Chapter Text
Newt hasn't been on the night shift in three months. The absence of reception desk work goes even further into the past. Not for lack of trying, he has given it his best shot during his first months, but the general and undisputed consensus after those disasters is that the twenty-three year old student has no sensitivity for social interaction. Guests experience his attempts at hospitality as stilted or blunt.
Simply put, Newt is not a people person.
Yet here he is, in a vast lobby that crawls up three floors until it ends in a sea of black mirror and chandelier, magnificent during daytime and transforming into a classy bottomless ceiling in the dimmed lighting settings of a quarter to midnight.
He needs the money. It's that thought that keeps playing on his mind as he stands rigidly behind the counter, awaiting unplanned guests with dead boredom. The lobby stretches out empty before him. Nobody is set to check in late tonight, and the restaurant has closed an hour ago. Those guests who did occupy the lounge for a while with a book or a coffee have all retired. Working at the reception desk means he can not do his homework for next morning's classes. He most certainly is not allowed to browse his phone. He can get a drink from the bar and doodle on pieces of paper sticking out of the agenda, easy to hide in the case of unexpected guests, and he hasn't worked the night shift frequently enough to think of better ways to entertain himself.
He would have probably broken any one of those rules by now, if not for the CCTV indiscriminately registering him from four different angles.
The Grand Paragon Hotel, like all the others across the continent bearing the same name, is an upper class hotel aimed at businessmen, politicians, and anyone else willing to dish out two hundred dollars a night for the cheapest room with a dull view. The higher up one goes, the more expensive the rooms get. People kill for a single night in the penthouse; a week's stay costs as much as Newt's university tuition for a full year. Newt has to admit that it is a very nice suite, even if the price is ridiculous.
Anyone remotely ambitious in town aspires to be able to afford the room. It's like eating a million dollar hamburger from a box studded with diamonds, and then having to return the box; owning the penthouse for a night is more about what other people think than it is about just getting a good night's rest. Still, the room is booked at least two months of the year.
Newt knows all the rooms by heart. He has been in the penthouse a few times, but he also likes those few offering a gorgeous vista during winter when dawn is at nine and his shift hours allow him to witness it. Again, the reception desk is not really his thing. Newt's regular assignment is on cleaning duty, which gives him full access to the rooms of important people. Open suitcases, carelessly offering accessibility to expensive electronics and passports left behind because they aren't necessary for a quick sightseeing tour, paint a vivid picture of the lives of their guests. He has ten minutes to clean the room and then Sherlock Holmes around without touching more than the bedding and the bathroom replacements.
Since he has been the only one available for this night shift and it does pay double, he figured he could give it another try. He regrets that decision now. God, he thinks with his arms draped lazily over the marble counter top slowly warming up under his weight, there is literally nothing to do. Vince, the janitor, will be back from his rounds in half an hour, and Newt is counting the minutes for some human interaction.
The escalator stops with a ding. He promptly straightens up. Winston, the bell boy, glances at him as he passes the lobby in a straight line to the front door. Unlike half of the other people here, Winston is not a student. He is the oldest son of Ruskin and Sons, a butchery around the corner. The other three sons all work at the butchery, but Winston needs money to pay the rent of the apartment downtown that he shares with three friends, and if his dad was to pay one son a decent wage, he would have to start paying them all. Hence, bell boy.
Newt is almost desperate enough to call after Winston—who has a sort of humour that isn't funny unless one is into uncivilised jokes—when the next escalator door opens. Two men he hasn't seen before, wearing black tie and too bulky to be classy, look at him in unison before following Winston to the front entrance.
Curiosity perked, the chat with Vince is pushed to the back of Newt's mind. He watches as glass doors open from the outside, offering entrance to a flurry of cold air and late autumn leaves to dance across the black marble and gold inlaid floor. With it are the two men and a rumour of people outside. They shelter a third figure, usher him in while shielding him from outside. Together they become a mass of black, occasionally but shortly lit up by a flash that comes from outside.
A second later, two trolleys filled with suitcases follow for the single person. The door closes, and silence returns to the domain.
As soon as the doors of the elevator start carrying their guest up to the respective floor, Newt is back in action. "Winston!" He throws him an expression that says, 'what the fuck?'.
"VIP," Winston replies as if that is supposed to explain to Newt what is going on.
