and think, shit, these people really love fish?”

Thomas groans and drops his head back on to the bar top. He feels someone pat him sympathetically on the back, right before a happy little ding! pops in his ears and Ben announces, “Your food’s ready.”

Thomas groans once again, this time like a starving man in a desert who has just stumbled upon a spring, and pulls the beautiful plate of chips and a burger towards him, immediately digging in. Newt smiles at him and sips his drink. The glow travelling from the deck into the bar room outlines his forehead, eyelashes, nose, and lips in neon shades.

After he is done with half of the burger and most of the fries, Thomas wipes tomato sauce off the corner of his mouth and turns to Newt. “Thanks,” he says.

Newt’s eyebrow quirks, wiping his bottom lip with his thumb to push away a stray drop of alcohol, and asks, “What for?”

“For everything. For lending me your clothes and for helping me out, earlier. If it wasn’t for you, I probably would have been found out by now and thrown overboard.”   

Newt frowns. “You know they don’t actually do that, right?”

Thomas shrugs, “The sentiment still stands.”

“Alright,” Newt says, laughing softly. “In that case, you are very welcome, Tommy.”

Thomas finishes his dinner and Newt finishes his drink while they chat comfortably between then, Ben loitering over now and then when he wishes to lean against the counter and rest his feet, piping into the conversation. It’s nice, Thomas thinks, it’s like nothing is even wrong, and this is where he was supposed to be all along; a crew member for the Lonely Hearts Club as the days tick closer to Valentine’s day.

Newt takes his glasses off his head and slides them onto Thomas’ face, a little bubbly from the cider. He then picks up Thomas’ glasses and puts them on, only to flinch violently and throw them back. Thomas nearly chokes on his water.

“Oh, I almost forgot to mention,” Newt says, as they are walking back to their rooms much later (walking Thomas back to his room, his brain chirps non-too helpfully, and he keeps the thought at bey armed with a full can of bug repellent), “Tomorrow we have water aerobics from 11 to 12am. It’s your job to accompany the guests.”

“Okay,” Thomas nods, “So, like, watch them do squats and stretches in the pool?”

They have stopped by Thomas’ room now, and Newt is looking at him with a gleam of something like giddy malevolence in his eyes. “No,” he says, “No, Thomas.”

“Okay …” he says again, this time slow and cautious, “So what?”

Newt taps the door frame three times in contemplation, but in the end only says, “Be ready by 10:30. Punctuality is key,” and leaves. Just like that.

He just leaves.

“Newt!” Thomas calls after him, but Newt just whistles on the way to the stairwell and doesn’t turn back.

Men with cute accents and nice profiles and straight backs and long, shiny blonde hair that Thomas low-key wants to run his hands through just to see if it feels as soft as it looks should never – ever – be trusted.

Thomas chants this in his head for most of the hour that he is forced to stand waist deep in crystal-like blue water in pink swimming trunks – provided for the hash-tag-aesthetic – and a floral swimming cap – provided just to add to the humiliation – while Newt blows a whistle at him from above, and everyone sways left and right.

Thomas may be a man of science, but he is convinced water aerobics was invented by the devil to torture him in particular.

Above, Newt blows his whistle once again. “Alright, guys,” he says, “you’re all doing great. Just ten more minutes to go.”

His eyes meet Thomas’ in the water and his arms, poised above his head like a ballerina, turns to flip Newt off. Newt’s mouth curls into a restrained smile and he blows his whistle once again, the cue for everyone to change position. After the longest ten minutes of Thomas’ life, Newt announces the end of the session, and all of the guests climb out of the pool with various options of the last hour – most, astoundingly, are positive.

Thomas scrambles out of the pool like a drowning gazelle and bee-lines for Newt, who is stacking fluffy white towels without a care in the world. He looks up from his towel stacking when Thomas approaches, and a grin instantly spreads across his face.

“That’s quite a look for you,” he says.

Thomas rips the swimming cap off his head, knowing full well that his hair is sticking up at all angles. A single lock falls down his forehead and tickles the bridge of his nose, and Thomas angrily blows it out of the way. Newt’s grin broadens.

“The fuck, man?”

“What?” Newt blinks, innocently, the sun washing his irises into a pale amber. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you. I said ‘water aerobics at eleven’ and ‘you need to accompany the guests’,” Newt says, like it fucking helps.

Thomas takes a deep breath. “You didn’t – !”

“Okay, okay.” Newt holds his palms up. “I might have wanted to see your reaction.”

“Well, then,” Thomas says, crossing his arms, “Did it live up to your expectations?”

Newt hums, thinks on it for a moment, and then nods, “Yeah, I would say so.”

Thomas narrows his eyes, “Good.”

“And,” Newt begins, handing Thomas a towel which he discovers has three small hearts in the corner. Does everything in this place have to be spewed on by Cupid? “I have to say that your overhead pull with knee lifts was commendable.”

Thomas scoffs, padding himself down with the towel. “Yeah, well they better be. All those high school track meets weren’t for nothing,” Thomas says.

Newt’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and he is about to say something when behind them they hear a sweet, “Thomas dear!” and Thomas turns to spot Isabel, one of the older guests, rushing up to them with her white flip-flops flip-flopping along the floor.

“Oh, I gotta,” Thomas starts, looking to Newt and back at Isabel, quickly. “What is it?” he asks.

“I can’t seem to find my phone,” Isabel says, hands on her hips, “You wouldn’t happen to have seen where I put it, did you?”

Thomas does a quick scout of the area and then remembers, “You left it by the umbrella tables, Isabel. With Edna and Rick’s.”

“Oh!” Isabel cries, and taps her forehead. “Of course, I’m so forgetful.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” Thomas says. “It’s hot today, it’ll do that you.”

Isabel hums. “You might be right. Well, thank you, hon. I’ll leave you boys alone now,” she says as she pats both Newt and Thomas’ arms and, with a strange twinkle in her eye, walks away. Thomas waves her off, and when he looks back at Newt, he finds him staring at the ground with an unreadable expression, lip caught between his teeth.

“What?” Thomas asks.

“She – never mind. “Newt shakes his head and scoops up the pile of dirty towels. “I have to get these to laundry.”

“Oh,” Thomas stares, “Right, yeah, I should … let you get on to that.”

With a short not and a parting smile, Thomas watches Newt walk away. Once he is entirely out of sight, he chances a look over at the umbrella table containing Isabel, Rick, and Edna, and catches the three conspicuously turn their heads away the moment he glances in their direction.

Great, Thomas thinks, That’s going to be a thing now.

He leaves the poolside, butterflies raging war inside his stomach, and journeys out to find a nice, quiet nook to call Teresa.

An hour later, Thomas finds Ava sitting by the bar like a character in a 1940s detective movie, and asks her, “I didn’t see you at the pool. At all. How did you get out of water aerobics?”

Ava looks at him and says, “I paid the skinny blonde fifty bucks, and he agreed I wasn’t feeling well.”

When Thomas confronts Newt about this before dinner, he simply shrugs and says, “I told you that you could get some money out of all this.”

Hawaii night comes next, which is most definitely the universe’s way of mocking Thomas. Again, he has the clothes for it, as Teresa had taken it upon herself to purchase for him three whole Hawaiian shirts to celebrate his temporary move to Hawaii. Having no idea if there is a particular dress code and assuming it would be a lot like 80s night, Thomas picks out the black one with green monstera leaves, slips some jeans on and heads upstairs.   

Thomas, as well as a couple of other crew members, Newt included, job tonight is to hand out leis to the guests and say something in badly accented Hawaiian. Thomas suffers his way through dinner by listening to Ben make getting leid jokes, all too aware of Newt sitting beside him and slurping two-minute noodles.          

The first hour flies by with relative ease. Thomas and Newt put leis around passengers’ necks as they are instructed and later move on to the usual case of handing out food and drinks to the guests and watch them become progressively clumsier and hornier as the night goes on.

There is a fake fountain in the corner attached to a water gun timed to squirt guests at random intervals, which was put through by Health and Safety for whatever reason, and somewhere during the Elvis medley, Thomas gets a good view of Newt’s back muscles through his wet t-shirt after he is accidentally hit.

“Do you own anything more exciting?” he asks him, gesturing to Newt’s repeated white-t-shirt-blue-jeans combo, leaning in to shout over the music.

Newt scowls, flapping the bottom of his shirt, and shoots back, “Do you own anything normal?”

“At least I’m fun,” Thomas says.

Newt rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, you’re the phenomenon of the scientific community."

Thomas spots Roger sauntering up to him with his I am going to tell you about all the summer homes and ski cabins I own in hopes you’d like to fuck in all of them look, and Newt leaves him to go get an illegal drink, the absolute bastard. He pretends to be signalled out by a guest and runs in the opposite direction before Roger can tipsily hop around the column of balloons and finds refuge between two giant blow-ups of Elvis, and a tall fern.

Letting out a deep sigh, Thomas leans further into the fern, jostling its leaves. He hopes his black and green shirt will allow him to Become One with it, when he hears a sneeze.

“Bless you,” Thomas says on instinct.

“Thank you,” the fern answers.

Thomas’ heartbeat spikes in alert, then, and he backs into an Elvis. The possessed fern moves again, this time with an accompanied sniffle followed by a groan which sounds all too familiar. He leans in and says as loud as he dears, “Ava?”

The fern leaves part, and the top half of Ava’s face appears. “Oh, it’s you. Hello, Thomas.”

“Ava, what –” A breeze whacks Elvis’ guitar arm into the back of Thomas’ head. He swears and moves closer. “What are you doing behind there?”

Ava shuffles closer, too, one hand fiddling with the end of a leaf. It is the first time Thomas has seen her looking anything but emotionally unavailable. “Oh, um …”

“Is everything okay?” Thomas asks, concern spiking.

Ava notices the change of tone and moves all the way out from behind the fern to just the shadows. “No, no,” she says, reassuring him, “Nothing is wrong, I just. Um.”

“What is it?”

“I might have noticed a passenger that I had failed to see, before, um. An old partner.”

Thomas blinks. “You ... have an ex with you on this cruise?” he says, incredulously, “How did you not see them earlier?”

“It might have escaped your knowledge, Thomas, but I don’t exactly attend the daily activities.”    

Fair enough. “Okay,” Thomas says, “Who is it?”

“Oh, well …” Ava’s voice trails off, and Thomas follows her line of sight toward the finger foods table, where Mary and Vince are pleasantly chatting. Shortly later, Vince excuses himself and Mary moves off to mingle with some of the other guests, Ava’s eyes following her the entire time.

