Chapter Text
1. if fate was ever such a thing
then
"Man, why are they even sending you back?" Frypan's eyebrows screwed up in exasperation as he and the rest of our group searched Newt for an answer - all with similar expressions. That was the thing. We always managed to do everything in unison. Whether it was arranging meet up locations or what to order at the pizza place downtown, it was always in unison. Sure, at times it could be useful, but at that specific moment all Newt probably wanted to do was curdle up into a ball away from multiple prying eyes. I noticed this agitation; hell, I could feel it as if I was Newt himself and that didn't exactly help uplift the pity that was directed towards my good friend during that memorable summer day sat on the bleachers, the distant echoes of cheer leading squads and football teams and track members all blending so perfectly together as the afternoon sun crept over the freshly-cut field. One of the very last days we would live as actual high school students.
"They want what's best for me," Newt said after a stretched out sigh, "or something like that."
"Well what they want is bullshit," Brenda stated.
"Brenda!"
"No," the girl defended herself against Sonya's exclaim. "It's Newt's life, Sonya. After graduating surely he should have the right to make his own decisions," Brenda said this in a way that managed to aggravate me a little. She was talking like Newt wasn't even there, but I wasn't going to confront her about it any time soon. I distinctively remember the only time I'd ever dared to enter her room was to receive a borrowed CD and after witnessing a whole desk covered with a range of piercings - all the possible colours and shapes and sizes you could imagine - I vowed to myself never again.
I glanced up at Newt only to find him glancing right back at me. I wasn't entirely sure what I was hoping to find, but the sight of his dismal eyes seemed inevitable as they bore into mine. I guess you could say that I was just hoping to find a spark somewhere within his gaze; something to remind me that he was still the same cheeky, quick-witted Newt that he had always been. That I had always known.
He gave a weak attempt at a smile and I figured my worry must have been showing quite obviously to make him do such a thing. His focus diverted however, as the entire group executed a heated debate about Newt's future needs. His needs? I scoffed at the whole display and instead chose to scan the field down in hopes to spot Minho, which I did (miraculously) considering the runner was only barely visible amongst the crowd of the senior track team. All of them looked in deep concentration at what the coach was advising them and that caused my eyebrows to furrow at the sight of. I wasn't one to judge (well, maybe on rare occasions), but what the hell could he possibly be telling them apart from, "Now, ensure that you use both your legs - yes, right and left - and remember boys... one foot in front of the other!" ? It was one of the many ponders of sport I had found myself wondering throughout my time in high school, and they had done absolutely nothing for me except for concluding the fact that I was never going to become a sportsman in 10 years time.
Minho not-so-miraculously spotted me too and waved. I waved back in return and grinned and for a moment everything seemed normal; better than normal perhaps. It was just another day of high school before the sudden reminder that Newt was moving thousands of miles away struck at my chest. And it struck it hard.
now
If I was a person who believed in all that conspiracy crap about fate or whatever, I would've thought that bumping into him could've been avoided. Like, maybe I'd be in a completely different aisle of the store, or I could've just coincidentally left the store early enough if I hadn't been searching head to toe for Casey's damn cereal.
Staring at the ridiculous variety in front of me, I wondered, 'Where the hell did they move the Froot Loops?"
"Uuuhh..."
Casey's youthful tone of voice mumbled, "We'll find them," as she offered a second pair of determined eyes on the hunt.
Sure, I could just yank some random ol' box of cereal and explain to her that it was just as good, but luckily for me I hadn't been blessed with an easy-going child. Froot Loops meant something to her that no other cereal did and I'd be damned if I didn't find them. Scanning each and every row of cereal selections for the hundredth time will just have to be added to the long list of sacrifices a single father must make for his difficult 4 year old. After huffing and puffing and probably issuing a raised eyebrow or two in my direction, I finally spot a sliver of hope behind a box Crunch Berries.
"Evil," I muttered, and shoved them out of the way to grab Casey's favourite - who giggled amusingly at the whole display. Evil because it intentionally wasted my time spent lingering in this Goddamn aisle for so long, pass-by customers probably thought I was merely someone who couldn't make up his freaking mind about which cereal he wanted. I sighed, chucked the box into the trolley and made a mental note to try and solve that whole overthinking problem (though I doubted that resolution would stick with me by the end of this shopping trip).
After the cereal-related bump in the road, we were soon off and running again, and headed towards the tinned food aisle. A dainty hand tugged urgently at my elbow and I glanced down from my focus on the cheapest prices of baked beans. "Can I get the bread?" She asked with some type of gleam in here eyes that could cause suspicion. But I figured it was an easy enough job for a 4 year old so I said, "Only if you promise to come straight back," with an attempt at a stern look. I highly doubted she saw it as anything close to that though as she was already off and bounding round the corner as I called, "And no running!"