"Yeah? What about check-in? VIP or not—"
Winston hangs his shoulders, his face a deadpan that cuts Newt's words off. Winston also isn't a people person. "VIP, Newt. Penthouse kind of VIP." He pushes the trolleys into the service elevator. "Does-not-pay-for-the-penthouse kind of VIP," he adds with an exasperated sigh when Newt still doesn't catch on. "Whatever, dude. The big boss knows about him."
Like that, he's gone, dousing the lobby back into its dull after hours stillness. Newt's brows crease. The flashing diminishes in the corner of his eyes. A few minutes later, it is as if it has never happened. The night has suddenly shifted from bland to intriguing, overriding his short-lasted annoyance that someone could have been nice and stuck a note into the agenda. He needs to know more.
Someone who does not have to pay for the penthouse—and without entourage, his mind supplies. Everyone pays to brag about the penthouse, that's the purpose of having the top floor of the city's most expensive hotel. Newt quickly leafs through the agenda one more time. Nothing. He eyes his phone, skilfully hidden under the counter and just out of reach for the surveillance camera at his back, and is—
A hand slams onto the desk. "Dude."
In front of him stands an imposing guy, panting in exertion. He also has ten nerd hobbies, which is why Newt is not impressed by the unexpected appeal. He knows this man well enough after having sharing classes him for over seven years now. Alby is a friend.
The other man leans his weight against the desk. He is grinning. "Look at you here, actually working. I feel so proud right now. I thought you said your plans were making twice as much money doing nothing."
Newt shrugs that off. "Beats being here doing nothing without getting paid for it." Because Alby is not on shift, and it's nearing midnight. On a Tuesday. Newt has a better reason.
Alby's excuse is that he's bored. Newt hasn't got anything to do, nor Alby, and there is nothing in the rules against talking with fellow members of the staff. "No, really," Alby shakes his head, "I was in the neighbourhood when that cluster of flash photography hit the doors." He gestures over his shoulder. Newt notices the slacks and running shirt. "So, what have we got? Mayor? Celebrity?"
"Someone who got the penthouse for free? I don't know."
Alby whistles. "And you're stuck down here. Hey, you want me to have a look?"
Newt is about to do stop Alby from edging towards the elevators like he is now, if only because someone is going to look at Newt in the morning for disturbances during his watch. He won't be able to pin this on the security guards. He opens his mouth. Newt has a spotless record, and the boss likes him. There are a number of ways he can pass this off with an excuse. Of course, he could wait for Winston, but getting Winston to tell him more than what he has told him before is like trying to squeeze water out of a grain of sand.
"Hell yes."
Alby chuckles. He spins around with a bounce. The indicator above the elevator—an old-fashioned arrow to match the rest of the art deco interior—soon shifts with every floor, keeping Newt in suspense.
When it stops fully to the right, his mouth tugs a line from ear to ear. Mission fucking accomplished. That the indicator starts dropping back to the left almost at once may or may not mean that he has cheered too fast. Whatever. As much as he enjoys putting together the pieces on an otherwise uneventful shift, Newt needs results now. "So?" His voice, louder than usual, bounces off the stone to cross the lobby to get lost in the chandeliers.
Alby, ever helpful, walks painfully slowly up to the desk that Newt is not allowed to leave. He is taking his time, knowing that Newt wants to hiss things at him that wouldn't be professional. Upon reaching him, he leans forward against the counter. His eyes are twinkling. This is going to be good. "The guy has bodyguards, Newt."
"So a celebrity?" Newt isn't usually excited about celebrities, unless maybe when it is about the contents of their rooms. No, it is the air of mystery that does it. He can't stand it, and yet he is eating it up. Even Alby's intentional pause, much as he pretends with a push against his friend's shoulder not to, has him on his toes.
When Alby finally tells him that their guest is the heir of the chain—the kid of the big boss himself, all the way from the Big Apple—Newt can not help it; he is disappointed.
"Sort of a celebrity," Alby tries.
Newt shuts the agenda with a snap. "Only because him being here is going to have everyone on tiptoe." That's not entirely fair, because he knows nothing about the man. And their guest could be there for only a few days. It's just that the title comes with expectations. They have had his father over for quality assessment, a few months before Newt started working at the Grand Paragon, and from what he has heard, it has been akin to extended purgatory.
Either way, having the son of the big boss stay is something he is ambivalent about. So it is either back to being bored, or prodding Alby for company.
Thankfully, his friend does not disappoint.