“Oh my god,” Thomas says, and then, louder, “Oh my god! Mary?”

“Shh!” Ava hisses, waving him down.

Thomas waves at her back. “Relax, she’s all the way over there. Mary?”

“Yes, alright,” Ava glares, “Now would you stop?”

Thomas shakes his head, astonished, and leans back against the wall with Ava pressed to his elbow. He nudges her lightly, spurred by this sudden show of humanity and un-statue-like behaviour, and asks, “So why haven’t you talked to her yet?”

Ava scrunches her nose, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let’s just say it didn’t end well.”

“Okay, then,” Thomas says, “In that case, what’s wrong with a little friendly rekindling?”

Ava scoffs, “That’s what my second wife said.”

“Ava, how many times have you been married?”

Ava shrugs. “Baby boomer culture,” is her only response. Again: fair enough.

“So was Mary wife number one?” Thomas asks, grinning.

Ava frowns, and elbows him in the ribs, “Neither. It was … a very long time ago.”

Thomas nods, slowly. “So, you’re over it?”

“Yes,” Ava says.

“Then why were you hiding behind a fern?”

Ava, for once, does not have a response to that. She continues to stare out over the crowd, at everyone mingling and having a good time, with her arms crossed and bottom lip caught between her teeth. Thomas looks between her and the rest of the party and feels a stab of sadness in his chest. Night one he’d sat with her where she had remained intentionally alone at the dinner tables, and tonight he is with her again, where she leans against a wall and hides.

As Ava said herself, she does not participate in the daily activities like the rest of the guests, instead preferring to bribe her way out of it and sit in solitude to count the days to when the ship will dock in San Diego. Much like Thomas has been doing, except the difference is stark.

Suddenly, Thomas experiences a deep need, down in his chest, to see Ava mingling with her fellow guests. To see her chatting and laughing along with Eric’s bad jokes, listening to one of Edna’s wild stories, and just have a good time.    

Please don’t isolate yourself, he thinks, you won’t be better off in the end, despite what you may think.

Thomas had been there, once, assuming no one would want to waste their time around him because he was young, and odd, and eighteen years old and in his second year working towards a PhD.

“Ava,” Thomas says, “I think you should go talk to her.”

“Oh,” Ava frowns, deeply, and shakes her head, “I don’t think so, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Thomas shrugs, “Alright, but at least join to party. Do any of the other guests even know your name? Have you talked to any of them?”

There is something ironic about Thomas, a young socially inept man encouraging a woman twice his age who looks like she’s dated at least one president in secret to socialise, and he is pretty sure Ava feels it, too.

Ava looks as if she is grasping at straws to come up with an answer that isn’t a flat-out no. “It isn’t like there haven’t been opportunities, per say, but …”

And then Thomas, deciding to throw all caution to the wind, takes hold of Ava’s hand and begins to tug her out of the Elvis nook, “Come on.”

“What are you doing?” Ava asks, startled, attempting to pull away as Thomas walks her into the fray of music and movement.

“I know you don’t really want to be here,” Thomas says to her, “But acting like it every second of the day is just going to make time run slower, okay? Trust me.” Then he spots Roger at the edge of the crowd, drinking a Pina Colada and leaning on the side of the ship’s railing, and calls out his name.    

He is moderately creepy, yes, however, he has that certain pretensions haughtiness about him that Thomas thinks Ava could enjoy the company of.

“Roger,” Thomas greets when they approach. He places a hand between her shoulders and tries not to act like he is pushing her into this even though, well. He is. “This is Ava. Ava, this is Roger.”

“Hello, Ava,” Roger begins, smiling broadly, “I’ve seen you around. Nice to finally meet you.”

Ava eyes the beaming smile, cocked hip and outstretched hand dubiously, but relaxes when Thomas leans in toward her and whispers, “He’s gay.”

“Ava. You as well,” she says, shaking his hand.

Thomas leaves them to it, feeling lighter on his feet.

The night draws to a close around midnight, and Newt and Thomas are assigned with the task of cleaning up the pool area. Originally, it had been Thomas, Newt, and Ben, but the threesome quite quickly became and twosome when Newt caught Ben scooping one pile of streamers into a bag, dumping it in the bin, and making his way towards the exit.

“Where are you going?” Newt calls out.

Ben, barely sorry, turns toward them with the usual heartthrob grin and twinkle in his eye, and says, “Away from here. I’ve got a date?”

“Right now?” Thomas says, looking at his watch. Ben shrugs.

“So,” Newt began, leaning on his broom, “Rachel finally said gave you the time of day?”

This makes Ben frown. He turns fully towards them and, hands on his hips, says, “Yes, for your information. And it wasn’t finally, I. She was always into me, I could tell. She was just playing hard to get.”

“Mn-hm,” Newt hums. “Well, then. You two kids have fun,” he says, and, to Ben’s retreating back and middle finger, shouts, “Be safe! Use protection!”

Newt laughs at him after he turns the corner. Then, to Thomas, “Rachel’s a girl who works on another part of the ship. She also goes to our university. Pretty, a lot weird. Always looks like she slept with her eye makeup, probably carries tarot cards around. Ben’s been in love with her for years.”

Thomas nods along, enjoying how Newt said a lot weird like it was something to be proud of.

By the time the clock ticks over into 1 am, Thomas and Newt have made the poolside look spotless, bags of streamers, cups, and other junk piled neatly in the corner. They unanimously collapse onto sun lounge with equal groans of relief.

“Shit, my back’s killing me,” Thomas says and, because it is 1 am and he is tired, asks Newt, “How do you keep yours so straight?”

Newt looks over, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “What?”

Thomas sinks lower, not helping his case at all, and fiddling with the necklace of fabric flowers still around his neck. “Your back, I mean. You have great posture.”

Newt nods and mirrors Thomas, slouching down the chair. “Thank you,” he says, “Seven years of ballet would do that.”

Thomas looks up. “Really?”

Newt nods, “Really. My parents wanted to put us into after-school activities, so they wouldn’t have to deal with us for a couple more hours, and my sister wanted to do ballet. Since she’s the princess and my parents didn’t want to take us to two different activities every day, they put us both in lessons.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Wow. Can you still dance?”

Newt thinks about this for a moment, before answering, “In theory, I guess. Haven’t practiced in years, though. Maybe I’ll show you one day.”

Thomas sits on his hands, and tries his very hardest not to squeak, “Yeah okay,” while thinking of Newt doing the splits.

Newt’s phone, which rests on the table between them, begins to ring silently. Newt, relaxing with eyes closed, does not see the screen light up with the image of a guy riding what looks to be a blow-up flamingo. His tongue pokes out between his index and middle fingers, and the words The Mainhoe flash cheerfully above.   

“Uh,” Thomas says, leaning over to nudge Newt’s arm, “You’re getting a phone call.”

“Huh? Oh.” Newt snatches the phone up and stares at the screen for a moment in contemplation, before looking back at Thomas. “Do you mind if I …?”

“No, go for it,” Thomas says, and takes out his phone to tap at mindlessly, so it doesn’t seem like he is eavesdropping for the entirety of Newt’s conversation.

Thomas – and Newt, by the looks of it – realise it is a video call a moment too late when Newt hits answer only to roughly pull the phone away from his ear when a voice shouts, “Newt!” loudly in the serene silence of the night. 

“Minho,” Newt groans, holding his phone up so his friend can see his face, “Why are you shouting?”

“I don’t know,” Minho says, on the other end, “You weren’t answering me earlier.”

Newt rolls his eyes, “I put my phone in airplane mode during the day, so I don’t get any annoying calls while I’m working. Yes, I’m talking about you.”

Thomas zones out while Newt chats with his friend on face time, wondering if Teresa is still awake and if he should text her. He decides to leave it for tomorrow morning, during their weekly 8 am calls, to keep her from falling asleep on the bus on her way to class.

He switches over to Instagram and works on liking all of her photos for the day, as well as a few other acquaintances from University he’s too chicken to unfollow first. Thomas opens up his measly page and stares at the whole ten photos he has, bored. Three of them are candid photos of himself that Teresa hacked into his account – i.e. stole his phone while he was in the bathroom – and uploaded. There are a few happy selfies with her involved, and the rest are pictures of the side of a building, and the corner of a textbook he’d snapped at 3 am one time.

Offhand, he wonders if Newt has an Instagram and if he uses it regularly. Teresa is always encouraging him to use it more because It’s fun. Thomas guesses he doesn’t have the creativity.    

Sighing, Thomas opens the camera and snaps a quick photo of the glowing blue poolside, with a view of the waves in the distance. He captions it, What is the difference between a piano and a fish? adds a few tags, and calls it a day.

Thomas is so good at zoning out. He thinks that might be where most of his success lies; daydreaming in class and allowing the lecturer’s voice to embed itself into his consciousness. It also leads to daydreams blending into reality, which is why he doesn’t think much of it when he hears his name come from Newt’s friend, coaxing him out of his thoughts. He looks over just in time for Newt to sit up sharply and say, “Hey, Min, you know I should really get going now. It’s late, and we have an early start tomorrow.”

It is, also, 1:35 am.

“Huh?” Minho says, “Right. Okay, sure,” with a strange tone that makes Newt frown, when Thomas looks over curiously. 

When Newt hangs up the call there is a brief moment where contemplation and some inner battle flashes across his face. He says, “Sorry about that.”

Thomas frowns, “About what?”

Newt stares at him. “About … never mind. He’s currently working on another ship. The Exhibit Sea,” Newt says, with a pointed look at Thomas.

Thomas gapes. “Oh, shit. Really?”

“Yeah,” Newt nods. “Which got me thinking. Imagine you did get on the right boat. Maybe you made friends with Minho – he’s a character, very loving – and you were with him at the current moment, to be on the other end of that phone call instead of this one.”

Thomas looks at Newt, then, at the glow of the pool lights shining on his skin, mixing with the shadows of the night and the orange glow of the tiki lights still erect behind them, or the one strand of hair disturbed by the wind, and means to say a few things. Some of which include, “Wow,” or, “That’s cool,” or even, “Neato,” if he were feeling so bold.

Except, what does come out of his mouth in the end in, “42.”

“What?”

Thomas clears his throat and rushes to explain, “42. It’s uh. Douglas Adams’ answer to the question of the universe – you know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m trying to say everything happens for a reason.”    

