Chapter Text
|
Newt had a routine when it came to his snacks. Every day, after school, he’d pull out a packet of double-stuffed mint Oreos. He never ate the whole biscuit, just the cream in the middle. There was this new boy who had started boarding the same bus every morning, and without fail, he would plop down in the seat directly across from him. Whenever the boy shuffled through, he’d slump into his seat, manspreading like he owned the place. And he never shut up, always complaining about forgetting something or rummaging through his unzipped backpack, dropping things everywhere. It was baffling how someone could be so absent-minded. How hard was it to zip up a bag? It wasn’t just that he sat there; it was the sheer consistency of it. At first, Newt had thought it was merely coincidental—maybe he was just another student trying to find his place. But as the days went on, it became clear that this was a deliberate choice on his part. And, it was bloody annoying. What irritated Newt the most was the boy’s almost theatrical disarray. He’d flop down, unzipping his jacket with his teeth, and then slump with an exaggerated sigh when he couldn’t find whatever it was he’d lost. It was as if he expected someone else—specifically, Newt—to conjure up whatever was missing out of thin air. And that wasn’t all. Out of the corner of his eye, Newt could see the boy glancing over at him with a peculiar mix of curiosity and mischief. Each fleeting look, followed by a swift glance away, seemed like some unspoken challenge or game. The boy’s presence was more than just an annoyance; it was a persistent, irritating detail that seemed to demand his attention. Newt began to question why he chose to sit across from him, of all people. Was it simply a matter of convenience, or was there something more to it? Why was this boy ruining his routine? Before this trend, Newt would fidget with his packet of biscuits, fingers tracing the edges absently as he stared out the window. The bus ride home felt like the longest part of his day. Yet every time that boy came shuffling in, yapping about a B-, Newt found himself finally opening his packet of sweets. When the sunlight filtered in, it cast soft shadows on their faces. Thomas, who knew started to recognise the routine, began to wait patiently for the chocolate biscuit parts to be handed over to him. He thought it was cool the way Newt's hair would glow, lighting up as the sun peeked through tufts of his hair as the bus drove past stops. Because of this, Thomas always made sure Newt was sitting on the window-side. According to Newt, the chocolate part of an Oreo couldn’t possibly be defined as a cookie. The biscuit itself didn’t contain any pieces of chocolate or fruit, but rather was a mix of it, and possessed the typically crisp, flat, and sweet taste of a biscuit. They had done this for years. At first, it was casual: Newt would scrape off the cream, pass the chocolate biscuit parts across the seat without a word, and Thomas would continue their conversation about school, homework, or dreams of the future. The blonde boy didn't talk much, but when he did, Thomas felt like he'd unlocked some new quest to figure out what topics the boy liked to talk about, or what he didn't like talking about. But recently, something changed. Thomas noticed it in the way their fingers brushed when Newt handed over the biscuits. What was once a brief, almost accidental touch had become a lingering contact. Their fingers would touch, pause, and slowly slide apart, leaving a trail of warmth that sent shivers up his spine. He didn’t take much note of it at first, but soon enough, he feared when the touch would be shorter than usual. Newt, on the other hand, began to anticipate these moments. The way Tommy’s hand would extend, palm up, waiting. The touch was soft at first, fingers just barely grazing each other. Then, each day, it became bolder, their hands staying together longer, fingers intertwining briefly before letting go. Today, Newt held onto the chocolate biscuit part longer than usual, and Thomas’s hand didn’t pull away. Their eyes met briefly, and in that intensity was something fragile. Fear? When Newt finally placed the biscuit into Tommy’s hand, the boy’s reaction was almost instantaneous. Tommy devoured the treat with an eagerness that made Newt’s heart skip a beat. But it was what happened next that left Newt breathless. A tanned hand closed around his own, but their fingers didn’t merely graze—they held. Tommy’s tanned fingers encircled Newt’s with a gentle, deliberate pressure, and the touch was electric. Their hands lingered together, fingers weaving and holding fast as if they were afraid to part. Newt could feel the warmth of Thomas’s palm and the subtle, yet unmistakable, tremor in his touch. In that moment, the world outside their bubble of sunlight and Oreos seemed to fade into insignificance. Time felt suspended, each second stretching into an eternity. Thomas’s eyes searched Newt’s, as if looking for answers to questions he hadn’t yet asked. Newt felt his resolve crumbling, the walls he’d built around his heart slowly coming down. He wanted to say something, to bridge the gap between them, but the words were trapped in his throat. Instead, he tightened his grip on Thomas’s hand, hoping the touch would convey what he couldn’t bring himself to say. The unspoken feelings, the years of quiet longing, the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, Tommy felt the same. That day, one boy discovered what it was like to taste the double-stuffed mint cream of an Oreo biscuit, while another boy discovered the chocolate parts of the Oreo biscuit didn’t taste that bad. “You taste like cookies,” Tommy said, his voice tinged with a soft, playful note. His breath was minty, Newt noted. He liked it a lot. “Biscuits. They’re called biscuits, not cookies,” Newt corrected, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Right, biscuits,” Tommy echoed, his hands never letting go of Newt’s, “Not cookies.” |