* * *
During the days that follow, Newt is covered in lectures and assignments. He doesn't have another shift until Saturday—thankfully being restored to regular cleaning duty—but there is no rest to be had, no idle time in which he can enjoy preparing a decent meal instead of shoving a clump of microwave-ready noodles down his throat and be done with it. He finishes the accompanying salty soup only because it makes his diet more nutritious.
A new boy named Thomas has joined his International Business classes midway, cocky like he owns the place. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. Thomas, who is introduced to the first class he and Newt share with a bodyguard right outside the classroom window, wouldn't enroll in a course if he is only there for a few days. Though Newt figures Thomas does a lot of things just for the hell of it.
Seated in the back of the class, his eyes flit from the blackboard and the teacher to the new student. Thomas has asked Mr. Iwada about the material covered in previous three classes; Mr. Iwada is too nice and has so far tried to cram a summary into fifteen minutes out of everyone's time. Some classmates eventually take out their phones or turn around in their seats, and it takes a little longer before he understands that his class suffers because the new student demands attention.
Thomas is assigned to the kid next to him for more information, but Mr. Iwada can't make up for lost time. Their class is cut short before he has had the time to cover all of the new material.
Newt is not a fan.
"He's not that bad," Alby shrugs during coffee and homework.
Newt taps his pen on the paper. His opinion won't make him sound very nice when pronounced aloud. Instead he finishes a part of the assignment, which has to be done in half an hour before his next class, and he isn't close to wrapping up even a third of it. Newt is a good student, who just happens to have overestimated the amount of classes he can physically handle in a semester. The new kid just is not a priority at this moment.
"I'm telling you," Alby rambles on with his coffee clutched in his hands and no homework on the table in front of him, adamant to strike up idle conversation, "he took the time to chat with some of us at work yesterday. Turns out, he is taking most of your classes."
Newt's mouth twitches.
"Yeah, I know. Except of course the couple of extra ones." Alby gestures at Newt's paperwork. "I gotta admit, he's got more sanity than you."
"They're interesting classes."
"You need to think about other things than interesting classes, Newt. Like the fact that you need to pass most of them."
Newt can handle it. What does surprise him is that the heir to the Grand Paragon Hotel is enrolling in Anthropology instead of something like a business degree or anything else that makes more sense. It's obvious where he is going to end up when he gets out of university.
Closing his book and rounding up the stray papers, he is about to give up on his assignment when the bell above the door chimes and the devil himself bustles into the campus coffee shop.
Thomas, Newt is loathe to admit, does not look like he has more money than he can handle. A simple hooded sweater, sneakers and jeans make him look approachable; as does the laughter that peels from him at surprisingly respectable levels. He turns down the volume just in case, before searching for a spot for him and his companion further down the cafeteria, where he faces Newt's back and ought to pass from his attention swiftly.
A look at Alby reflects that such is not the case. The problem is that Alby knows him too well. By now he will have connected the dots about when Newt is spacing out, mentally inaccessible, and the presence of the very student left of Thomas. Alby still reads Newt like an open book, and Newt has long stopped attempting to hide the pages, knowing that its secrets are accepted and safe with his friend. So it passes unspoken that Newt is thinking of the way the left boy's eyes crinkle when he smiles—because oh, Newt knows him well. The new kid has struck up a friendship with Minho Park, highest ranking both on the track and on the list of people that everyone wants to be friends with, on only his second day.
Newt shares one class with Minho; he runs into the other boy more often than that, and they once bumped into each other during Christmas quite by chance, but Newt is certain Minho has no idea who he is.
Everyone likes Minho, and elites attract. Which is why some of the more shameless people around Newt and Alby are sneaking photos with their phones when they think nobody can see it. Which is why Newt wishes he was in Alby's spot, considering to degrade himself to the same level.
He doesn't think he would, but that is not the point. He would have had the choice. And the view.
Voices carry in the coffee shop. By the time they reach Newt, Thomas and Minho sound too distorted by cutlery against ceramics and other people talking to make sense of what they're saying. He picks up that it appears to be an animated conversation. When it stops, it must be because they have taken the time to look at the card or check their phones. Not because Alby is waving at them.
Newt crashes back into reality.
"What are you—"
Alby grins, points at Newt—Newt shows his appreciation with a kick in the shins—before he gestures at Thomas and Minho over his head.
"Told him about you at work," Alby explains. "He said he needed to catch up, and you're practically doing all his classes. I figured—"
"You're such a fucking terrible friend."
