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Los Angeles, 2016
Thomas lets out a bitter laugh that ties his insides into knots, the sound of it breaking the oppressive silence that had fallen over the room. He’s standing in the middle of Newt’s apartment, fists clenched and body shaking, his breaths still coming out short. The shouting had stopped a few minutes earlier, and he’s left drained and exhausted and spent of everything that had kept him holding on.
“What is it?” Newt doesn’t glance away from the window, his form rigid and strained with tension, and his question comes out flat, his voice acidic enough to melt steel.
“I just remembered something I read once,” Thomas begins, his tone conversational. It’s almost as if today is just like any other, one where he’s dropped by Newt’s place unannounced, babbling about something inconsequential that had occurred in one of his classes as soon as Newt opened the door. “It was about this philosopher, William James, and his theory on the multiverse.”
This time, Newt finally swivels around and faces him. “What the fuck are you talking about?” His expression is hard, but there’s still a lingering softness around the corners of his eyes. It’s the only indication that maybe, they haven’t ruined things beyond repair just yet.
“Basically he suggested that the multiverse is a collection of an infinite number of parallel universes, and that they’re all happening at the same time,” Thomas continues, ignoring the obvious impatience on Newt’s face. It suddenly strikes him as weird, the way people go from friends to lovers to strangers standing amidst the remnants of their shattered relationship, unable to even look at each other.
Newt’s eyes narrow, and the tentative gentleness in them disappears. “So bloody what?” he grits out, and Thomas’ chest clenches painfully when he recalls the way Newt used to laugh at his rambling, teasing him for always going off on tangents at the most inappropriate times.
“So,” Thomas breathes harshly. “Maybe in one of those universes, we’re happy. Maybe there’s a place where I’m not too stubborn to let you do things for me, and maybe there’s a universe where you don’t feel the need to control everything all the time. Maybe, somewhere out there, I don’t have to break down all your fucking walls just to get you to believe what I say.”
“Do you have a point?” Newt asks sharply. The look on his face is carefully blank, but Thomas knows him well enough to see the cracks that are starting to form.
“Yeah.” The words stick to the back of his throat, and Thomas swallows tightly, trying to force them out. “I’m saying, that if the multiverse theory holds, that means there’s just one universe where we don’t end up together.”
When Newt doesn’t answer, Thomas breaks his gaze and makes his way to the front door. Just as his hand finds the doorknob, he pauses and takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he’s about to say. “And maybe,” he adds softly, “that universe is this one.”
—
Chicago, 1937
Thomas isn’t all that fond of going out, but he’s also been friends with Teresa long enough to know that she’ll never take no for an answer. As a result, Saturday night catches him standing outside her front door, fidgeting in his new suit and impatiently tapping out a rhythm on his thigh as he waits for her to finish getting ready.
When Teresa finally steps out, Thomas can’t help but whistle appreciatively. Teresa’s always been beautiful, but in her new silk dress, gloves pulled carefully over her hands and hair intricately curled over the base of her neck, Thomas thinks she’s absolutely stunning.
“Well, look at you all dolled up,” he drawls, then kisses her on the cheek. “I thought we were going to a jazz club tonight, not dinner with the President.”
Teresa swats him lightly on the shoulder. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
Thomas grins at her. “Flattery will get me everywhere with you and you know it,” he counters as he leads her over to his car.
“Alright, just a bit,” Teresa concedes, her fond smile matching his own. “Besides,” she adds, giving him a once over, “you’re not dressed too bad yourself.” She slides herself into the front seat and pulls down the overhead mirror, taking in her reflection. “Now, hurry up and get us there so I can show you off.”
Thomas lifts his hat in a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am,” he replies, starting the car.
When they finally pull up outside The Scorch, Thomas isn’t surprised to find it packed and teeming with people. He tosses his keys to a valet and takes Teresa’s arm in his, walking through the open double doors and emerging into a wide, darkened room, the tinkling of glasses and the murmur of voices mixing in with the music coming from the band playing onstage.
It takes approximately thirty seconds for Teresa to run into a group of women she knows from the club, and an even less amount of time for her to be swept away in a whirlwind of expensive perfume and excited chattering. Left to his own devices, Thomas heads over to the bar and orders a scotch, taking sips from his glass as he watches the band playing in front of him.