I must've sighed for about the 38th time that day (but, who's really counting?) and tossed 2 cans of beans into the trolley before setting off again; I made sure to stay within close range of Casey out of pure concern, considering that she's... well she's mischievous. Mischievous? Was that the right word? Maybe curious was more accurate.
But then again, aren't we all just curious about the things that we should be curious about? Like fate, if there even is such a thing. I mean, if there is such a thing - and I'm not saying there is - but if there is, then another way this little mishap could've been avoided was if I conveniently swerved out of the way of the trolley situated right in front of me. Right in front of me. I could've just not rammed into it and then this wouldn't have happened.
"Sorry!"
"Sorry, mate."
The ending of "mate" faded into nothingness as a pair of familiar hazel eyes met mine, equally shocked after being given a few milliseconds to identify one another. My hands froze, clutched onto the handle of my trolley and for a split moment of astonishment everything seemed quieter; muffled in the background. Nothing else existed except for the breathtaking sight of Newt that managed to stir millions of butterflies within my stomach. Whether that was out of excruciating nerves or the mere vision of a beautiful man's face, I had absolutely no clue. Maybe both. All I knew was that it was Newt standing there; his hair slightly thicker and more tousled, but the exact same sandy colour as I remembered it; his mouth partly agape (as was mine probably) and although it felt like that moment would last for a staggering amount of time, it seemed to end after a few seconds.
This isn't happening.
"...Thoma-"
"Daddy, is this one okay?" Casey wandered back round the corner hugging a packaged loaf of bread.
This isn't happening.
I guess Newt must've thought that Casey was another random daughter of another random dad, and I guess that's why he blinked momentarily in pure daze when she came toddling over and dropped the bread into my trolley. My trolley. It took me a while to establish that I was in fact, "Daddy," at which point Newt blinked again and glanced back at me with an unreadable expression.
Wait.
"Thomas," his speech mixed with the breath he was holding and he noticeably gulped with a terrifying kind of anticipation.
Holy shit, this is happening.
"It's really you, isn't it?" his voice practically blew me away at how utterly familiar it sounded and a genuine smile tugged at the corners of Newt's lips - the exact smile I had grown to loving ever since the first day I met him.
Newt. Newt is there. Newt is standing right there. There. In front of me. Talking to me. He's right there.
These mixture of words seemed to be the only words my mind was capable of processing. They repeated over and over again until my brain completely shut down altogether and I was left, standing there with Casey by my side who was miraculously distracted by the display of cookies on sale nearby. Without warning, she returned for the second time with a plastic box full of chocolate chip ones clutched in her hands, before dumping them straight into the trolley as well. What kind of child have I raised exactly? I thought. Instead of inquiring about the man I was currently gawking at, she uses my distracted state as an advantage to buying cookies. Amazing. Grade A parenting, Thomas.
"Newt," I successfully croaked out.
He seemed to be as lost as me, which in some ways proved to be comforting. My eyes dragged down to his lips which were too busy trying to form some kind of sentence, and eventually they did. "Hi," he said.
"You're back."
"Yeah."
"For how long?" I asked. My speech stammered the tiniest bit. This just felt strange. But not exactly a bad strange. Does 'good strange' exist? If it does, then that would be the perfect way to describe how I was feeling during this wild encounter.
"Didn't exactly plan ahead," Newt grinned timidly and my heart couldn't help but swell at the sight of it. "I actually - um - came back to meet up with the rest of the lot," his hand gestured to the side as if they were standing right there. Minho, Brenda, Frypan and everyone else. The slight wish for their presence to be true caused my chest to tighten, but Newt's mesmerising voice pretty much stopped that from escalating. "Or whoever's still around anyway," a certain sadness under toned those words and I attempted at lifting his spirits somewhat.
"Teresa's still arou-"
"-I tried to find you," he confessed. I blinked and he must have noticed my taken aback expression. "Your number, I mean. I asked around; none of them apart from Teresa knew what you were doing these days."
No one had to remind me that for the past 6 years or so I had been incredibly distant, but having someone straight up tell you was just... well it wasn't nice.
"I uh, sorta' pried for your number; your email; something to contact you with," Newt's lips upturned again in a way that made him look as if he were embarrassed at what he was pronouncing. I certainly would've been if I was in his position.
"Your voice sounds different to mine," Casey stated curiously.
Yep, definitely a curious one.
Newt's eyebrows raised as he glanced down at her with slight surprise as the little girl attempted at a word with great concentration. "Ack... cent?" She stammered with questioning.
It took Newt a few moments to realise what she was implying and I couldn't help, but chuckle softly at her developing knowledge. That chuckle turned into a shrug as my eyes met Newt's gleaming pair once again and raised an eyebrow as if to say, "Well go ahead."
"Yeah, uh..." his voice seemed to stretch out like he was flipping through all possible answers through that fascinating brain of his. "Well I'm not American like you and your Daddy here."
