Archive of Our Own

Newt stared at the back of Thomas’s head like it had personally wronged him. Which, to be fair, it sort of had—by existing. And by being attached to the rest of Thomas, who had gone away to some leadership camp for one bloody month and come back looking like someone who starred in his own coming-of-age Netflix special.

The hair was messier, in a stupidly intentional way. The jawline was sharper. His laugh? Criminal. And now he was sitting across the courtyard surrounded by girls, all of them leaning in like Thomas was saying something important, even though Newt knew—knew—he was just talking about baseball or how much he hated the airport.

Newt dug his fork into a sad excuse for his breakfast and tried not to cry. Or scream. Or leap across the table and shake Minho by the shoulders.

Minho, in contrast, was perfectly content, reshuffling his cue cards—perhaps finding a new one to throw at Newt. "You look like you're either gonna pass out or confess to murder," he said, not looking up.

Newt inhaled sharply. “Do you—do you see him?”

Minho slowly raised an eyebrow without lifting his head. “You mean the guy you've been staring at for the past eight minutes and thirty-four seconds?”

Newt smacked his forehead against the table. “Yeah. Tommy.”

Minho flipped a page, chewing on something new. “Same difference.”

“I’m not—I just—he wasn’t like this before! He was normal! He had acne and awkward elbows!”

“And now?”

Newt glared at him before hiding his chin under his arms on the table. “Now he’s... shiny. He glowed up, Minho! People are looking at him. Girls are looking at him. They’re touching his arm and giggling.”

“So what?”

“If one more girl asks for his number, I’m going to kill myself.”

Minho plucked a fry off his tray and pointed it at him like a wand. “Avada-kedavra.”

“Fuck you.”

“Just so you know,” he said, still chewing, “if you do kill yourself, I’m not dragging your British body to the nurse’s office.”

Before Newt could reply, a chair scraped back beside them.

“Why’s Newt going to the nurse’s office?”

It was Thomas. Of course it was.

The girls were gone now. Dispersed. Probably. Newt peeked up from his arms.

There was a lipstick stain on Thomas’s cheek.

Minho snorted. “You, uh... got a little something.”

Newt glared at the stain like it personally offended him.

Thomas blinked, then reached up and wiped at his cheek. “What? Do I—what is it?”

“Lipstick,” Minho said, not bothering to look up. “Bright red. Right side. Kind of obvious, really.”

Thomas laughed, but it came out a little tight. “Oh. That must’ve been—uh. Teresa. She, um... yeah.”

Newt wanted to be sick.

Teresa with her perfect eyeliner and annoyingly symmetrical face. She'd been all over Thomas lately, talking to him about the camp, the workouts, touching his arm.

“You’re popular now,” Newt muttered without looking up. “Congrats. Must be fun.”

Thomas raised a brow, pulling out the chair beside Newt and dropping into it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Minho very quietly packed his cue cards away and slid it into his bag like he knew what was coming.

“It’s not supposed to mean anything,” Newt snapped. “Forget it.”

“No,” Thomas said, leaning closer. “Say it.”

Newt lifted his head, finally meeting his eyes. That infuriating, soft brown gaze that looked like it had never once struggled with wanting to kiss someone it shouldn’t.

“You disappear for three weeks,” Newt said, voice quiet and tight. “And suddenly everyone wants a piece of you.”

Thomas blinked. There’s a smirk under it. “You upset I glowed up?”

Newt laughed, “forget it.”

Thomas tilted his head. “Are you mad I’m getting girls?”

The table went dead silent. 

Even Minho, who was pretending to scroll through his phone, froze.

Newt stared at him. “What?”

Thomas leaned back slowly, like he was thinking. “Because if that’s what this is—”

Newt stood up too fast, his chair scraping. “I have class.”

“You haven’ eaten your breakfast.” 

Newt snatched up his sad-looking muffin, took a dramatic bite, then dropped the rest back on the tray. With one last breath through his nose, he stormed off toward the canteen trash bins.

When he passed by again, Minho was finally packing up.

Newt bent low, just enough to be level with Thomas, who hadn’t moved.

“Breakfast here’s shit anyway,” he muttered. Then he turned and left, Minho following after him.

_________

Minho, deadpan as ever, stared into space. “It’s like a curse mark.”

Newt groaned into the book lying on top of his face, sinking deeper into the Library cushions.

“Like the Dark Mark.” 

“What the hell does that mean?”

Minho shrugged. “You see it once and it’s burned into your soul. That lipstick on his cheek. It’s haunting you.”

“Minho,” Newt tilted his head up, causing the book to fall back onto his lap. “We’re seventeen. How are you still into Harry Potter? Rowling’s said so much dumb shit. I’m honestly embarrassed she’s British.”

“I’m embarrassed you’re British,” Minho said calmly.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Sure it does. British people like you are all posh and charming, like some BBC drama.”

“Prat.”

“See? Even your insults are posh.”

Minho grinned, and Newt rolled his eyes just as a loud, inconsiderate thud shattered the moment. A messenger bag landed squarely on the desk like a dying animal, spilling half its contents.

Alby didn’t even flinch. “I gotta piss before we start calculus,” he announced, already turning toward the hallway.

“Charming,” Newt muttered under his breath.

Minho just snorted and began rummaging through his pencil case like it had swallowed a black hole. “Where’s my whiteboard marker? I swear this thing eats my stuff.”

They always studied math together. Well, maths, as Newt insisted on calling it. Alby had somehow become the unofficial group leader, mostly because he bullied them into keeping quiet and sticking to the syllabus. 