Newt looks at him, and Thomas looks at Newt, and he notices how Newt’s hand rests on the table between them, and if he was to slide his arm over just the smallest bit their fingers would be touching. Maybe Thomas would be bold enough to thread their fingers together, or maybe Newt would put him out of his misery and do it for him, and then they would be holding hands at half-to-two in the morning, on a cruise ship, sailing down the Pacific Ocean.

“It does,” Newt says, breaking Thomas out of his thoughts as he pushes himself up out of his chair, and stands, “Which is why we better get off to bed. Have to be ready at 10 am when we dock.”

Thomas almost falls out of the sun lounge.

“Dock?” he says, “Dock where? I thought we weren’t meant to be in San Diego for another couple days.”

Did he get it wrong? Did he make Janson almost fire him for nothing?

“No, that’s right,” Newt says. “But we are stopping in Newport tomorrow morning. The guests have some kind of tour and then dinner later before the boat sets sail again at eight. I thought you knew that.”

“I …” Thomas stands, on shaky sea legs, “I asked Ben if the ship was stopping anywhere and he said no.”

Newt clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes heavenwards. “Ben’s an idiot. Sorry, I just assumed you knew,” he says, “Thought you’d be getting off and catching a flight to Hawaii. That’ll impress the boss.”

Thomas clutches his phone tight in his hands. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I guess it would.”

He sleeps restlessly all night but wakes at 7:30 when his alarm goes off anyway. Thomas lies in bed and stares at the ceiling for five minutes while his brain comes to terms with the fact that it is no longer in dream-town, before sluggishly dialing Teresa. She picks up on the third ring, oddly chipper.

“Morning, sailor.”

“Morning,” Thomas says, rubbing his eye. “You’re awake.”

“You’re not,” Teresa says. “You feeling okay?”

Thomas yawns. “Yeah, fine. It was a late night, last night, so.”

Teresa hums into the receiver. “They really party hard on that boat, don’t they?” she says, right before the heavy hiss of a car driving past bursts Thomas’ eardrum.

“Are you on the bus?”

“Nope,” Teresa says, popping the p, “Walking.”

“Oh.” Thomas scrunches his nose. “Why?”

“Just felt like it,” she says, “It’s cool this morning, so I just thought, why not?”

Thomas’ arm holding the phone goes slack, and he lays it beside his head on the pillow. The sound of Teresa’s boots crunching against the leaves on the concrete, and the cars in the distance, muffled. “So you don’t need me this morning? Can I go back to sleep?”

“No, wait,” Teresa says, quickly, “I wanted to talk. I have some news.”

“Okay. What is it?”

“So,” Teresa begins, and he can picture her twirling the tips of her hair around her ring finger, the way she always does when she’s excitedly nervous, “I might have, uh. Brenda and I might be back together.”

Thomas, previously half asleep, now feels wide awake. “What?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“A couple of night ago,” Teresa says. “It’s not official, but I have breakfast with her this morning.”

Thomas lets out a breath that ruffles the hairs laying flat on his forehead. Teresa and Brenda had been high school sweethearts who decided to end things when it was time to move on to college so that they may Find Themselves, like some shitty rom com. Teresa never cried about it or seemed visibly distressed. However, that’s just Teresa and Thomas knew that what she put on as a front was nowhere close to what was happening under the surface.

He doesn’t think she ever really got over Brenda. It got worse halfway through the second year when Brenda transferred over from across state during the time that she and Thomas were in the middle of their misguided whatever-the-fuck (which they only did because they have been best friends since pre-school, her grandmother kept telling that what beautiful babies they would have, and it just felt as if that was where life was pushing them.  

Neither of them has ever been any good at reading universal queues.)

 “Wow, Teresa, that’s – that’s great.” Thomas says, “But this morning? What happened to your 8 am class?”

“Cancelled. Professor’s sick. Talk about luck.” 

“Yeah,” Thomas huffs, “So how did it happen?”

Teresa says, “She came up to me during a party and asked if I was, and I quote, done with that bottom bitch.”

“Oh.”

“She was talking about you.”

“Oh.”

“I told her yes.”

“Great, thank you,” Thomas says, rubbing his temple.

“You’re welcome.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “So, what about you?” she says, “Are there any hot singles in your area?”

Thomas groans aloud.

“Is there?” Teresa presses.

“Teresa, please.”

“There is!” she laughs, happily, and Thomas can almost imagine her doing a little skip down the path if the image wasn’t so alien, “Tell me everything.”

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose. She is going to be insufferable, now. He groans, again, something that sounds like Teresa’s name if it went through the garbage disposal. She mimics him, equally as terrible.

“Teresa,” he says, “It’s nothing.”

“But you’ve noticed someone,” she says, and Thomas moans unhappily. “Thomas. Spill. Or I’ll just find out myself. I told Brenda about your whole situation and turns out she has a friend who works on that very ship. Small world, huh?”

Great. Fantastic. What-fucking-else does Lady Luck have in store for her favourite customer?  

Thomas wipes a hand down his face, sighing. It is way too early for this conversation, especially when he has had less than six hours of sleep. “It’s really just … There’s someone in the crew I’ve, yeah, noticed. He. We’re friends.”

Teresa hums thoughtfully. “Does he like you?”

“I … No? Yes? Maybe, I – I don’t know, okay? The guests certainly ship us,” Thomas says.

“The guests,” Teresa says, slowly, “Ship you?”

Thomas pinches his thumb and index finger together even though she can’t see it. “Little bit.”

“Well, in that case –”

“Teresa. I don’t want to talk about this right –” A sudden chime cuts Thomas off, and he pulls his phone away from his face to squint at the notification pop up on the screen, too lazy to reach for his glasses. There is an Instagram notification from a name he doesn’t recognise right away.

A comment on the photo he uploaded last night, with the caption What is the difference between a piano and a fish? Someone has commented, You can tune a piano but you can’t tuna fish.

Below that: GeckoNewt is now following you. 

Thomas smiles at the screen, his chest filling with warmth. He likes the comment and hits follow back. Newt has significantly more photos on his profile than Thomas; a few pretty shots of landscapes from trips overseas including the Eifel Tower and the London Eye. A few with who he assumes is Minho and a couple of other friends. A lot with a girl who alternates between strawberry blonde and platinum hair, and in one photo where she has smushed her face up with Newt’s he can see the family resemblance.

“Thomas? Are you still there?” he hears muffled through the phone and, with a start, remembers that he is still very much in the middle of a phone call with Teresa.  

“Hi, yeah. Sorry,” Thomas says.

“I said ‘that’s okay’,” Teresa says, back in his ear. “I’m at the breakfast place now, so I have to go anyway. But hey, keep me posted!”

“Sure.” Thomas rolls his eyes, “Have fun on your date.”

“Have fun with your dream boat,” Teresa sings before hanging up.

Thomas drops his phone on the pillow beside him, revels for a minute before groaning out loud because he’d forgotten to tell her about catching a plane to Honolulu today.

He meets Newt in the hall, as usual, at 8:15. A little late, but what is Vince going to do? Dock his pay? God, Thom is going to receive a very surprising paycheck in his bank account next week. Thomas suddenly wants to meet this five-foot spectre and wring his neck.

“Good morning,” Newt greets without looking up from where he is knelt, tying his shoe.

“Morning,” Thomas says, “Did you google that joke?”

Newt gives him a secretive smile. When he stands his arm brushes against Thomas’ and lingers there for a moment. He hopes Newt can’t feel the goosebumps that have risen on his skin at the touch. “So,” he says.

“So, Thomas replies.

“You going to do it today? Make a runner?” Newt asks.

The question settles awkwardly in Thomas’ stomach and weighs him down. In the end, he shrugs, “I mean, it depends if I can get a flight, or not. It’s prime season, and last-minute bookings could be a little tricky.”

Newt nods, slowly, “So you. You’re definitely thinking of leaving today?”

Thomas looks at Newt and sees something lingering in his eyes, pinching the corner of his mouth, pink and unchapped. He has a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and crossing over on to his cheekbones that Thomas has never noticed before. His eyes have flicks of green around the iris, small enough that you could only see them if you were lucky enough to be standing close.

“Yeah.” Thomas blinks, feeling like he’d just ran the length of the ship, “If I … if I can get a flight.”

Newt nods and leans away.

Vince teleports out of the void and appears in front of them and the line up of a dozen or so other crew members. He claps his hands, loudly, and Thomas involuntarily flinches back.

“Alright, maggots –” Thomas raises his eyebrows, and he hears Newt snort beside him. Someone’s in a mood this morning. “As you know the guests will be occupied on land for most of the day. This means you all get a day off. Congratulations.”

Wow. A big mood this morning. And Thomas thought he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed.  

“This means you’re free to go wherever you want, but I expect every one of you back by 6 pm for check-in, okay? No funny business, either, I don’t need more complaints to add to the list.” Everyone stares at Vince, expectantly and he sighs, “Alright. Scatter.”

“I’m starving,” Thomas complains when they are walking down the ramp of the ship. His feet stumble a little when they reach the port, to used to the gentle rocking of the ship that the sudden hard, stable ground under his feet catches him off guard. Newt grabs his elbow to steady him.

Ben hums in agreement, and Newt says, “Me too. I say we get breakfast. I’m craving eggs that don’t taste like seawater.”

“Let me just check on the guys first, and I’ll be with you in a minute,” Thomas says and walks over to where the guests are gathered up to meet their tour guide for the day.

“Thomas! There you are,” Mary beams as soon as he reaches them, and wastes no time in slipping her phone into his hands. “What’s your facebook account? I’ve been trying to find you all morning, but I can’t seem to get the right Thomas.”

“Why?”

“Group chat,” Edna replies, happily, her elbow linked with Roger’s, “So we can stay in touch today. And afterward, I suppose.”

Thomas hums and types his name into the search bar, adding himself to the group. Mary frowns at the last name when he hands it back to her, and he shrugs and says, “Alias.”

“Are you joining us?” Ava asks, whom Thomas happily shocked to find standing there, white sundress and hat, very much ready to participate in the day’s activities. Her mouth presses into its usual Devil-may-care line beneath her glasses, but something about her features doesn’t look as bored.

“No, actually,” Thomas says, “Day off. I’m going to go hang out with –” Thomas turns and gestures back to where Newt is waiting with Ben a little way down the dock, and when he looks back it is to all of the guests’ eyes on him with deep interest. He coughs, “With some friends. But, um. You guys have fun. Can’t wait to hear all about it,” he adds, without thinking.