Newt swirls his spoon around the inside of his cup. The silver stirs the shallow bottom left of his milk-and-coffee in a soothing motion, but Newt's eyes do not leave Alby's, his other hand flat on the table and already shifting his weight to push himself up. "I'm leaving. "
"Newt?"
Newt strings a stanza of curses together in his head, his eyes still on Alby, before diplomacy wins out. He smooths over the creases in his face, then turns to the source of the voice. Newt's eyes drop to his shoulder, where Thomas's hand is resting. "Oh. Hi." He forces it out with an exerted smile. "Thomas, right?"
Newt is going to kill Alby.
Thomas has kind eyes; Newt wants to punch them, too. He senses Alby gesturing something at Thomas behind his back, and Thomas at least removes the hand out of his personal space. Better. "Hi! It's really nice to meet you. You work at the hotel too, right? Your friend told me you were, and that we share a couple of classes. Thought I'd come and say hi."
"Yeah, sure." A blank stretches out where words should be. Newt has nothing to say. He helplessly fishes for something. "Er. Are you liking it so far?"
He is ready to shoot himself; Thomas waves for Minho and then draws a chair from another table, leaning forward. Newt had an opportunity to let the talk bleed to death before anyone could turn it into something real, and now his punishment is having to sit and listen as Thomas politely waltzes over any protests before Newt can make them with a cheerful attitude, starting about the trip from New York to the car that got him into the hotel fourteen hours later. He tells about how wonderful the view is from up high, and how charming he finds the staff so far. He can't wait to meet everyone else. University is going to take some time catching up on, he admits, and it's all overwhelming to have to pick up hallway.
Thomas expertly leads them to where he wants them to be; maybe Newt could drop by at work some time and help him out. He stresses that he is so lucky someone else from the hotel takes the same classes.
Thomas expects him to say yes. His error is in giving Newt time to speak. "Yeah, er, I'm running late."
"Oh. Sure." Still brimming with positivity, Thomas taps at his watch. It's chrome and expensive and possibly a limited edition. "Shit, you're right. Linguistics lecture, you too? There any chance you could point me the way? I'm still learning my way around."
Minho stops playing with his phone. Whereas Alby has abundantly signalled involvement in the one-sided conversation that is rather much like an excited monologue on Thomas's side, Newt expected Minho not to have heard a word, his expressions coaxed only by what is on the screen. "Dude, it's easy. Building across the lawn. You take the main door and you just keep walking. Follow signs for the auditorium when you're inside."
"Really? Cool. Thanks, man."
"No problem."
The honesty in the exchange takes Newt by surprise. He steels himself, sensing a trap, and moves his stuff to his bag. It's five more minutes before the lecture; Newt tells himself that it's because he wants a nice spot. That will at least be his excuse if people ask. He gets up and forces a smile. If he doesn't get away soon, he is going to make an ass out of himself.
"Pleasure to meet you," he tells Thomas. Minho.
No one can say he hasn't tried.
Newt pushes forward. He drops his cup off at the counter and fumbles for his ear buds, leaving Alby to make new friends in his free hour. When his hand is on the door handle, he looks around. The coffee shop is a popular place to study, and it is one of Newt's favourite spots on campus. But Thomas is already gathering his stuff and getting ready to catch up with him. Newt pushes past the door quickly.
"Boy," the new boy chuckles when he crashes down in the seat next to Newt five minutes later, "you're fast."
"You're just slow."
The beat of silence is swallowed up by other students pouring in. Thomas's hands pause in his bag. Then life resumes, and he shrugs it off. "Hey, could you tell me what book—"
Newt raises his own. "Page 320. Influences of Sanskrit."
"Really? Cool. What did we have last week?"
"Influences of Sanskrit."
"Oh."
Newt puts the book back down. The curt responses are gratifying. "And yes, you're expected to know the whole other 319 pages before next week's test."
"Well, shuck."
"Which is not a word." Newt is smiling now.
"…A little help?"
He can't help it. Thomas may have been fed with a golden spoon and yes, he may have access to everything he wants; he might make things very difficult for Newt at work if Newt manages to offend him—which Newt is notoriously good at. But Thomas is also like an excited puppy, one who for some reason follows him around and ignores Newt's social rank, and doesn't understand when he's not wanted, to the point where his efforts become almost charming.
Thomas will learn fast enough. Until that time, Newt will go to lengths to shut him up.
"After work tomorrow, Greenie?"
No price is greater than Thomas opening and closing his mouth the way he does at that name.