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It's a bit cold and Thomas' not in the mood for this and for anyone who openly says 'celebrities are ordinary and can have a nice shade of privacy just like the rest of us!' in a very enthusiastic voice and cheery face can just go and screw themselves because what the young actor is having right now is anything but a touch of that supposed-privacy.
A few distances away from him, Thomas can spot a lone male, paparazzi, he assumes. His grins bright and eyes sharp and somehow Thomas knows why he always - always - prefers his fans over the flock of ceaseless freelance photographers. He's not going to be hounded by a bunch of wolves when he can pick the adorable little lambs and-- said man is angling his head towards Thomas in a calculative manner. As if trying to dig something out. Vinyl, expensive camera in his hands and judging from the expression he's harboring, the paparazzi can't depict Thomas' identity, yet. Though he will probably unravel the mystery as times shimmer by.
Nope. Not up for this today. He just wants to enjoy what little free time he has left before his trip to Southeast Asia tomorrow to promote his new movie and he's going to damn well spend every friction second goofing around in the usually empty public park ('a park? That's your answer for fun? An unrestricted park where everyone can easily horde you? Smart' 'tone down the sarcasm, Minho. I do whatever I want!'). And he often gets what he wants.
What to do what to do what to do-- oh. Thomas focuses his gaze on the lone soul sitting on an oak bench under the willow tree. Frame slender and hair as fair as the rest of the fallen leaves around them. A male. Hopefully not a hardcore fan. Still, good enough for a distraction.
Thomas casts one last look at the paparazzi and then - hastily - makes a mild and graceful march towards the blond stranger. It's a gamble he needs to take.
"Mind if I sit next to you?"
Honestly, it's not like it matters whether the stranger’s going to decline his request or not since Thomas is going to claim the empty seat anyway. He always gets whatever he wants after all. The brunet already sags down on the beach when a British accent dips in the air.
"Well, it's not like you're going to take a bloody no anyway."
Thomas looks to his side, head tilts downward to study the stranger and that's when he notices the ash brown scarf around the man's neck.
"Hey, may I borrow this?"
"What-"
Thomas grabs gently at the smooth fabric and untangles it softly as not to affront - or hurt - the other before he swirls the scarf around his hair and face, leaving only his eyes to survey the view. He looks ridiculous but mayhap looking ridiculous might just send the paparazzi away.
The stranger blinks, mouth slightly gapes open. "What are you doing?"
"Uhh," The actor looks around first as his focus slowly shifts back to the stranger. "I dunno." Yet his voice indicates anything but.
"You don't... know?" He quirks a brow. No hint of acknowledgement in his voice.
Guess the blond is one of those people who care very little about celebrities.
"Look," Thomas avoids answering. "I just need to borrow your scarf for a moment. I'll give it back later, okay?"
The stranger's face puckers in distaste and okay, Thomas might feel a little slighted at that. He's one of America's most sought actors; people swoon at his name and scream for his presence. There's no need for the blond man to look at him like he's--
"Whatever. Keep it. I don't want it anymore." The stranger blankly says, pulling a black case that he's kept hidden at his side. Thomas is about to make a contemptuous comment when the man opens said casing and collects a... Violin and a bow, tucking them close to his chest, like they're the most precious things to him.
Thomas looks up at the man, careful as not to let the cloth cascades his eyes. "You play for tips?" voice muffles by the scarf.
"No, you moron." He cradles the saddle between his neck and chin; fingers pull at the strings once, twice before he puffs a breath as he lowers the bow down on the fingerboard. "Practicing." He sounds as if he's had enough of Thomas. Fine. He can deal with that as an exchange for 'borrowing' his stuff. Thomas scans the area. No paparazzi spotted. So far. Bless the cloth veiling his face and his dark hair.
"Now, as long as you're quiet, you can do whatever the bloody hell you want."
Wow. Rude. And okay, noted.
"You can call me Tom." A nickname, to play safe. Thomas leans back on the bench, closing his eyes once silence creeps around them and after seconds, Thomas is almost sure the stranger won't answer when finally - finally - a gentle tenor mumbles. So unlike the man's previous bitterness.
"Newton. Newt for short."
There's something in the way he speaks. Like he's already in a faraway world, so revered and calm and so very different from this one that Thomas - for the very first time that day - has to slowly flutter his eyes open to look at the blond. At Newt, who now nurtures a steady rhythm in his breathing, gaze seems to close off and then, and then long fingers move.
The flow in the music tucks away at the cords in his chest, almost cosseting his mind in a gentle touch before it's being swayed in gentle patterns (Left. Right. Float. Fly) and followed by a tiny hush of shy comfort as the world around him dances, swirls, and hums before it explodes into thousands of clouds. Just as soft as the music. Thomas smiles, watching Newt diving deeper and deeper into a fairy-tale world.
He observes the other man, noting finally how Newt's hair ruffles when the breeze pokes at the pallid bronze strands, how his neck arches celestially to match the movement he pressures on his violin, how his lean fingers chase at the luxuriate at the end of the tunnel and Thomas swears - downright swears - it's as if the sparks of borealis live in Newt's dark eyes. Joy and melancholy at the same time. So cold and out of reach. So sacrosanct.
Thomas inhales.