“Us, too,” Isabel supplies, grinning, and Thomas begins to slowly walk back down the dock, knowing they’re all still looking.

“Right.” Thomas claps when he reaches them, “Good to go?”

Ben, who has up until now been immersed in his phone like a true millennial, blinks up at Thomas and re-joins reality to tell them, “Actually, guys, count me out. I’ve got plans with Rachel today. Forgot to mention.”

“Another date?” Thomas asks, and Ben nods.

“Because the one at 1 am this morning went so well?” Newt says, with one eye wag which gets the message across nicely. 

Ben glares at them both. “Whatever. I’m off. Later, losers, enjoy your date,” he says, and walks away, whistling. Thomas stares after the pot-stirrer with deep resent as Newt begins to cough beside him.

Thomas pats his back until he has recovered, and asks, “Breakfast?” not sure why he sounds so unsure.

Newt sniffs. “Yeah, breakfast.”

They find a nice café down the beach who’s breakfast menu excites Thomas deeply, and after Newt is done with his bacon and eggs and Thomas with his bowl of granola and yogurt, they decide what to do with the rest of their day off.

Well. Newt’s day off, that is. It’s just a day, for Thomas.

They hold up a table and talk for a bit, Thomas discovers that Newt is a psychology and philosophy student. “It’s my last year,” he says. “I have enough credits to graduate early, but I don’t know, I’m thinking of picking up another class.”

Thomas nods, chin resting in his palm. “You like learning.”

“I do,” Newt admits, almost bashfully, which is ridiculous. By now Newt has to have heard Thomas waxing poetic about fish and algae to realise that he is as big of a nerd as they come. 

“What did you want to do when you finish?”

Newt thinks on this for a moment. “I think I’d like to teach one day. Become a professor. Travel and give talks on philosophy and mental health, specifically targeted toward younger people. Teenagers and kids. Maybe host a seminar.” He shrugs, “I know it’s a little out there.”

“No,” Thomas says, smiling, “No, that’s amazing.”

He hides a smile behind his coffee mug, but Thomas catches it before it slips away.

Newt leans that Thomas’ middle name is Thomas.   

“Thomas Thomas?” Newt says, trying not to laugh.

Thomas cringes, “No, I. It’s Stephen,” he says, having to force the name out through his teeth.

“Wow,” Newt whispers, grin broadening. “How scientific of you.”

Thomas cringes more, covering his face with his hands, “Shut up. I know, okay?”

Newt laughs and reaches across the table to pull Thomas’ hands away from his face. His fingers brush over the pulse point on his wrist and for a moment Thomas’ heartbeat spikes when Newt does not let go right away.

They decide to visit the museum because Newt learns they have a current Hellenic exhibition and he has a crush on, like, all the ancient Greek philosophers. He also has an interest in art and sculpture, Thomas leans throughout the day, mostly as they walk from room to room, and Newt spends a good twenty minutes in all of them giving Thomas a brief history lesson on almost every piece.

“Hey,” Thomas begins, as they stand in front of a bust of a man with cloudy eyes and pouty lips, looking blankly to the left to showcase his muscular neck. “Have you ever been one of those hipsters in museums that make out with statues?”

Newt makes a face. “No.”

“Do you want to be?” Thomas asks, waving his phone at Newt, who laughs softly and bumps him with his shoulder.

“No, Tommy,” Newt says, “It’s weird. And who knows how many people have kissed that thing?”     

“Oh, yeah. Good point.”

Newt looks at him. “Did you want to?”

Thomas feels his cheeks heat, “No way.”

“Really,” Newt bumps him again, “It’s okay if you do. He’s quite handsome.”

“He’s 5000 years old.”

Newt scoffs. “Don’t be so ageist. He probably has a great personality under that stone-cold expression.”

“Come on,” Thomas laughs, shaking his head, and takes Newt’s hand to pull him into the next room.

The next room is full of paintings. Newt doesn’t have much to say about the one of Zeus in swan form having sex with a woman, and they move on to Narcissus gazing lovingly down at his reflection. Then there is Icarus with burning wings, plummeting elegantly to his death while the sun god, Apollo, watches. Next, Eros and Psyche gazing lovingly at each other, Eros’ wings protruding outward from his shoulders like a cloud and Psyche’s long, black hair swirling around their bodies like smoke.

There are Hades and Persephone in the garden and then in the underworld, a pomegranate falling dramatically from her fingers. Last is Achilles and Patroclus; one of the latter carefully wrapping the former’s arm in gauze, followed by them marching valiantly into battle together and, finally, Patroclus’ pale, lifeless body draped over Achilles’ lap. 

“Why is it all so …” Thomas begins, squinting at the paintings with disparagement, “tragic?”

Newt shrugs. Thomas feels it against his skin. “So it goes,” he says, and when Thomas looks at him blankly, “Slaughterhouse Five? No? Never mind. I like this one much better.”

Newt directs him toward a different painting on the adjacent wall. Achilles and Patroclus again, this time locked in an anatomically questionable embrace, surrounded by draped fabrics and spilled wine. Achilles’ hands settle in Patroclus thick tufts of dark hair, his own blonde curls gathering elegantly around his head like a halo.

“Yeah, this one’s better,” Thomas says, following the sharp lines of Achilles’ hands in his hair.

“Bros for life,” Newt says, and Thomas snorts so loud he receives a dirty look from an elderly couple. They look away with their snobby little noses in the air and Newt and Thomas break into snickers. “I have this one professor,” Newt says, “Who insists within an inch of his life that their relationship was purely platonic. I wrote a 3000-word essay, once, on why he was wrong. Felt like emailing it to him every time he made a snide comment.”       

Thomas hums, “You should.”

“Nah, I can’t.”

“Why?” Thomas asks, “He can’t fail you out of spite. You said it yourself that you have enough credits, so technically, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

Newt shrugs, stiffly, “I … you’re right, but.”

Thomas says, “I’ll kiss the statue if you email the essay to your professor.” 

Newt’s eyebrows nearly fly off his face. “You won’t.”

Thomas raises his eyebrows right back. “I will. Email it to him,” he says, and two minutes later finds himself in front of Stony MacDreamy, ready to go with Newt standing six feet away with the camera ready.

“We have to get a photo of this,” he says, grinning at the phone screen. “Alright go.”

After a quick moment of psyching himself up, Thomas leans forward and places his lips on the cold mouth of the marble statue. Newt makes a gasping sound like he didn’t believe Thomas would actually go all the way through with it, and takes about a million photos to document. The moment lasts all of a second before they hear a harsh, “Hey!” called from across the room, and Thomas pulls away to see an irritated security guard making his way toward them.

“Stop that!”

“Shit,” Newt says.

Thomas reaches out and takes his hand, hissing, “Run, run, run!” and together they bolt out of the room, making their way through the gallery and out the doors with their hands clasped tight. They hide behind a tree lining the entrance to the gallery, chests heaving as they pant and gasp with laughter.

“Agh!” Thomas cries, recoiling at the sudden bitter, horrible taste that has assaulted his mouth.

“What is it?” Newt asks, cheeks flushed and hair windswept.

Thomas wipes his mouth and groans, “You know that shit they coat video game cartridges with to stop kids from swallowing them? I think they used that same thing to stop people frenching the statues.”     

There is a pause of breath, and then Newt erupts into laughter, covering his mouth to stifle the giggles. Thomas laughs, too, only because Newt’s laughter is raw and full and like what he imagines sunshine would sound like.

“God, I can’t believe you did that,” Newt breathes. His shirt has shifted to reveal one collarbone, the dip accentuating with each full-lunged breath he takes.

“Neither can I,” Thomas says, ripping his eyes away. “Can I see the pictures?”

Newt shows him the album of Thomas kissing the statue, shoulders quaking the entire time. The last in the line up is right after the security guard shouted at them, and his face is staring wide-eyed into the distance as if he is looking at a mythological beast come to life. Newt laughs extra hard at that one.

“You two make a cute couple,” Newt says, grinning.

“Shut up,” Thomas scoffs, rolling his eyes. He realises he is leaning on Newt only when he feels him shift against his side, arm coming around to brace against the tree so that it is resting beside Thomas’ hip, his pinkie finger catching around a belt loop.   

“Sorry,” Newt says, and pulls his hand away.

Thomas shakes his head. “It’s okay.”

Something happens, then; either the wind changes or the sun moves out from behind the clouds or the planets align, but soon enough Thomas finds himself leaning forward. He feels Newt’s hand move more purposely to his hip, and suddenly Thomas remembers the painting; Achilles’ hand in Patroclus’ hair, the lines of them, sharp and distinct, and their eyes locked in a heavy gaze.

Then Newt’s phone rings.

They both jump. Newt swears while Thomas works on pushing his heart back down his throat. He runs a hand through his hair and straightens his clothes, pushing his shirt under his belt where it pulled out, a little, while they are running.

Newt answers his phone with a curt, “What?”

The person on the other end speaks and Newt’s features soften, and he leans against the tree. “Minho, hey,” he says, “Now isn’t a good – yeah, okay. And? Christ, Minho, I’m – I don’t have time right now, can this wait until later? … Fine.” 

Newt presses his phone into his shoulder and gives Thomas an apologetic look. “Sorry, Tommy, I’ll just be a minute.”

Thomas smiles. “Yeah, of course. Don’t worry about it.”

Newt walks off to talk to his friend and Thomas thumps his head back against the tree, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He can’t believe that just happened. Or, almost happened. He needs to clear his head, to think about something else.

To book a flight.

Thomas opens up the travel app and begins to search flights to Honolulu. After a minute, he learns that if he leaves for the airport in three hours, he could very much be on a flight out of here tonight. Plenty of seats still available.

Lady Luck strikes again.

Thomas stares at the orange times and numbers on the screen while Newt calm-yells at Minho things like, Why don’t you make the first move? and, Did he say he liked avocado? and, Jesus fucking Christ, Minho, I’m not your mother! Just bloody talk to him!

Thomas tells himself that if he stares at the screen long enough, something will happen to the flight. It will get cancelled, or delayed, or the app with break and the flight will disappear altogether. Maybe – 

“Sorry about that.” Newt’s voice knocks him out of his thoughts, walking back up to him massaging his temples, “Minho is having some love trouble, and he is particularly insufferable about it. Why does everyone lose their minds around Valentine’s day?”

Thomas drops his phone by his side. “I don’t know,” he says, “Must be the moon. Change of tide.”