The library’s tutoring room was cold, humming with the soft drone of fluorescent lights and a rattling old fan. Outside the window, rain smeared itself against the glass in gentle sheets. 

Newt stood by the whiteboard, cap in his mouth, uncapping a blue marker with his free hand while scrawling a neat parabola across the top corner.

Minho, next to him, had found a working marker and was absolutely not using it properly. His ‘8’s looked suspiciously anatomical. (A penis).

Newt glanced over. “Minho.”

Minho turned to him, wide-eyed with faux innocence. “Yes, Professor Isaac’s?”

Newt pointed the marker at his drawing. “Those are not integers.”

“They could be,” Minho offered, not breaking eye contact as he added a long oval to the side of the number eight. “If you squint.”

“You’re so immature.” Newt turned back to the board, trying not to smile. “Actually, disgusting. You’re banned from exponents.”

The door creaked open behind them. Newt knew the sound before it finished, felt it crawl up his spine and settle like static between his shoulder blades.

Thomas.

“Sorry I’m late,” Thomas said, dropping into the chair with his usual loose-limbed grace. His hoodie was damp at the edges, his hair sticking slightly to his forehead like he’d run through the rain to get here.

Newt didn’t turn around. He just stared at the whiteboard a little harder.

“Nice of you to join us,” Minho said without looking up, still doodling perversions into their equations. “We’ve already covered Newton’s laws and Newton’s breakdown.”

Newt threw the whiteboard eraser at Minho’s head.

Thomas snorted softly, and Newt hated the way the sound made something flicker in his chest.

“Is he still mad?” Thomas asked in a hushed whisper to Minho.

Minho just drew a big penis on the whiteboard with a shrug.

Newt finally looked over. 

Tommy had bags in his hands. Two. Four drinks in total. One looked like Minho’s large bubble tea.

He slid the drink tray onto the table like it was a peace offering.

“Got everyone’s order,” he said casually, like he hadn’t missed the first hour of study or drawn the full attention of one moody Brit in a brown sweater that looked far too good in the library’s terrible lighting.

Minho peeked over, then immediately dropped his marker. “Oolong with pearls?”

Thomas smirked. “Yeah, peach. Figured you’d want to chew on something while you flunk trig again.”

Minho grabbed it reverently. “You do love me.”

Alby reached for his jasmine green tea without a word, already flipping through a tabbed math workbook like he was training for war. “Start from question thirty-eight. And no distractions.”

Newt was quiet. Thomas slid a familiar cup toward him, the paper still steaming gently. A red sticker on the side spelled out in Tommy’s handwriting: Cinnamon Dolce Latte.

Newt looked down at it. Then back up at him. “Fine. Grab a marker.”

Thomas just grinned. He looked stupid when he did that thing with his shoulders whenever he won an argument.

Minho cackled. Alby didn’t even look up. “Focus.”

Newt took the cup anyway, curling his hands around the warmth like he could to will it chase away the buzzing curling in his ribs.

Then Thomas plopped into the seat beside him. Not across. Not diagonally. Right beside him.

He cracked open a Coke. A proper, carbonated Coke. No straw. No napkin. Just fizz and poor life decisions.

Newt raised a brow. “You ordered from a bubble tea shop and got a Coke?”

“I don’t trust things with floating balls in them.”

Minho let out a wheeze that he tried to hide behind his cup.

“Grow up,” Alby said, not looking up from his equations.

“Never,” Minho whispered solemnly.

Thomas glanced sideways at Newt, the edge of his thigh brushing just barely against his under the table. Newt pretended not to notice. Sipped his latte.

Bergamot filled his mouth. Calming, earthy. Familiar.

Which was ironic, because nothing felt familiar right now. Not the way Thomas had glowed up over the summer. Not the way his voice had deepened slightly. Not the fact that girls were suddenly orbiting him like he was the bloody sun. And certainly not the way Newt’s heartbeat stuttered every time Thomas looked at him like he meant it.

“I’m not mad,” Newt said suddenly, too loud.

Three heads turned toward him.

Thomas, mid-sip of his Coke, blinked. “Alright…”

Newt gripped his latte tighter. “It’s just annoying.”

“What is?” Thomas asked, peering at him.

Newt stared into his black plastic coffee cup, as if it might offer an escape hatch. “The girls.”

A beat. Then Thomas grinned like he’d cracked some kind of code. “Ohhh. That’s what this is.”

Newt narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“You’re jealous,” Thomas said, far too brightly. “You’re mad you’re not getting any.”

Minho choked on a tapioca pearl.

Alby didn’t even look up.

Then Thomas leaned in, voice soft. “Clint’s having a party this Saturday.”

Newt looked at him. “I know.”

“Well, Teresa’s going. And she’s bringing a few of her friends. One of them—Marcy? Macy?—said she loves Blonde guys.” Thomas gave him a meaningful look. “Could be your shot.”

“Tommy,” Newt hissed, setting his tea down too hard.

Thomas blinked innocently. “What? I could be a wingman. Girls love the whole brooding Brit thing you’ve got.”

Minho started quietly humming God Save the Queen under his breath while.. well, he was actually studying.

Alby snapped his fingers. “Equation thirty-eight, now. Or I’m setting fire to this table.”

Chastened, Thomas turned back to his worksheet. Newt didn’t move. His fingers were still wrapped around the plastic coffee cup. And then—under the table—Thomas’s foot brushed against his. A soft nudge.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Newt looked up, locking eyes with him.

It was their code. Two nudges meant no. Three nudges meant yes.

Newt nudged back once. Just one. Deliberate. 

Just to piss him off.