Word on the street is that the jazz trio playing tonight, The Gladers, are the next big thing in the business. Being without anyone means that Thomas really get to listen, and after a few songs, he has to admit that it’s not hard to see why. The Gladers are good. Leading them is a woman dressed in a shimmering blue gown, crooning “My Funny Valentine” into the microphone. She’s gorgeous, but strangely enough, she’s not who holds Thomas’ attention.
He’s standing slightly to the right, partially obscured by the shadows. There’s a bass held carefully in his hands, and his head dips down slightly every time he strums his instrument, the movement causing his blonde hair to fall over his forehead, and this creates such a vivid contrast against the red velvet curtain hanging behind the stage that Thomas stays rooted to the spot, completely captivated. When the song ends and the applause from the crowd rings out, the bass player looks straight at Thomas, an air of curiosity etched on his features.
“Who is that?” he breathes in awe, half to himself and half to the bartender who has just come over to refill his drink.
The bartender smirks back at him. “Name’s Isaac, but everyone calls him Newt. The lead singer is his half-sister, Sonya.”
“Newt,” Thomas repeats, testing it out. He likes the feel of the guy’s name on his tongue; it’s simple, natural, like he was born to say it. “I guess talent runs in the family, then.”
“You can say that again,” the bartender says with a laugh. “Newt can play about five instruments, but he prefers the bass.” He slides Thomas’ glass across the bar, then leans in, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “I’m Minho, by the way.” Then he quickly adds, “I’m going out on a limb here, but since you’ve been mooning over Newt for the last fifteen minutes, I assume that brunette you walked in here with isn’t your girl?”
Thomas scans the crowd and notices Teresa standing at the other end of the bar, whispering something into Rachel’s ear, eyeing Minho with unmistakable interest. “Her name’s Teresa.” This time, it’s him who smirks knowingly. “And she drinks gin and tonics.”
Minho winks at him. “Now that, I can do.”
After Minho leaves to try his luck with Teresa, Thomas flags down another bartender, about to ask for his tab, when he feels someone move in beside him.
“Saw you staring earlier,” an accented voice says into his ear, and Thomas nearly jumps about a foot in the air when he realizes it belongs to Newt. He’s taken off his suit jacket and thrown it over one shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and pale forearms exposed to the harsh lights of the club.
From this close, Thomas can make out the slight crease between Newt’s eyebrows, the precise slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw. His eyes meet Newt’s as he answers. “Hard not to.”
One corner of Newt’s mouth tilts upwards in response. “Is that so?”
“You’re very talented.” Thomas shrugs, staring at Newt’s lips unashamedly. “I think it’d be a crime not to watch you.”
Newt runs a hand through his slick hair, perfect lips curving into an enigmatic smile. “In that case,” he says, “can I buy you a drink?”
Thomas tries his best not to laugh in relief. “Please do.”
—
Paris, 1832
“We don’t have much time,” Thomas declares, unsmiling. From the window above the shop, he watches the advancing hoard of National Guardsmen steadily break their way through the barricade, and he flings his broken pistol to the side. “They’ll be here soon enough.”
Newt limps over to him, wincing in pain as the pressure on his injured leg increases. “Leave now,” he commands. “There’s no reason for both of us to die today.”
Thomas surveys the room, taking in the ruined billiard table and the used cartridges littering the ground, dust settling over everything. Idly, he wonders how much longer he has until he joins his fallen comrades. Has it really only been two days since he last sat in here, laughing with his fellow students? It seems as if an entire lifetime has passed between then and now.
“You say that like you actually expect me to heed your words,” Thomas says with a brittle laugh, taking Newt’s hand in his. “I’ve never taken orders very well, and I don’t intend to start now.”
“No,” Newt acknowledges, the ghost of a smile twitching his lips. “I suppose that would be asking too much of you.”
What remains of the door to the attic suddenly bursts open, sending wood and debris flying everywhere. With a loud cry, a group of twenty National Guards storm their way into the apartment and circle the two remaining men.
“That there is their leader!” an officer calls, pointing a finger at Newt. “And the other one shot at us as we tried to bargain with him. Let us shoot them both down.”