“Must be.” Newt sighs, “Lunch? We can walk along the beach until we find something.”

“Sure,” Thomas says, and looks back at the screen. The numbers are steady. The flight hasn’t changed. “Just as long as we’re back at the Castaway by four. I have to get everything ready for the airport.”

For a moment, a flash of a question passes over Newt’s face, and he looks as if he is about to ask Thomas what he is talking about. Then realisation fizzles in, and Newt’s features smooth into something neutral.

“Right, of course,” he says. “We have plenty of time.”

They walk along the beach until they stumble upon a place which looks promising, making small talk and chatting quietly. The mood from earlier is gone almost as if it didn’t exist, and Thomas feels it’s absence deeply. Thomas opens the Lonely Hearts group chat as they wait for their food and is pleased to find a small flood of images from the past few hours. Only a couple are mildly concerning, such as, Abby where are you??? and, You left me by the loo!! No one looks to have gotten lost, however, and Thomas breathes a little easier.

The last image shows the gang in front of a large statue and a fountain, all grouped together and smiling happily. Thomas’ eyes zero in on Ava, and he is very pleased to find her mouth stretched into a, well, not a broad grin, but a grin nonetheless. He is also pleased to find Isabel and Eric standing comfortably close to each other, as well as Roger and Patrick and a couple of other guests.

Thomas suddenly notices Ava and Mary standing beside one another, and with a start realises that they had also been on the port. He hadn’t even noticed! They must have reconnected last night after all, and it didn’t go horribly wrong like whatever apocalyptic scenario Ava was imagining.   

Below that image is general comments on wherever they are now, and then a message from Mary which reads: We hope you’re having fun, Thomas.

The sentiment was met with enthusiasm, as it spurred on some other messages like, Yes, Tommy boy, we miss you! and from Isabel: Send us a picture so we know you’re okay <3

Which is all kinds of sweet, and fills his heart with warmth. It follows with a mantra of various guests demanding a photo, and for this reason Thomas leans over and says to Newt, “The guys want a photo. Would you mind posing for a selfie?”

Newt smiles, obviously also finding it sweet, and says, “No problem.”

They slide together on the window side of the booth until they are pressed shoulder to shoulder. Thomas settles in closer so he doesn’t have to lean so awkwardly, and Newt slides his arm to rest around Thomas’ shoulders. Thomas snaps the photo and sends it, watching the little bubble with their faces close together, smiling, pop up in chat.

“They’re sure taking a lot of photos,” Newt comments when Thomas places the phone back on the table.

“Yeah, they’re having a ton of fun today,” Thomas says, smiling down at the screen.

“Do you mind if I …?”

Thomas is already pushing the phone toward him, “Knock yourself out.”

Newt leans over the table and scrolls through all of the photos for today, and Thomas relaxes back into the bench and pretends he isn’t watching him. Should he ask for Newt’s number, or is that too forward? He has him on Instagram, now, so he could always DM him there to keep in touch. But people say they’ll keep in touch all the time and it never really happens. Maybe Newt won’t even care when he’s gone. Maybe he will think of Thomas for an hour or two, and then he will forget, but.

But they almost kissed before, so that has to mean something.

Or maybe it didn’t. Newt could have just gotten swept up in the moment and leaned in when Thomas had just out of pure instinct, and not because he likes him back.

They eat, and afterward walk along the sand back to the ship terminal, running and trying to push each other over while laughing and snapping photos when one of them does. Newt learns that Thomas is faster than he looks and Thomas leans that Newt has a slight limp in his leg when he tries to run too fast, left over from an old childhood injury.

Sometime past 5 pm they reach the docks, and then the ship, and then Thomas blinks, and he and Newt are standing in front of Thomas’ room.

“Uh,” Thomas begins, voice breaking it into two syllables, “So.”

“So,” Newt agrees, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Listen, Tommy, I … Let me give you my number. You can tell me all about angelfish and glowing plankton while you’re in Hawaii, if you want.”

Yes, yes, fuck yes, Thomas thinks, and he says, “Sure.”   

They exchange numbers, and Thomas hands the phone back to Newt with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Good luck with everything,” Newt says, at the same time that Thomas asks, “Is this wrong?”

Newt blinks, taken aback, “What?”

“Like.” Thomas scratches his nose, “I mean … I should tell Vince, right? About how the real guy never showed up?”

Newt thinks for a second, and says, “Maybe. But we don’t know where he is, or if you’ll even find him in time.”

Thomas nods, gaze dropping to his shoes. Newt’s right. Thomas will have to remain an enigma. He takes a deep breath and looks up at Newt.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls Newt in for a hug before he can think about it too much.

Newt stiffens for only a moment before he melts into the hug, sliding his arms around Thomas’ waist as his own settle on Newt’s shoulders. His hair smells like apples (Thomas didn’t mean to smell his hair, he. Sometimes he just breathes, and things happen. It’s not creepy) and the line of his shoulders are strong under Thomas’ hands. Not tense, but nice and straight and, once again, Thomas finds himself admiring Newt’s posture, while now wanting to run his fingers through his hair.

That would be creepy.    

Newt gives him a small smile when they part, directed at the wall and the floor and Thomas’ chin but never at him, properly, and Thomas directs his own at Newt’s lips. He thinks of it the entire time he is packing his suitcases, and again when he is walking off the dock with said suitcases, and when he is throwing them in the back of an Uber.

The usual drive to the airport is about twenty minutes, his phone tells him, however in glorious afternoon traffic that time nearly doubles. This means plenty of opportunity for Thomas to fidget in the back, watching the time tick past 6 pm, knowing full well the crew members will be required to be back soon for check-in. The Lonely Hearts gang would be on their way to dinner by now.

Thomas opens the app will full intention just to check in and is immediately assaulted with his and Newt’s faces close together, beaming at the camera. Below are dozens of messages from pretty much everyone in the group, most with an abundance of exclamation marks and heart emojis. Mary gives a single, warm heart while Edna exclaims, So sweet! and Jonathan cries, Love wins! with a thousand rainbow emojis. The rest tell them how good they look and how beautiful they both are and, lastly, there is Ava with a straight forward and clinical Adorable.

Thomas shakes his head, laughing softly to himself so that the Uber driver probably thinks he is a serial killer, and scrolls through the rest of the chat. All in all, it seems as if everyone had a pretty good day. There is a photo of the group on the beach, enjoying the sun, and posed under an arch with pink and red hearts to commemorate the holiday soon approaching. Everyone posed under it, and the final photo in the chat is a candid of Mary dragging and extremely resistant Ava to stand with her below the arch. Thomas wonders if they managed to wrangle her for a proper photo, or if this is it.

The very last message is a We miss you, Thomas. See you soon! that has been thumbed up twenty times, and suddenly he can’t do it.

The airport is approaching, and Newt’s face is staring at him with a big smile and beautiful eyes, and he can’t do it.

Thomas dives between the seats the very moment the Uber driver has stopped at the drop-off point, as has turned in his seat to read Thomas his fare. He lunges back with a start, completely valid, Thomas shouldn’t have jumped at him like that, he knows. He will leave a big tip.

“Sorry! I need to get to Newport Terminal,” he says.

His Uber driver looks profoundly confused, “What? You said you wanted to go to the airport.”

“I know, but I changed my mind,” Thomas pleads, “I need you to take me back to the terminal. Please.”

The diver blinks at Thomas for a solid ten seconds during which Thomas imagines he is thinking of tossing him out on his ass and leaving. Finally, the man sighs and turns back around, beginning to head back the way they came, and Thomas fights down the happy squeak in his chest.

He is going to give him a very big tip. 

“Whatever, man,” The driver says, flipping on his turn signal with irate finesse, “Whoever it is I hope they’re worth it. Fuckin’ season makes everyone crazy.”

It does, Thomas thinks and slumps back in his seat to count down the minutes anxiously.

The way that Thomas runs up the docks with two suitcases flapping behind him like a couple of dead sharks, knowing full well that he has at least an hour before the ship departs, is not exactly something to put in the history books. The way he slides into the open bar area, tripping on the carpet and sending one of them flying so that it bounces off a corner wall and smashes into a fern, making Thomas lunge after it to stop it from smashing into the ground doesn’t fare much better.

The absolute gobsmacked looks on everyone’s faces in the bar, however, could.

Among the faces are Ben, glass mid-polish frozen in his hands and, most importantly, Newt, who stares at Thomas with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, stuck in a slouch over the bar top. His hand is hovering centimetres from his face like he’d been leaning on it.     

No one speaks.

Thomas, knowing he is expectant of an explanation for the dramatic entrance, clears his throat and lies, “I, uh, couldn’t get a flight until tomorrow, and I didn’t want to be left behind when the ship departed, so … yeah.”

The shocked silence extends until a couple of crew members shake their heads and turn back to what they were doing previously, and Ben nearly drops his glass on the bar top.

“Fuck you, Adam!” Ben yells through the kitchen window, “You owe me twenty bucks!”

“Hi?” Newt says, still looking like Thomas has collected an extra head somewhere along the run-up. “You’re here.”

“I am,” Thomas responds, collapsing onto a bar stool, “Look’s like I’ll be sticking around until San Diego, after all.” 

Newt laughs, bemused, and when Thomas collapses more fully against the bar, he leans over and ruffles his hair. 

“Bad luck, huh,” Newt says, leaning in close so he is mimicking Thomas with his head resting on his arms. Thomas can smell sweet apple cider faintly on his breath and suddenly wants to know what it would taste like on his tongue.

Ben hides Thomas’ suitcases behind the bar while Thomas hurries to chase down Vince, sign on, and apologise for being late while simultaneously stringing an elaborate but convincing lie as to how he got lost on the way back. Afterward, with Vince sated and Thomas’ signed on, he returns to the bar where he and Newt, and a few other crew members who all meld into one singular crew member whose name Thomas does not know, and have a few too many drinks. After dinner, of course, they’re not complete animals.

At one point Thomas gives Newt permission to upload the picture of him making out with Stoney MacDreamy to Instagram because he has no inhibitions left to hold him back, as well as all the other ones where he’d fallen on his ass in the sand, and he does the same with Newt. Soon enough half of Thomas’ Instagram feed are pictures of Newt, and the both of them, and pretty but shaky sunset photos – which Newt insists are okay because it’s artistic, apparently – to top it all off.

