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They had to push him into the car that morning, like a cat on its way to the vet.
“You’re not my mum and I don’t need therapy.”
Teresa is looking down at the GPS app on her phone through dark, round sunglasses, trying to help Thomas navigate their way to the clinic.
“It’s physical therapy, and maybe I am—next left, Tom.”
Newt groans, leaning forward with closed eyes and laying his forehead on the back of the seat. “Tommy, come on. Help me out here.”
Thomas switches on his turn signal. “Sorry, dude, I’m going to have to side with her on this one. You’ve been whining way too much about that goddamn knee.”
“I just went through a bloody surgery, you can’t allow me a rant or two?”
“Your destination is on the left,” Teresa’s phone chimes, and Newt is reduced to pleading as they pull into the clinic parking lot.
“You guys!”
“We’re not going anywhere until you get out of the car,” Thomas says, shutting off the engine and folding his arms, and Newt purses his lips, exits the car and shuts the door with a loud slam.
He steps over to the passenger side window, and Teresa offers in a sweet voice, “Shall I go in with you?” and Newt flips her off while walking backwards towards the clinic’s door.
—
Newt’s got his hands hidden in his hoodie pockets; he’s listening to something soft and indie—Alby’s recommendation, a good one as always—through his tiny white earbuds. The waiting room chair he’s settled himself into is astonishingly comfortable, and his eyes begin to ache so he closes them, thinking nothing of it until someone taps his shoulder he jerks out of his seat and shouts “I’m awake!”
And there’s a man standing in front of him, a bit guilty, a lot frightened. “Whoa—sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but um—we’re ready for you, if you’re ready.”
And Newt blinks, his eyes adjusting to the clinic’s dim lights so he can finally see the man’s face and arms and chest and perfect, perfect hair and he thinks, Shit.
Maybe this’ll be more fun than I thought.
—
“So I’m gonna need you to strip,” the man says casually as they walk into an open exam room, tapping his clipboard with his pen like it’s protocol.
Newt grabs onto his clothes self-consciously, as if he’s worried they’ve already been torn off, and says “What.”
And the man laughs, and pats the examination table. “That was a joke. You can just take a seat here.”
Newt is still blushing when he slides onto the table, and he jumps when the man suddenly looks at him like he’s remembered something important and sticks out his hand. “Sorry, I’m Minho, by the way.”
So Newt takes it, shakes it, and Minho says “And you’re Newt.”
“Right,” Newt says. He wishes he didn’t feel so awkward, crinkling the paper beneath him and letting his feet dangle above the tile floor; the room is so white and quiet and clean, and his nose wrinkles when he remembers why he hates going to the doctor’s.
“You all right?” Minho asks.
And Newt swallows, turns his eyes away from the ceiling and looks at Minho, “No, not really. Not a fan of hospitals and that sort of thing.” He’s muttering like a child, and if he didn’t want this guy to bend him over a table he would be regretting not letting Teresa tag along and do all the talking.
“Sorry to hear that,” Minho says. “You ever been to this kind of place before?” He asks.
“To physical therapy? No, never.”
And Minho pulls up a rolling chair and sits in it backwards, something Newt shouldn’t find as attractive as he does. “Well, I can assure you,” he says, coming far enough forward that Newt needs to lean back on his palms and look down at him, “that it’s a lot more fun than your annual check-up.”
And he grins, and Newt grins back.
—
They go over the form Newt had filled out in the waiting room. What meds he’s taking, his allergies, his surgery.
“You were running? Jesus, how hard were you going that you had to go to the hospital for your knee?”
And it’s interesting the way he asks it—a cross between a concerned mother and that random guy hitting on you at the bar, trying to start a conversation by offering to exchange scar stories.
In any case Newt blushes again, says “The ground was, um, kind of uneven?”
And Minho blinks, and Newt worries if he’s just said the single stupidest thing he could’ve said until Minho lets out a short laugh and says, “So you’re just clumsy.”
“I’m not!”
“No, I get it. I’m not one to talk, anyway.”
“Is that so? Let’s hear it,” Newt says, deciding they are exchanging scar stories, then.
Minho puts down his papers on the side of the exam table and begins like he’s been waiting all day for Newt to ask. “I’ve broken my left leg in three places, right in two.”
“Jesus. How?”
“You want to take a few guesses?”
Newt grins, “Wait, don’t tell me. Stupidity, maybe?”