A sergeant steps forward, his rat-like eyes surveying the two boys standing in front of him with profound disdain. “Have you any last words?” He directs this question at Newt.
Even when faced with death, Newt stands tall and proud, a haughty countenance fixed firmly on his face. Gaze unwavering, he looks straight at the commanding officer as he proclaims, “Long live the Republic.”
“Take aim!” the sergeant shouts, his booming voice echoing around the walls of the place, and the soldiers ready their guns.
Newt’s grip on Thomas’ hand tightens considerably, and Thomas uses his last few minutes to take in the face of his lover, trying to commit every aspect of Newt’s features to memory. He fervently hopes that wherever he may end up, he will not forget them. “In another world,” he vows, “I’ll find you.”
“Then I’ll be waiting,” Newt promises, and a moment of understanding passes between them.
The sergeant’s roar pierces through the air. “Ready!” With a last press of his hand, Newt turns forward. “Aim!” Thomas closes his eyes; he wants Newt to be the last thing he sees. “Fire!”
The sounds of gunshots ring loud and clear into the empty sky.
—
Las Vegas, 2014
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Sunlight creeps in through a gap in the curtains, hitting the half of Thomas’ face that isn’t pressed into the pillow. Cracking one eye open, he moans and then rolls over, the slight action making the room sway dramatically. He reaches around blindly for his phone, finds it tossed haphazardly onto the bedside table, and quickly presses it to his ear.
“What do you want?” he groans into the receiver. “It’s early and I’m hungover.”
“Good morning to you, too.” Minho’s voice sounds unusually upbeat. “Just wanted to check up on you.”
Thomas pulls a pillow over the top half of his head. “I drank my body weight in alcohol yesterday, how do you think I’m doing? If you really loved me, you’d leave me alone to die.”
Minho giggles, which either means that he’s still drunk, or that Thomas has actually fucked up beyond belief. (On a side note, how offensive is it that his best friend’s usual reaction to him ruining is life is laughter? When he feels like being alive again, he is going to sit Minho down for a talk on friendship.) “But don’t you want to know what you did last night?”
It’s a true testament to how bad his hangover is that Thomas only manages to muster up a minimal amount of concern for whatever Minho’s talking about. “If I let you tell me, will you go away?”
“Well,” Minho starts, drawing the word out with obvious glee, “last night you made use of Nevada’s new law on same-sex marriage and married a man you charmingly referred to as My Sun and Stars in a lovely Las Vegas chapel, very classy, it was Ramones-themed. After that, you swung from a chandelier and then announced to a room full of people that you and your husband were going upstairs to celebrate your wedding night.”
Thomas throws the pillow off his face and stares at the ceiling, hoping the reason it’s still spinning is a reaction to all the alcohol he drank and not because of the panic rising within him. “Please tell me I didn’t actually do that,” he croaks.
“Who would’ve thought you’d be the first of us to get hitched?” Minho continues in the same chipper tone, and Thomas is really starting to regret his choice in friends. “It seems like only yesterday that you were going through your Kevin Spacey-induced sexuality crisis, and now you’re married. I’m really happy for you, man.”
“Minho,” Thomas pleads. “Tell me you’re not being serious.”
“Look around your room then get back to me,” Minho orders, then he hangs up, leaving Thomas listening to the dial tone, confusion and dread swirling around inside him.
Eventually, Thomas forces himself to sit up, and he instantly regrets doing so when his head starts to throb in response. Then he notices the body curled up next to him, still fast asleep, and he feels even worse. He can’t believe he actually went and got married to a stranger in Vegas. His life has officially become a Hollywood cliché.
There’s a cheap wedding band on his finger, the plastic diamond glinting in the daylight, and he gawks at it in a horrified sort fascination. On the table, beside a pair of boxers that aren’t his, is a receipt for repairs to the chandelier, amounting to almost seven hundred dollars. Thomas is never drinking again.
Before Thomas has the chance to process anything else, the body beside him suddenly shifts and turns over, and Thomas observes the sleeping face of his new husband for the first time. He’s blonde and lean, pale torso exposed and sheets pooled around his waist, and, damn, he’s really fucking hot. Thomas has got to hand it to his drunk self, he’s got great taste.