At 11 pm, Ben somehow mistakes it for midnight. He hops up on the bar and slides off, announcing, “Happy day before Valentine’s day!” and kisses both Newt and Thomas before running over to a girl with a metre of thick, black hair, who is smiling at him in amusement, and kissing her properly.

Something happens just after midnight when Newt is leaning into his space, and the lights from the ship are bathing him in blue and gold, and Thomas is thinking back to the museum.

He is thinking of leaning in and if it goes bad, he can blame it on alcohol and pretend to forget the next day, when Ben steps around them with a platter of Pina Coladas and trips on a wrinkle in the carpet, and coats Thomas with the entire plate of drinks.   

He cries out and jumps back at the sudden assault of cold liquid and ice escaping down the back of his shirt, the glasses clinking and rolling around his feet.

“Shit!” Ben swears as Newt rushes to shove the entire napkin dispenser at Thomas, “I am so sorry, dude!”

Thomas groans, shaking himself off, and gasps, “It’s okay, it was an accident.”

That’s certainly one way to sober up fast.

“Are you alright?” Newt asks, furiously dabbing him with napkins.

Thomas nods, wiping his face and pulling at his ruined shirt. Great. He really liked this one. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Newt, I can do it –”

“No, I’ve got it –”

“Really, I can –”

Newt says, “It’s fine, Tommy,” and he is standing very close now, pressing a napkin into Thomas’ collarbone, and fine, okay, he can do that if he wants.

“Thanks,” Thomas mumbles, feeling his face heat up.

“Welcome,” Newt murmurs, before looking up at something on Thomas’ face. “Oh, you have some …” his sentence trails off, and before Thomas knows it Newt is wiping his thumb down Thomas’ cheek, and he watches it come away with cream that tops the drinks. Newt then brings his thumb to his lips and sucks the cream off instead of grabbing another napkin. Thomas just about manages not to pass out.

Newt breaks the silence first, clearing his throat. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” Thomas squeaks, I, um. I should probably change … shower. All that.”

Newt’s eyes widen, “Of course, yes. That looks uncomfortable. I’m also going to head off.”

Don’t say that, Thomas thinks, and smiles stiffly. After a quick nod, he says, “Cool. Well goodnight,” and proceeds to wobble down the hall on jelly limbs and wet shoes, and manages to make it to his room with only slamming into a wall one time.

He takes a cold shower, which does a shit job at what it is supposed to do, and sends a text to Teresa before passing out.

It says, His name is Newt which shouldn’t be sexy but it is and he’s gorgeous and I think he likes me and I think I just might have ruined my career for him and I don’t even care.

In the morning, Thomas wakes up to a splitting headache and no less than 15 messages from Teresa, most consisting of question marks, exclamation points, and an arsenal of emojis.

The last message, also the only one with actual legible words, reads:

You kissed that fucking statue when you had a perfectly good photographer right there!!! Yes, before you ask, I insta-stalked him (he wasn’t hard to find since you follow like ten people) and I just want you to know that I have never been more disappointed with you.

Thomas rolls out of bed, pops an Advil and takes a swig of vitamin water and calls that a breakfast.

He dresses in the usual white pants and shirt combo and struggles out on to the side of the ship designated to the LHC. Everyone seems happy enough; playing shuffleboard or hanging by the pool or umbrella tables. Newt is nowhere to be found, so Thomas collapses on to a banana chair self-pityingly.

Beside him, Ava destatufies herself and dog-ears the page of her book to give him a sly look that Thomas doesn’t think he deserves.

“Good morning, sailor,” she says, “You look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”

“I’m dying, Ava,” Thomas moans.

Ava scoffs, and adjusts her heart-shaped glasses, “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Big night, I assume.”

Rather than try and decipher the meaning behind her tone, Thomas just agrees. “Yeah, from what I can remember of it.”

“Oh, really big night.”

Thomas groans and rubs his eyes, careful of his contacts. The initial wave of cold drinks on his person had sobered him for a minute, but the smell of alcohol on his clothes reversed all of it in another. He is pleased to find a jug of water beside the chairs, and leans over to pour himself a glass as Ava shakes her head in disgust.

“Kids these days are weak,” she says, “Back when I was your age I could out-drink a professional wrestler. And I did it once, at a party.”  

“Is that how you met husband number one?” Thomas asks.

“No, it’s how I met –” Ava stops, and Thomas knows immediately who she means.

“Aw,” Thomas says, sinking lower in his chair and wishing, again, that he’d brought his sunglasses, and considers asking Ava is she has another pair. “Origins. Speaking of – you and Mary seem to have reconnected nicely.”

Ava leans over and whacks him with her book.

“Ow!” Thomas cries, recoiling, “I didn’t say anything!”

“I didn’t like your tone.”

“It’s true,” Thomas says, rubbing his leg.

“I told you,” Ava says, casually, “I’m married to my work.”

“What is it that you do, Ava? I don’t think I’ve asked.”

“You haven’t,” she agrees. “I’m a scientist. Biochemistry for marine life and maritime.”

Thomas, who had been in the middle of leaning over to refill his glass of water, almost topples over and takes the entire jug with him. “What?” he says, spinning back around and practically shouting in Ava’s face. She clutches her book as if she might need it to defend herself. “You’re what? How did I not know this?”

“Is there … a problem?” Ava asks, lowering her red heart-shaped glasses to stare at Thomas in concern, “Are you having a stroke?”

“No, no, I …” Thomas huffs, out of breath, “That’s my field. I majored in marine biology. I’m a naturalist researcher. Or, I will be. I haven’t actually started yet, but …”

Ava’s eyebrows make a pretty valiant effort in attempting to kiss her hairline, eyes widening in shock, at first, then confusion and disbelief – pretty much doing a fire round of all the stages of grief – before, finally, smiling wide.

“I knew I liked you,” she says, and Thomas immediately dives head first into picking her brain.  

 It must be at least a half hour that they spend talking, or rather, Thomas talking and Ava giving her input with years of knowledge and experience under her belt, but mostly she is good with letting him blab. About halfway through various members of the Lonely Hearts Gang wonder over, because the force of Thomas’ excitement and hand-talking had been too much to ignore. Mary is included, who settles on a white banana chair adjacent to them with a tall mojito and a happy smile.

Thomas freaks out for a moment because, “Wait. You’re Ava Paige!” and everyone laughs, because the fact that he met the woman he wrote most of his first-year final paper on four days ago and is only just realising it now, is funny.  

And. Okay, it is a little bit.

Teresa is going to flip shit, and then never let him live it down.

“Okay, wait,” Thomas says, now sitting cross-legged on the sun lounge, facing Ava who also sits with her ankles crossed smartly, “What did you think of Leonard Ferlin’s theory about Chrysophyta and Pyrrophyta?”

Ava scoffs, rolling her eyes, “It was bullshit.”

Thomas nearly jumps out of his chair, “It was such bullshit, yes!”

Off to the side, he hears Roger say, “I have no idea what he’s talking about, but boy do I love watching him while he does,” to which Edna hums, nodding in agreement. 

Thomas and Ava carry on discussing various theories and current research in marine biology until Vince arrives to inform the LHC that they are all late for the lunch buffet. He most definitely receives a happy shock to find each and everyone one of them huddled around Ava and Thomas like engaged school children.

Thomas winds down slowly, flushed and feeling like he’s run a mile and scaled a mountain all in one. The guests fade out at their own pace, now distracted by the excitement of lunch, and all who remain are Mary, watching them and spinning the glass in her hand thoughtfully, and Ava, who is looking at Thomas with so much pride in makes him feel a little itchy. 

Thomas sits on his hands. “Right, well, I should let you guys go now. You must be pretty hungry.”

Ava hums, once, and stands. “Starved,” she says and pats Thomas on the shoulder lightly as she passes. Mary follows her, the hand she places on Thomas’ shoulder lingering with a smile before she goes.

After they have all left Thomas finds himself lingering in the quiet calm of the ship as it sails over the water. Wind in his face and hangover long forgotten, he settles back comfortably in the chair again and opens Instagram to assess the potential damage. Janson doesn’t know his social media accounts, right?

He finds he has gained an extra seventy-three followers overnight, a couple of Thomas recognises from the time he went through Newt’s photos. Some of them have left comments – this includes Teresa, who has gone out of her way to comment on every single one of Thomas’ photos, and Brenda, who has liked them all – but they mostly restrain themselves on account of they don’t know Thomas.

The real magic happens over on Newt’s account. There is the classic picture of Thomas kissing the statue, which Teresa has commented on with an eggplant and sweat emoji, because she thinks she is hilarious, but then there are more.

SonyaLiz, who Thomas recognises as the pretty girl with multi-changing hair who he is 99% sure is Newt’s younger sister, comments on one picture of Newt and Thomas. It is up close and blurry, Thomas has his arm around Newt as he snaps the picture, and Thomas isn’t blind. He knows that his head caught in a mid-turn looks as though he is making to plant a kiss on Newt’s cheek.   

She comments, OMG!! with a whole bunch of shocked faces, and below that there is one from Minhop which is just a row of eye emojis. There are others from random follows and friends and family of Newt’s telling him congratulations and remarking on how cute they look together, and it is enough for Thomas to want to throw his phone into the pool.

Apart from one comment from someone named _Galileo which is simply, What the fuck, that has been liked many times, though.    

Thomas likes it, too.  

Newt remains fundamentally absent for the remainder of the day up until it is time for the Old Hollywood Night event that will draw the cruise to a close. Thomas, against all the odds, manages to get the memo of the dress code for the night from a back-ended conversation where one crew member is complaining that their vest is dirty, and Vice is going to be pissed.

Thomas doesn’t have a vest or anything that could even remotely fit into an old Hollywood theme, and so it is for this reason and this reason only that he finds himself making his way to room 205, and knocking on Newt’s door. He takes his time to open it, but eventually the door swings open to Newt looking like a 1920s umpire in black trousers, a white shirt, and matching waistcoat, mostly unbuttoned.

Once he sees him (and sees him again, and keeps on looking, because wow), Thomas realises how stupid it was of him to come up here. Of course, Newt wouldn’t have an extra vest for him to borrow. Who brings multiple vests on a cruise ship you work on?

“Hey there,” Thomas says, biting his tongue.

“Evening,” Newt replies, buttoning the rest of his shirt. “What’s up?”

Thomas smiles and tries not to think about how much he would like to kiss him. “I need a favour.”

Newt raises an eyebrow. “Is it like the first favour?” he asks, and Thomas nods. Newt sighs. “Of course. Come in.”