A shiver curdled my entire body, freezing my every move on the spot. Newt cast a quick glance in my general direction, but by then I was convinced my face had flushed pure red. What the hell, Thomas? I screamed at my own self. No no no no NO. He only said "Daddy" because that's what Casey's used to me being labeled as for God's sake. But no matter what I tried to convince myself, there was no denying the fact that my organs practically dis functioned for a solid second once that word left Newt's lips. I mentally kicked the brain cell in charge of that. Pull yourself together you immature imbecile; you only started talking a few minutes ago and you're already letting those kind of thoughts drift into your mind? Jesus.
After the brawl within my mind finally ceased, I realised I had missed Newt's entire explanation as to why he had a different sounding accent; he still looked as if he were answering one of Casey's many obscure questions and I almost sighed contently at the whole display. Of course, I had to fight that temptation due to the risk of it looking somewhat weird.
"Listen, uh," Newt eventually straightened his posture from where he had been crouched down to around Casey's level, "I have to go; I'm kinda' meeting up with Frypan," the grin that came with that name was contagious and I felt my own lips widening at the sound of it. For some reason I was totally convinced that the guy hadn't changed at all the past couple years. Like, at all.
"If we could - y'know - exchange numbers, or something?" He asked hesitantly, which I internally frowned at. Is this what 8 years apart had done for us? When will we switch back into our everyday conversations that we used to have about even the most random of things? This theory is probably biased of some sort, but I always thought that out of the entire group, Newt and I could always - without a doubt - lounge around discussing whatever came to our young teenage minds. It was just what we did. Me and Newt. Newt and me. I couldn't ever imagine having a conversation about "whether or not dogs could read their owner's minds" with anyone else besides him. I itched to get back into that routine, but something told me it wasn't going to happen instantly.
"There," I handed Newt's phone back to him after punching in my number and tried to ignore how his hand brushed momentarily against mine during the brief exchange. Repetitive, "No, Thomas"'s echoed in my head after the blonde seemed satisfied with the new addition to his contact list and tucked the phone back into his back pocket. All of this was being witnessed by Casey - slightly wide-eyed at Newt like she was still processing all of the information he had just told her. Sure, to someone older it seemed like basic information that anyone should know, but for a developing brain like her's it was probably the equivalent of understanding the science behind one of Steven Hawking's theories.
"Right! Well..." Newt ran a hand through his soft-looking sandy hair and my eyes followed every movement with wonder. His eyes met mine and it took all of my will power not to let the hitching of my breath become noticeable. A wave of nausea hit me, and the all too familiar feeling that the mere connection of his gaze managed to cause overtook every one of my senses. One single, pathetic glance later and I was paralyzed.
The Brit opened his mouth as if to say something rational. Raw and unplanned. My heart raced, but by the time I merely blinked he had pressed his lips into a thin, genuine smile. "It was nice seeing you again, Tommy."
Silence ensued between us after that, but only for a split second. And within that split second my entire body had managed to feel totally engulfed within scorching flames, blistering my weakest spots before striking at my heart. Equally, I felt as if my stomach had become a great big block of metal, mercilessly plunging to the ground like it was attempting to manipulate me into thinking I was on a deathly roller coaster ride.
Is this what everyone experiences when an old friend calls them by their nickname? (A nickname that hadn't been sounded to my ears in just over 8 years). But still. This level of intensity? If that's the case, then I'm not sure if I can bear to endure one more minute of Newt's presence out of fear that the name may just pop up again, sending me into yet another whirlpool of utter madness.
Jesus, this was too much.
"You too, Newt," I shakily forced out, hoping the nerves didn't show as much as I dreaded they probably did.
Please, who am I kidding? Of course they did.
Here I was - a guy who could barely stand on his own two feet purely because of the fact that an old friend used his freaking nickname. His nickname, though. The very one that I was so utterly used to hearing everyday in the hallways; over my shoulder when he called for my attention; softly when we were having one of those 'talk about pretty much anything' conversations whilst sprawled out on his bedroom floor. It was just a name, but it meant so much more than that. The leaping of my heart and the plunging of my stomach should act as more than enough evidence to prove it.
As Newt disappeared round the corner of the aisle, making sure to turn around and give one last final grin, Casey chucked a small box of muffins into the trolley (when did she get those?) before mumbling, "He's nice."
I hummed in agreement, but my eyes were still locked onto the vacant spot of which he was just standing. Him. Newt. It all still felt like one big, hazy dream that was impossible to wake up from, no matter how many times I persuaded my unconscious self to do just that; to prove that this wasn't actually happening and never will. Because, however dismaying that would be if it were to happen, it'd still be a whole lot easier to deal with than the raging excitement currently threatening to overwhelm all of my senses (not that they were that controlled in the first place).
Observing Casey's sudden interest in a can of pineapples on display, I huffed amusingly and dragged a hand down my weary face. "C'mon," I told her with a gentle guiding hand. "We need ice cream."