“Um,” he says hoarsely, prodding the guy on the shoulder. “Dude? Fuck, I forgot to ask Minho for your name. Hey, man, wake up.”
“Fuck off, Alby,” Thomas’ husband mumbles, and he’s got an accent. Score. Thomas is so going to buy himself a congratulatory gift when all this blows over. “It’s too bloody early for this,” he adds, swatting Thomas’ hand away.
“Yeah, I don’t know who Alby is, but I’m not him,” Thomas says, and the guy quickly lifts his head from the pillow and blinks at him blearily. “So, funny story,” Thomas starts when the stranger just continues to stare at him uncomprehendingly, “have you ever heard that Katy Perry song, ‘Waking Up in Vegas’?”
The guy finally sits up beside Thomas, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do I want to know why you’re asking me that?”
Thomas holds his left hand up. “Surprise,” he replies weakly.
The guy watches Thomas for a beat longer, as if hoping he’s being pranked, then he notices the matching ring on his own hand and flops back onto the mattress. “Bloody fucking hell.”
—
Andromeda Galaxy, 2371
Thomas storms into the bridge, trying his best to keep his balance despite the ship’s jittery movements. “Your stupid fucking ship doesn’t want to fly again,” he hisses, glowering at Newt. The Maze was the best of its kind, but even it fell susceptible to overheating every now and then. When the ship gives another jolt, Thomas is thrown into the left wall, and he bangs on the touchpad in exasperation.
“Oh, so now this is my ship?” Newt demands, stepping away from the control screen and putting his hands on his hips. “Why is it, that whenever something goes wrong, The Maze becomes my ship, when you’re the one who gave it this absurd name in the first—”
“Fine, you go think of something better, Mr. Creativity,” Thomas fires back, cutting him off. “That wasn’t even the point—”
“Oh my God, both of you shut up,” Minho groans, sticking his head out from between the tangle of wires underneath the control board. “I’m trying to fix this and I can’t hear anything over the sound of your roaring sexual tension.”
“We do not have sexual tension!” Thomas protests, startling a bit when he realizes Newt’s shouted the exact same thing in unison with him. He turns towards Newt, the slightly amused expression on his face morphing into a scowl when the ship gives another shudder. Newt arches an eyebrow challengingly.
“See, that’s something only people with sexual tension would say,” drawls their computer program. At that moment, Thomas really regrets encoding it to have a personality. Who knew a machine could be so sassy?
“Slim it, Gally!” Thomas yells, his voice rising with hysteria, and once more, Newt echoes his words simultaneously. Minho starts to snicker, hiding the sound behind his hand.
Thomas crosses his arms, still glaring daggers at Newt, who is standing across him in the same position. As the minutes tick by, neither of them backs down or averts their gaze, and the silence in the bridge starts to grow heavy and awkward. Out of nowhere, Thomas suddenly growls, “Oh, fuck this,” and dives forward, Newt meeting him halfway.
The resulting kiss is just as much of a challenge as anything between them ever is. Thomas crushes his lips against Newt’s, invading his mouth hungrily, and Newt sucks on Thomas’ bottom lip, holding onto the lapels of Thomas’ jacket, his fists full of white cloth. Thomas is distantly aware of Minho making some kind of wounded noise in the background.
“Every. Fucking. Time,” Minho complains, watching the two of them engage in yet another one of their frequent, argument-triggered make out sessions. “Why do I even put up with this?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. Which is just as well, because Thomas only tugs Newt closer in response.
Newt pulls away first, and Thomas counts that as a win. He grins at the blonde. “My kissing skills are too much for you to handle, huh?” he asks, smugness radiating off him.
“Hardly,” Newt scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I just didn’t want to indulge your blatant Captain Kink any further.”
“Captain?” Thomas echoes, forehead wrinkling in confusion. “Last time I checked, I’m the Captain of this ship.”
“You’re joking, right?” Newt laughs condescendingly. “I don’t recall you being present at the ceremony last month when Paige gave me the title.”