“Thank you,” Thomas says, shutting the door behind him, and turns back to find Newt rifling though his suitcase.

It occurs to him that he has never been inside Newt’s room while Newt was also in it. It feels different, somehow.

Newt mutters to himself a moment, elbow deep inside his suitcase, before eventually finding what he is looking for, and pulling out another vest. “Do you have black trousers?” Newt asks.

Thomas shrugs. “Jeans?”

Newt gives him a look.

Thomas defends himself, “I’m going to work on an island where I’ll spend my day knee deep in water, why would I need dress clothes?” and Newt deflates.

“It’ll have to do.” He stands and gives the vest to Thomas. It’s a little ruffled, but it can work. A nice satiny material, too. “Just put your work shirt under it, and it’ll be fine. No one will really notice, anyway.”

Thomas frowns.

Newt blinks at him. “The work shirt. The long sleeve one – did you not ask Vince for another pair.”

Thomas feels lost, “I just needed new pants.”

Newt’s eyes flutter shut. “Alright,” he sighs, and disappears into the closet for a moment before returning with a white, long sleeve shirt and shoving it in Thomas’ arms.

“Thanks,” Thomas says again, holding the items of clothing to his chest. 

“You’re bloody welcome,” Newt says, and silence settles over them. Thomas coughs just to fill it and Newt clears his throat and comments, “Well, you should hurry and –”

“I didn’t see you by the pool today,” Thomas cuts him off, mouth flapping about as it pleases.

“Uh,” Newt says, visibly uncomfortable, “Yeah, I was helping Ben clean the bar all day. Everyone left it in such a mess last night.”

“Oh, okay,” Thomas says. He leaves because he doesn’t know what else to say, and Newt surely isn’t saying anything. As he is walking back to his room his mind is reeling overboard; should he have said something about last night? Does Newt somehow know he ditched the flight on purpose and now he’s weirded out? Is he feeling weird about all the photos on Instagram? He hasn’t deleted them, so that’s something at least.   

Deciding to push the thoughts aside for later, Thomas dresses and heads upstairs to begin the night.

They are given platters of food and drinks to hand out to the passengers; same exeact story. They’re requested to act a little more like classic waiters tonight to fit in with the theme, however, which suits Thomas just fine. Newt’s blonde hair looks almost white-gold under the lights, ducking his head and smiling when guests take an olive with a toothpick through it. Thomas watches him for a moment before someone appears in front of him, asking for a drink.

He waits until his platter is empty before walking over to where he’d spotted Ava, leaning against the railing of the ship and looking like an extremely bored Marilyn Monroe.

Thomas leaves the empty platter on a table and joins her. “Still not into the theme nights?” he asks.

“Bah,” Ava says, waving a hand. “Just give me food and alcohol, and I’m happy. Last night, though.”

“Yeah,” Thomas murmurs, watching Newt move across the floor. He is stopped at one point by another crew member, who stands on her toes to whisper in his ear before they nod to each other and move on. “Last night.”

“You look dashing,” Ava comments, just as Mary materialises out of thin air on the other side of Thomas.

“He does look very dashing,” she says, nudging him playfully with her elbow.  

Distantly, Thomas mutters, “Thanks,” and continues to watch more members of the crew walk around and whisper into each other’s ears, and he feels a stab in his stomach. Which is ridiculous, because Thomas does not actually work here, so he doesn’t have to be in the know on whatever it is that is happening.

“Thomas?”

Thomas jumps. “Huh?”

Ava says, “Mary said you look distracted.”

Thomas grips the railing behind him, suddenly feeling a little seasick. “Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Mary starts to talk, but suddenly the theme appropriate Gatsby-esque music finishes and the disk jockey taps on the microphone to draw everyone’s attention. Then Vince is jumping up on stage, plain shirt and trousers, and bun slicked back to perfection so that it gleams under the spotlights, big smile on his face.

“Good evening, everyone,” Vince says, “Hope you’re all continuing to have a good time.”

The guests cheer and clap. After a minute, Vice continues, “So, the last night, huh? How does everyone feel about this?” People voice their displeasure, and Eric shouts something that Thomas doesn’t catch, but it makes everyone laugh. 

Vince goes on to say how he is so pleased that everyone has had a good time, and Thomas zones out halfway through. When he is done the disk jockey continues with the music, except now, it is deliberate slow dancing music that reminds Thomas of his high school prom that he never went to. Thomas’ eyes seek out Newt as guests begin to dance, and finds him seated at a table, looking tired and Done.

Ava leans over and whispers, “You should ask him to dance.”

“Can’t,” Thomas says, scrunching his nose, “I’m on the clock.”

“So, what do you care? You don’t work here.”

Thomas says, “Yeah, but he does, and I – wait.” Thomas quickly looks at Ava, who is now quite smug, “You know? How do you know?”

Ava rolls her eyes. “Honey, I knew the minute you joined that little facebook group with a different name. Also,” she says, “You never actually look like you’re one hundred percent committed to the work.”

“I …” Thomas opens and closes his mouth, stunned. Beside him, Mary looks equally as stunned, but he imagines hers is over the fact that it took her this long to realise.

“Please,” Thomas pleads, “You can’t tell Vince.”

“I should,” Ava says, eyebrow cocking defiantly, “Some asshole is getting a free paycheck that you worked hard for.” 

“You just said I never work,” Thomas reminds her weakly.

Ava shrugs. “Potato, potahto. Matter of principle.”

Thomas feels a hand on his shoulder, and Mary says, “We won’t say anything if you don’t want us to, Thomas, but Ava is right. About both things. You should ask Newt to dance. It’s the last night,” she smiles.

Thomas looks toward Newt, and back at the two women, and then back at Newt and sighs, long and deep, “Fuck.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ava says, and gives him a quick shove.

As he is approaching Newt, Thomas quickly runs through a mental list of all the possible outcomes of the situation, from best (Newt agrees to dance with him) to worst (the ship is devoured whole by an ancient Leviathan seeking revenge on the species which sent it into hiding centuries ago). He hopes it’s the first one, or at least something in the middle.

“Hey,” Thomas greets when he approaches, speaking over the opening bars of Young and Beautiful. Newt, previously gazing into nothing, starts at the sudden intrusion. “Did you want to dance?”

Newt looks around. “What, like right now?”

Thomas taps his hip, fidgeting, suddenly wishing he hadn’t missed out on this moment of High School life, and very thankful that he had. “Yeah, right now.”

“We’re working.”

Thomas waves a hand around the event area. “I don’t think anyone really cares,” he says, gesturing to various crew members who are dancing among the passengers.

Newt hesitates only a moment longer, before agreeing, and together they move towards the dance floor. Just the two of them approaching the floor has drawn the eyes of many passengers and crew members alike. Thomas blocks them all out the moment he feels Newt’s arms circle his body, and his hand slip into Thomas’.

“Ah, small disclaimer,” Thomas says, as they begin to sway, “I don’t really know how to dance.”

Newt does not look shocked in the slightest. “Good thing I do.”

They continue to sway, now with more finesse under Newt’s lead, as Lana del Rey serenades them with her hauntingly silky bars. They continue to receive stares, and when Thomas ducks his head against them, all Newt pulls him in closer until his head is resting on Newt’s shoulder.

“Okay?” Newt whispers.

“Yeah,” Thomas whispers back, shivering.

“You don’t like attention,” Newt says, “With all of your loud outfits?”

Thomas slaps him, lightly, and feels his laughter reverberate through his body. Newt continues, “Okay, okay. Are you uncomfortable?”

Thomas shrugs, pressing his chin into Newt’s shoulder. “I asked you to dance.”

“Yes, Tommy, but are you uncomfortable?”  

Thomas thinks for a moment and decides no, he doesn’t want this to end just yet, and let’s go of Newt’s hand in favour of living both his arms around Newt’s body. “No,” he says, “This is nice.”

Newt’s breathing stutters in his ear before his arms tighten as well. Maybe people lose interest, or maybe Newt glares them all into losing interest, but after a while, no one is paying them attention any longer, and Thomas continues to breathe a little easier, melting against Newt’s body. He’s so warm, and sturdy, and just nice to press close to, and he wonders how Newt would feel about Thomas falling asleep against him – if he’d let him fall asleep against him.    

That would be quite nice.

“Thank you, Newt. For everything.” Thomas says, “I keep thinking about it, and I don’t know how I would have survived this whole week without you.”

“It’s nothing, Tommy.”

“No, really,” Thomas insists, “I would have been thrown in cruise ship jail days ago, and kicked off at Newport.”

Newt huffs another of his soft, breathy laughs that makes Thomas think of summertime and clear, blue water, and feels it against his skin. “No problem, then. The past week has been great.”

“It has,” Thomas agrees.

Newt tightens his arms around him, and Thomas is aware of every inch of their skin touching, the press of Newt’s palms on his lower back, the warmth of his minty breath against his neck as he says, “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

Newt pulls back so that he is looking Thomas straight in the eyes when he says, “I’m really glad you got on the wrong boat.” 

Thomas grins, “Technically that’s still your fault.”

“Technically the printer messed up.”

“I know,” Thomas says, “I love it,” and kisses him. He kisses Newt without a care to who is around to see because he is gorgeous and nice and kind and he has a cute accent, and he knows everything about history and philosophy and art, and, god, he tastes as amazing as he looks.

And he kisses Thomas back with zero hesitation.

After a minute Thomas pulls back, because they are in public and, technically, are still on the job, and he would not like to receive a lecture from Vince.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks. Newt says yes, and they manage to sneak away. Newt leads him out on to a part of the ship no one is using, lit up by lights strung from post to post, until they find themselves on the deck, water and sky stretched out endlessly around them. They sail fairly close to the land, now, preparing for the stop in San Diego in a few hours. The light of the city passes them like a hundred low hanging stars, reflected off the water.

Thomas uses their linked hands to bring Newt closer to the bow of the ship. His eyes squint, scanning the horizon before he finds what it is he’s looking for and points it out to Newt.  

“Do you see those blue lights down there? Along the shoreline?”

“Yes?” Newt says, after it takes a moment to find where Thomas is pointing.

Thomas nods. “Bioluminescent phytoplankton,” he says, bringing Newt closer by his waist. “Glowing plankton.”

Newt squints. “Like that thing from SpongeBob?” he asks, and Thomas decides he loves him, a little.