But Minho’s eyes darken, and his face is wiped blank.
“No. Car accident.”
And Newt’s jaw drops. “Oh, God… I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“No, I’m kidding,” Minho cuts in, “That was another joke. Tiny motorcycle incident—you don’t need to look at me like that.”
And Newt almost hits him on the shoulder before realizing that’s what school girls do when they like a boy—although, this is pretty much the same situation.
“You’ve got a motorcycle?” Newt asks then, and Minho smiles, “Yeah, I do.”
“I’ve never been on one.”
“Well, I’d tell you it’s awesome, but then I’d want you to figure that out for yourself,” Minho says, and Newt tilts his head, hoping that he’s implying what Newt thinks he’s implying, but then he clears his throat and says, “Also, I wouldn’t want you doing anything else to this leg. May I, by the way?”
He’s pointing to Newt’s leg, and Newt is confused for a moment before he remembers why he’s here—that is, not just for flirting. He rolls his pants up to his thigh, and Minho’s hands hover above his skin—Newt can feel how warm they are—until Newt says, “Go ahead.”
So Newt sits on the exam table, letting Minho set his hands on his leg, lifting and bending it with the occasional “Hmm.”
“Has it been hurting a lot?”
Like a motherfucker, Newt wants to say, but he only says “Quite a bit, yeah,” wincing a little when Minho’s finger digs too hard into his muscle.
“Sorry. Here—I’m going to put a little more pressure on it. It’ll kind of hurt, but it’ll help, okay?”
Newt nods, “Sure, whatever you think’ll work.”
So Minho begins working at the joint, starting soft and quick before pressing harder, slower into Newt’s skin. Newt can feel pricks of tears forming behind his eyes, so he shuts them, sucks in a breath, and doesn’t say a word.
But then he moans.
It comes out slightly pained, starting low in his throat and ending in a soft whine, and he understands why Minho draws his hands away and glances at the door, hoping no one’s going to come in thinking they’re fucking.
Minho stares at him, opened mouth.
“I—”
“That was a joke!” Newt blurts out, his face turning red, “…ha-ha?”
Evidently it’s not that great of a save, because Minho smiles weakly at him but doesn’t touch him again.
—
They go through the rest of the appointment a little delicately, and Minho only asks formal questions and gives examples of some things Newt can try at home to help his knee.
Newt wants to bury himself alive by the end of their scheduled hour, knowing his chance has been shot.
He’s texting Teresa, telling her to head back over to pick him up, while Minho finishes writing something down.
“So, uh, before we end today I just wanted to ask a few more questions.”
“Shoot.”
“You’ve been on Neurontin for the past… three weeks?”
“Yeah, about three and a half.”
“And you haven’t been taking any other painkillers—even Advil, or Tylenol, stuff like that?”
Newt grimaces at the thought of Teresa hiding all his ibuprofen after she caught him taking five at a time. “Nope.”
Minho flips the first page on his clipboard back down, seemingly satisfied.
“Lastly—would you be totally against the idea of getting a cup of coffee with me?”
Newt blinks, and Minho is avoiding his gaze, casually jotting something down on Newt’s medical report—actually, scribbling aimlessly on Newt’s medical report, if Newt had looked a bit closer.
A short silence, and then “Was that another joke?”
And Minho looks up and laughs again—Newt will never get tired of it.
“No, not this time.”
—
Newt texts Thomas and Teresa once more; the appointment’s going to take a little longer than they had expected.
—
“How was it?” Teresa asks as Newt slides into the backseat. Thomas pulls out of the parking lot into the street.
Newt tries to stifle a grin with curled fingers over his mouth as he looks outside the window with his chin in his hand. “Fine,” he says curtly.
“Just ‘fine’?” Thomas asks with a laugh.
Teresa sighs like she’s dealing with an angst-ridden teenager, and when she says “I’ll call later to see if they need any more details from your medical history,” she wonders for a moment if she is a little too motherly before shaking off the feeling and adding a hasty “But I’m sure you handled it just fine.”
“We’ll have to come back again, though, right?” Thomas asks. “How long do these kinds of things last?”
“Four to six weeks,” Newt answers quickly, almost excitedly, and he clears his throat, “—is what I’ve heard.”
Teresa raises an eyebrow, glances at him through the rearview mirror.
“And you don’t mind?”
And Newt shrugs, recalling the taste of coffee on lips that weren’t his.
“No. Not a bit.”