“Because she already awarded it to me the month before that,” Thomas argues, his voice rising. “I can’t believe you actually thought—”
Behind them, Minho glumly addresses the computer screen. “Gally,” he says wearily, “send in a ship transfer request to Alby. There’s no fucking way I’m spending the next four months onboard with these two idiots.”
“Roger that.” The screen goes blank for a few seconds, then Gally’s image reappears. “All done. Alby said he’d page your communication device if anything turned up.” Minho thanks him profusely, and after watching Thomas and Newt jump each other for the second time in all of ten minutes, Gally can’t help but grumble, “At least you get to leave.”
The rest of their conversation is lost on Thomas as he, once again, presses his lips against Newt’s waiting mouth.
—
London, 2085
When Thomas comes to, he’s strapped into the passenger seat of an unfamiliar car, the streets of London rushing past him in a haze of gray. The sudden pain that courses through his body causes him to jerk forward in his seat, and he lets out a groan. “What the fuck happened?” he asks, rubbing his shoulder.
“One of those buggin’ zombies clocked you round the head,” Newt explains grimly, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles turn white. He peeks at Thomas from the corner of his eye. “You alright?”
“I’ll live,” Thomas replies without thinking, and Newt’s lips quirk slightly. In a world where the line between life and death has practically disappeared, the term comes as a bit of a joke to them now. Thomas can’t recall what actual living feels like anymore, and he seriously doubts he’ll ever be able to tell the difference.
His hand automatically reaches for the gun he keeps in his belt, and he pulls it out, checking to make sure it’s still loaded. “Where are we going?”
“Brenda’s got a safe house in the outskirts of the city,” Newt says, focusing on the road in front of them and avoiding Thomas’ questioning glance.
“And you’re sure they’re still…” Thomas lets his question drift away, unfinished. The way Newt’s jaw twitches slightly in response is the only answer he needs. “We’ll find them,” he assures Newt, trying his best to sound convincing, but the words come out hollow despite himself.
Newt laughs without humor, and they lapse into silence. If Thomas concentrates hard enough, he can almost remember what Newt used to sound like back before the infection hit and society collapsed, leaving what remained of humanity in a continuous fight for survival.
Thomas spends most of the long drive staring out the window, watching as the buildings turn into trees and the sky darkens from varying shades of blue to pitch black. When the road underneath them grows bumpy and uneven, Newt stops the car and leaves it concealed below a clump of tall elm trees.
“Well,” Newt murmurs, breaking the stillness of the last few hours, “here goes nothing.”
The two of them make their way through the thick shrubbery, guns clenched tightly in their hands and steps slow and unhurried in an effort to minimize noise. Thomas pushes aside a pair of large ferns and they emerge into a clearing. Standing in front of them is a run-down cottage; the windows are caked over with dirt and grime, leaves are strewn across the front porch.
“Looks homey,” Thomas deadpans, and to his surprise, Newt cracks a grin. Thomas quickly returns the gesture, feeling for the first time in years, like things are going to be fine.
Which is, of course, when everything goes to shit.
It’s the smell that alerts Thomas to their presence; it’s a distinct thing, the scent of rotting flesh and decay. He spins around, gun pointed into the darkness in front of him, and he’s aware of Newt doing the same beside him.
The eerie quiet lasts for about two seconds, and then something jumps out of the trees, lunging straight at Thomas, mouth open wide and aimed at his jugular. As he guns it down, another creature comes up from behind, throwing him to the ground. His back hits the dirt as he grapples with the weight on top of him, and as soon as he manages to yank his weapon free, he forces the barrel onto the zombie’s chest, the blood in his veins freezing when he gets a good look at its face.
It’s Brenda.
Thomas would recognize her anywhere, even with her skin tinged gray and her pupils glazed over in milky white. He takes in what’s left of her cropped hair and angular face, trying to reconcile the image of his friend with the moaning, diseased thing holding him in place. Swallowing down bile, Thomas fires the gun and Brenda’s body slumps forward, lifeless.
“Tommy!” Newt yells, voice strained. “Tommy, it’s them. Tom—” The rest of Newt’s cry gets cut off by the sound of a long groan, and Thomas hears him struggling to fight off the bodies advancing towards him.
Thomas immediately shoves Brenda to the side and flips over, getting to his feet. He runs in Newt’s direction, launching shots blindly at the attackers, and when all three are on the ground, he reaches down and helps Newt up.