“Yeah, but cooler. They glow because their bodies are mixing with minerals in the water to create a chemical reaction,” Thomas says. “They can sometimes be green or red, but blue is the most common. Especially around here. San Diego is one of the few places in the world where bioluminescent plankton are the most vibrant. They mostly use their luminescence as a defence against larger predators, and …”

Thomas stops, because Newt is now looking at him as if Thomas, himself, is glowing. “You don’t care.”

“I don’t care,” Newt says, before launching forward and kissing him, hard and passionate, cupping Thomas’ face in his hands. Thomas holds on tight to the back of Newt’s shirt, and Newt’s hands leave his jaw to slide into his hair, and Thomas groans, weakly, unable to stop himself. At the sound, Newt breaks away, and Thomas follows his lips, eyes still closed, like he’s starving.

“I didn’t mean I don’t care at all,” Newt says, rushing out in one breath, which he does not have much of, “Because I do. I just didn’t care then, because all I could think about was –”

“I know, I know,” Thomas whispers, pressing his nose to Newt’s so their lips brush as he speaks, “Glowing plankton is pretty sexy.”

“God, you’re so bloody weird,” Newt groans, and kisses him again, properly.  

Thomas wakes up in the morning to the Alarm Tone From Hell.

He jumps up and cries out, almost falling out of bed if not for the arm slung over his waist. Newt wakes up normally, because he’s used to that, it turns out. “What the hell!” Thomas gasps, clutching at his beating chest as Newt yawns and leisurely leans around Thomas to silence the screamo death metal.

Just casually.

“Sorry,” Newt mumbles, falling back on the bed.

Thomas joins him, huffing as he hits the mattress, rubbing his eyes. “Why would you do that to yourself?” he asks and feels Newt shrug against his shoulder.

“Worked for Uni,” he says, “Still works now.”

Thomas sighs. Fair enough.

Then there is a hand pawing lazily at his, and Thomas opens his eyes to find Newt staring at him, eyes half-lidded, a sleepy grin pulling at his lips. Thomas rolls more fully toward him and murmurs, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Newt says, sliding his arms around Thomas’ waist and bringing him closer. He allows himself to melt against Newt’s lips, shivering when Newt’s hands dip under his t-shirt to trace his spine.

The night before, after being roped into helping clean up the party by Ben, who gave them sly looks the whole hour, Thomas and Newt retired back to Newt’s room and collapsed into bed to sail off into sweet sleep.    

Just sleep, because Thomas isn’t that kind of guy (Actually he is, and very much wanted to be, especially when Newt felt the need to put Thomas into the bed shirt he leant him himself, but Newt is ultimately a gentleman. Unfortunately).  

But now, this morning, warm and comfortable, this is dangerous. So, Thomas is both relieved and annoyed when they are interrupted by the chime of Newt’s phone. Newt groans against his lips, and reluctantly pulls away to snatch his phone off the small bedside table. Unlocking it in full view for Thomas to see, Newt opens up a message from The Mainhoe. It’s a single image of Minho with his arms around a fairly intense looking guy in a Hawaiian shirt and a single frangipani behind his ear. Minho is beaming brighter than the gods.    

The cute, almost sweet picture is absolutely ruined by the accompanying text, which reads, GUESS WHO FUCKED, BITCH!

Newt groans very loudly and drops his phone to the floor.

Thomas snorts and muffles his laughter in Newt’s shoulder.

Checking out is quite emotional. After a quick meeting with Vince where he thanks every one of the crew members for their time, and tells them how much of a good job they’ve done, which is nice. When they are left to promptly gtfo, each member of the Lonely Hearts Club take turns squeezing Thomas in their arms, and by the end of it, he is feeling puffy and flushed and tight in the chest. Then, a little embarrassing, they all say a cheer for the Greatest cruise councillor we’ve ever had!

Thomas blushes beet red. Newt gets it all on video. 

“We’re going to miss you, sweetheart!” Edna says as she and a few of the others walk away down the docks, waving and blowing kisses.

“Yes!” Eric shouts, “Stay in touch!” 

“Bye!” Thomas calls back, waving.

“Admit it,” Newt says, coming down the dock with both of their suitcases. He parks them by their feet and links his fingers in with Thomas’, “You’re going to miss them.”

Thomas presses their shoulders together, and watches as all the former passengers fade off into the distance, some hand in hand. “I’m going to miss them.”

“You still have the group chat,” Another voice adds, and Thomas and Newt turn to find Ava and Mary standing behind them.

Mary moves first, leaning forward to hug Thomas, and then Newt, who looks a little startled over it all. “I’m going to miss you boys,” she says.

Thomas looks at Ava, who looks almost vulnerable without her hat or sunglasses, hair pulled up into a messy bun. They stare purposely blank-faced at each other for a moment, before Ava cracks, and a small grin stretches her red lips. “Me too,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I had a really good time.”

Thomas looks at Newt, who is looking back at him. So did he.

“What now?” Mary asks, “Where does the world take you?”

And just like that, the fog fades, and reality comes crashing back in like a cold tidal wave. “I have to get to Honolulu,” Thomas groans, “If I still have a job there. Currently undetermined.”

Ava’s eyebrows pinch, and Thomas imagines her ears perking up like a dog’s. “Honolulu?” She says, “Your work is in Honolulu?”

“Well,” Thomas shrugs, “It’s more of a paid internship, I guess. I’m meant to go on as a junior researcher, and –”

“Thomas,” Newt hisses, smacking his thigh to gain his attention. Ava is staring at him now with a dubious squint in her eye.

“Who do you work under?”

“Uh … Dr. Janson?” Thomas says, not understanding the situation. “Is there a problem?”

Then, Ava’s entire demeanour changes and she grins, pearly white teeth and all. “Not at all,” she says, and plucks her phone out of her bag before dialling a number.

After a moment of waiting, Thomas’ mind reeling as Newt, who always seems to be miles ahead no matter the situation, hovers beside him with a sort of excited energy, the dial tone heard through the phone stops, and the muffled voice of his boss answers.

Thomas’ blood pressure rises on instinct.

“Janson!” Ava beams, “It’s so awful to hear your voice. You have a junior researcher working under you by the name of Thomas, correct? Meant to start this week?”

A beat passes, during which Janson much confirm this information, as Ava continues, “Okay, well I’m just calling to inform you that that isn’t the case anymore. He’s transferring to my sector.” Muffled shouting now comes over the other end, and Thomas’ soul leaves his body. Newt squeezes Thomas’ hand, and Mary raises just a single, impressed eyebrow.

Ava, completely unaffected by anything in general, says, happily, “Thank you, that is all,” and hanging up, tells Thomas, “You work for me now.”

“Okay,” Thomas agrees, stunned.

“You are going to be my research assistant. I’ve needed a competent one ever since the last one left.”

“Okay,” Thomas says again, his mouth just making noises on its own. “You’re my boss. You were my boss, all this time.”

“Turns out,” Ava says, “Funny how life works, isn’t it? How much was he paying you?”

“Uh,” Thomas racks his brain, “Sixty? I think?”

Ava scoffs. “Typical. With your brain you deserve at least ninety. Starting.”

“Ninety?” Thomas gasps. He is going to swallow half his lungs. “I … okay?”

“So you agree?” Ava asks, and looks more than pleased when Thomas nods. “Good. I’ll email you the papers to sign. Oh, but I won’t be in Honolulu for another week, so feel free to head on over there whenever you like. Actually,” she then dips into her purse again, and Thomas doesn’t think he can do with any more surprises, and promptly almost dies again when Ava hands him a check with enough money for plane fare to Hawaii.

“Ava, I can’t,” Thomas says, trying to push it back.

Ava catches his hand in hers, and says, “I insist. That should be enough to cover the cost of accommodation, which is what I’ll be owing you, anyway. So, consider it a loan.”

After Mary kisses them both on the cheek, Ava says, “See you in one week,” and they leave. Thomas watches them – most surprising of all – walk hand in hand down the dock, and disappear into the crowd.

If Newt hadn’t been standing there to hold Thomas up, he would have toppled over and flopped off the dock and into the ocean like a dead fish. “Did that just happen?”

“It did,” Newt says, nodding.

“Holy shit.”

“Uh huh.”

“I still have a job,” Thomas breathes, “I have a whole free week in Hawaii.”

Then Newt says, “Oh, right,” tone mildly embarrassed, and Thomas turns toward him with interest. “So Minho is staying in Honolulu for another week on holiday, and I was planning to as well. I, uh. I’m flying out this evening.”

Thomas, brain overloaded with too much surprising information that he isn’t quite sure his blood pressure will be able to take it – Teresa is going to have a field day – so all he can do in this situation, really, is slap Newt across the arm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he almost shouts.

“I was going to,” Newt admits, “But then I was a little distracted last night, and I couldn’t tell you earlier because it would have been weird. You would have thought I was stalking you.”

Thomas frowns. “I would not have.” Newt shrugs, and Thomas groans, “I can’t believe this.”

Out of all the possible outcomes of this trip, this – including everything that just happened in the last twenty minutes – is not what he could have predicted. Not in his wildest dreams. But he met his Boss boss and didn’t realise it, and she is an amazing woman, and he met Newt, who Thomas is convinced is the most amazing person on the planet.

Lady Luck is a bona fide legend.   

“Tommy?” Newt says, and takes both of his hands. He looks at Thomas with a smidge of humour in his eyes as he says, “I know I just met you, but would you like to fly to Honolulu with me?”

Thomas laughs and presses his forehead against Newt’s. Newt sighs and brushes their noses together. “I really like you, Thomas,” Newt says, “In case that wasn’t clear. And I understand if you have commitments before flying over, and –”

“Where would I even need to go?” Thomas says, incredulously, and shakes his head. Their foreheads rub together, hair ruffling. “What time does your flight leave?”

“6:30,” Newt says.

Thomas hums, “Plenty of time to book tickets, then.”

Newt hums, also, but his holds a certain mocking tone, “For real, this time.”

Thomas leans away. “You knew about that?”

“I had a feeling,” Newt shrugs, smirking, “You just confirmed it.”

The ocean wind flutters through Newt’s loose hair and blows stray strands around his head so that he must constantly move to flatten them, tucking it behind his ear. Thomas spots a strand he missed and gently smooths it to the side, finger brushing his skin and over his eyebrow, eventually stopping to rest at his cheekbone. He cups Newt’s face.

“Well,” Thomas says, leaning forward to plant a quick kiss there. Newt leans into the touch, smiling happily. “I guess that means I really like you, too.”

Adventure here they come.    

*