Holy cactus flavored juice, the blond is beautiful and Thomas adores beautiful, little things. It’s also kinda of well-known that Thomas always has a soft spot for people who can play musical instruments professionally. And British accent, let’s not about forget that.
Ah. Klunk.
Minho, his co-star, is going to laugh at him. Again.
Newt continues to play for a long while, constant and yet not and at each string the blond's plucked, Thomas' interest only kindles. His then-smile turns to a sly grin and when Newt finally stops playing, it is the predatory look in Thomas' eyes that he notices first.
"What?" Newt blinks. Eyes wide and confused. "Gonna make fun of me, Greenie?"
Thomas arches a brow; the gesture causes the scarf to flail helplessly on his hair. Urgh.
"You recognize me then?"
"Not at first. But after a while, yes." Newt carefully tucks the instrument back into its protective case; the bow nestles perfectly at the violin's side, like two half of the same coin. Newt closes the lid and puts the black case in his laps. The brunet actor is mayhap a tad jealous of the inanimate objects. "Thomas Edison Greenie, the young beloved actor with dozens of awards and nominations. My sister's crazy about you. Make edits and everything before posting them on tumblr. Her favorite hobby."
Newt sounds as if he's heard about him constantly that he's just annoyed even at the mention of his name now. Thomas doesn't like that and it isn't due to his ego.
"Your sister has a great taste then." Thomas quips. He takes a look or two at the park. Still almost empty as before and the previous freelance photographer is nowhere to be seen anymore. Good. Thomas removes the cloth caging his magnificent face, brushing his short hair once to regain his monumental equilibrium.
"How do I look?"
"Bloody ridiculous."
Thomas laughs. "I like it when you say bloody. It's cute."
He doesn't know what he expects. A blush maybe? A sputter or maybe even a pink shyness. He definitely isn't expecting a bored looking British male sending him an absurd look.
"Pull that move on my sister and you'd have a loyal servant fawning over you forever."
Thomas smirks.
Gracious.
Oh, Newt.
"How about you?"
"Sorry?"
"What should I do to make you swoon over me?"
Newt looks at him strangely.
"Nothing. We're both boys."
Thomas shrugs. "I've dated boys before. I like them just as much as I like girls."
“Not me. Girls only. No boys. Nothing’s wrong with that but I just prefer girls more.”
“That’s why I’m here; to change your mind.”
Newt gives him the absurd look again. It's pathetic how Thomas wants Newt to give him a different kind of stare. One that didn’t appear as if he only felt negative vibes from Thomas, as if he was waiting for Thomas to shame him.
"You know. I'm not that bad." Thomas leans closer to the blond. Despite his words, he knows they don't ring true really. He changes bed partners as easy as he changes new phones every month; quick and efficient. "Besides, I can be gentle. If you catch my drift." He winks at the other. It's safe to admit that he likes Newt enough that he might keep him around for a while (if Newt wanted him to). Besides, Thomas always gets what he wants.
"I wouldn't know really. You're a stranger to me." Newt stands, his violin case falters at his side. "Have a blood--... Good day." Newt nods at him, lazily turning on his heels. He's just a few steps away when he feels a tug at his long sleeve, then a strong hold on his thin wrist. Newt hisses when Thomas is dangerously close to his personal space.
"Your scarf?" The actor asks softly. A hint of disappointment in his tone.
"I told you before; keep it."
Thomas blinks. "Why?"
"Uh," Newt looks down at the cloth in Thomas' grip. "It touched your lips."
Thomas stares at him like Newt just makes a kindergarten joke.
"And?"
"And nothing." A sigh. He tries to pull away but the brunet's hold is rather strong. "Look, just take it. You touch it, you keep it."
Thomas looks down at his hand that's gripping at Newt's wrist, back at Newt's face and then back at his wrist. When Thomas cocks his head up, Newt catches the same predatory glint in his eyes from before and Newt knows, he just knows he's said something wrong even though he has no grasp of what it is. Will he go to jail if he pokes both of Thomas' eyeballs with his thumbs?
"I keep what I touch, huh?"
"Let me go-"
It's quiet when it happens. Thomas bends his head down - albeit gently - before he spares a small, soft kiss on the pale spot of Newt's wrist, offering a quick nibble at the edge of the skin as he skims down to dote a kiss or two on the trembling palm, twisting Newt's wrist gently, and offering one final kiss on the knuckle. His breath ghosts against the vanilla-scent skin.
Thomas glances up.
Newt is staring at him with a sunset red flush on his cheeks. His lips stammer in a silent whimper.
Thomas grins.
Gotcha, sweet thing.
Thomas opens his mouth to charm his prey even further. "So-"
And Newt retaliates by slamming their foreheads together. Hard.
"Oww!" Thomas releases Newt's wrist urgently to rub at the burning bum on the throne of his head. From the distance, he hears Newt scream and Thomas peeks one eye open to see the blond scramble – more like limp – away childishly.
What. The. Heck.
"You have to do better than that, you shank!" There’s a trickle of challenge in Newt’s voice (Thomas like challenges, breathes and hungers for them in fact) and Thomas almost laughs at the mistake the blond’s just made by making Thomas crave for him even more. Screw keeping Newt just for a little while. When he gets the violinist next time, Thomas is keeping him forever.
Good thing he always gets what he wants.
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