“It’s Alby,” Newt states tonelessly, eyes fixed on the dark-skinned body lying on the soil. “I couldn’t do it. He’s my—”
“He was,” Thomas corrects, fighting to keep himself from shaking. “Whatever that thing is, it’s not him anymore. They never are.”
Newt finally looks at him, and the expression on his face is a wild mixture of hopelessness, anguish, and disbelief. “You saved me,” he whispers. “Why?”
“I had to,” Thomas replies. “Newt, I—” He pauses, trying to find a way to explain just how much Newt means to him. “I don’t think I can do this without you,” he continues, the words coming out slow and stilted. “You’re—” The rest of his sentence is interrupted by Newt surging forward and crashing their lips together.
It’s a frantic, needy kiss, nothing sweet or tender about it. Newt bites down on Thomas’ lip so hard he draws blood, and the two of them stumble into the stale air of the cabin, tearing clothes off and tossing them into the darkness with reckless abandon, desperately seeking the warmth of each other’s skin.
“Newt,” Thomas gasps as Newt’s lips come into contact with his neck, sucking on it hard enough to leave marks for Thomas to find tomorrow. They’ll be the only proof that whatever transpires tonight wasn’t a figment of his imagination, so he arches his neck, allowing Newt better access.
“Listen to me,” Newt growls, rolling over and bracketing Thomas to the stone floor. “You’re mine and I’m yours,” he says fiercely, punctuating each word with bites and kisses, branding Thomas’ skin. “And if we die, then we’ll die. But first, we’ll live.”
Thomas nods, noting the way his heart feels like it’s about to pound its way out of his chest, the way his body is thrumming with adrenaline, the way he’s breathing in lungfuls of air, filling his insides with lightness, and he thinks, This is what living feels like.
—
Berkeley, 2004
Thomas has the worst friends ever. He should be sitting in his dorm room, stuffing his face full of ice cream and pizza, crying over Nicholas Sparks movies the way people did whenever they got their hearts ripped out of their chests and stomped on. Instead, he’s sitting morosely on the couch of whoever the fuck’s apartment, surrounded by drunk and horny teenagers. The only good thing about all of this is that he somehow managed to steal an entire bottle of Belvedere for himself.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Teresa cautions, watching him take another swig. “Seriously, Tom, cut it out.” She reaches for the bottle and attempts to grab it from his hands.
“No.” Thomas turns away and cradles the vodka to his chest. Alcohol is all he has now; he refuses to let Teresa take it away from him. “Why did you force me to come to this, anyway?” he whines. “I just got my heart broken, shouldn’t you be letting me do what I want?”
“If I left you alone, you’d wallow in self-pity for a week,” Teresa replies knowledgeably. Sometimes, Thomas hates that his best friend knows him so well.
“Well, why shouldn’t I?” Thomas is aware that he’s reaching toddler-like levels of immaturity, but he really can’t be bothered right now. “He was the love of my life, T,” he professes.
Teresa immediately snorts, and when she finds Thomas glaring at her, she attempts to school her features into something more neutral. She fails miserably. “Sorry,” she says, trying to hold back laughter. “It’s just. The idea of Aris being the love of anyone’s life is beyond fucked up. He’s a douche.”
“But he was my douche,” Thomas insists sadly, downing another big gulp of vodka. Teresa lets out a gusty sigh and pats him on the shoulder.
He’s suddenly aware of the couch cushion next to him dipping slightly, and when he succeeds in turning his head, Brenda is sitting next to him. “Drinking your problems away isn’t going to do anything,” she states factually, seizing the bottle from his grasp.
Thomas gives her a dull look in return. “Then what is?” he asks as Brenda sets the vodka down on the coffee table in front of him.
“Hmm.” Brenda’s face takes on a thoughtful expression, then she exclaims, “I got it!” She sits upright and says, “You need to sleep with someone here.”
“Nice.” Teresa nods approvingly. “Rebound sex always works.”
Thomas gapes at them. That’s their big idea to help him get over Aris? “Um, yeah, no thanks.” Sure, sex would be great now that he’s lost his constant source of getting off, but Thomas isn’t a normal person. Thomas is an awkward person, which means that he’s not nearly drunk enough to have the balls to try and chat anyone up.
“Come on, Tom,” Teresa pleads. “I hate seeing you like this.”
“Besides,” Brenda adds, squinting at something behind Thomas’ shoulder, “that guy over there keeps looking at you. He’s pretty cute, think you’d be interested?”
Thomas follows Brenda’s gaze, then quickly snaps his head back forward when he sees who she’s referring to. “No, no fucking way. That’s Newt, my English TA from last semester.” Thomas will be the first to admit that he’s no writer, but even he’d be able to come up with a long and lyrical list of things he’d love to do to Newt if given the chance. “He hates me.” Thomas doesn't blame him, really; it's pretty hard to like the guy who barely shows up to any of your lectures. Even if the reason Thomas always bailed wasn't so much because he didn't care about school, but more due to the fact that watching Newt talk about Walt Whitman just kind of did things to his body.
Brenda frowns at him. “I don’t know, he’s staring pretty intensely.”
“Oh my God, I think I remember this guy,” Teresa suddenly chimes in. “He’s the one you spent nearly the entire semester mentally undressing, right?”
Thomas flushes slightly. “I claim diplomatic immunity on answering that question.”
“Well, just think about it, okay?” Brenda pushes herself off the couch and hands the Belvedere over. “It’s a one night stand, Tom. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she reminds him. Then she grabs Teresa’s arm and they disappear into the crowd.
Thomas spends a few more minutes drinking and hating life, and when he finally stands up to leave, there’s someone blocking his way. He sighs, about to tell Teresa that he’s really not in the mood to party tonight, but the words die in his throat when he sees that it’s Newt.
Thomas blinks at him blankly. “What do you want?” he asks, too tipsy to care about being polite. “Do you want to give me another speech on the importance of footnotes or something?”
“No, I want to have sex with you,” Newt replies, and you’d think an English major would have a more poetic way of coming onto someone, but then again, Thomas has never really been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when it comes in the form of an attractive British blonde who once ranted at him for using too many commas in his writing.
Thomas takes a deep breath, Brenda’s advice echoing in his head. He can do this. He wants to do this. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”
Newt smiles at him then, his whole face lighting up, and Thomas is instantly aware of the fact that he may have just made the best decision of his life.
—
New York, 1969
When Thomas wakes up, the left side of the bed is cold. He promptly rolls onto his side, his arm seeking Newt’s warmth, and he finds his boyfriend sitting next to the window, a canvas propped up in front of him, one paintbrush in his hand and another one behind his ear.
“Painting my ass again, Newton?” he drawls, stretching languidly. “I always knew it was my main selling point.”
Newt smirks at him. “That and your unbelievable sense of modesty,” he counters. There’s a smudge of red paint on his cheek, and with the sunlight filtering in through the open window, setting his hair alight, Thomas is certain that he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
“How was the show?” Newt adds, setting the brush down. The canvas is streaked with the distinct colors of fall in the Village, and from where he’s lying down, Thomas can just about make out an image of the park across their street. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Hey, no, it’s fine,” Thomas reassures him, dragging himself into a sitting position. He yawns and runs a hand through his hair, the motion only causing it to stick out even more erratically. “It was good, I think. Fucked up a bit here and there, but Minho thinks they’ll ask us to play again next week.”
Newt beams, gaze proud and warm. “I’ll come this time,” he swears. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you guys landed a deal soon.”
Thomas instantly scoffs. “Yeah, that’ll be the day.” He gestures to the stacks of paintings crowding their tiny bedroom. “You’re more likely to sell all of these. They’re amazing.”
“You have to say that,” Newt says, rolling his eyes fondly. “The starving artist and the aspiring rockstar.” He grins at Thomas. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”
Thomas nods sagely. “I always thought we could be the faces of this generation.”
“Yeah, you and the million other people in this city,” Newt points out, but Thomas can hear the humor underlying his words.
Thomas pretends to look offended. “Way to crush my dreams of fame and fortune, man.”
“Someone needs to keep that growing ego of yours in check,” Newt quips, and the two of them fall into laughter.
“Oh, yeah.” Thomas stands up and pads across the room, grabbing his satchel from where he’d thrown it the night before. “I just remembered I got you something.” He rummages around in his bag and pulls out a large plastic square, holding it up triumphantly for Newt to see. “It’s the new Beatles record. Gally wants us to try covering some of the songs for next gig, but we can’t decide on one.”
Newt gives him an amused look in return. “I like how you pretend you bought that record for me, when really, you’re just going to monopolize it.”
“Who says romance is dead?” Thomas intones, setting the disk down on their record player.
Immediately, the sound of music floats through the room, mingling in with the noise from the busy street below. They listen in comfortable silence, Newt going back to his painting, frowning in intense concentration, and Thomas watching him, privately picking apart the lyrics and melodies in his head the way he does whenever he hears something for the first time.
“I think this might be my favorite one so far,” Thomas tells him as soon as “Something” comes on.
Newt looks away from his painting, and there’s a green smear on his face to match the red one. Thomas wants to run his thumb down Newt’s cheek until the color disappears. “Why?”
Thomas shrugs, taking in Newt’s appearance and feeling an overwhelming rush of tenderness flood through his body. He grins cheekily, waggling his eyebrows. “Must be because I’m stupidly in love with you.”
In the background, George sings, You’re asking me, will my love grow?
Newt holds his gaze. “That makes the two of us, then,” he replies, expression so full of devotion and affection, Thomas feels like he’s floating away into the brightness of the sun.
I don’t know, I don’t know.
—
Denver, 2232
Newt tackles Thomas to the ground, and it knocks the wind out of him. Despite the searing pain he feels in his chest as he struggles to fill his lungs with air, the words coming out of Newt’s mouth cut twice as deep.
“Kill me or I’ll kill you. Kill me! Do it!” Newt pulls at the gun in Thomas’ hand even harder, pressing it against his forehead.
“Newt…” Thomas looks up at his friend imploringly, desperately searching for any sign that Newt doesn’t actually mean what he’s saying. But when he finally meets Newt’s eyes and finds nothing but cold resolve in them, something inside him smashes into pieces.
I love you, Thomas screams internally, silently trying to convey the message with his gaze even as Newt continues to beg him for death. I’m in love you and now you’ll never know. We’ll never be together.
Newt’s voice softens. “Please, Tommy. Please.” His voice cracks on the last word, his tone full of brokenness and despair, and Thomas feels himself slowly fall apart.
With his heart falling into a black abyss, Thomas pulls the trigger.
—
Los Angeles, 2016
It’s been almost a week, and his flair for the dramatic aside, Thomas thinks that the last five days have been the worst of his life. It’s not that he’s never broken up with somebody before (he’s actually been dumped more times than he cares to admit), but it’s the first time he’s broken up with Newt. And that, somehow, makes all the difference to him.
He’s lounging on Teresa’s sofa, still in the same clothes he’s been in for the past two days, when there’s a knock on the door. Thomas groans and tries to bury his head underneath one of the pillows, hoping that whoever it is that’s looking for Teresa will give up and go away. He doesn’t think he can deal with anyone right now. Or ever again.
But whoever is on the other side doesn’t give up, and another knock, loud and impatient, sounds again. With a sigh, Thomas forces himself to get to his feet and lumbers towards the door, twisting the knob and pulling it open.
Newt is standing on the other side, looking about as wrecked as Thomas feels.
Thomas blinks at him, gradually trying to piece the situation together, but when he opens his mouth to speak, Newt beats him to it.
“Look,” Newt begins, “just—just let me talk for a bit, okay?” he says, and Thomas nods mutely. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said,” Newt continues, “and it’s bullshit. That whole universe thing, it’s—fuck, if there’s a world where we aren’t together, then I don’t want to know what it’s like. Because the only universe where I don’t love you is probably one where I get shot in the bloody head or something equally as ridiculous.”
Despite the tense atmosphere, Thomas’ lips twitch slightly, and Newt goes on. “What I’m trying to say,” he stresses, rubbing his hands together, “is that if you think there’s a place where we don’t end up together, then I don’t want it to be this one.” Finally, he exhales lowly. “So, that’s what I think.” He glances upward slowly and meets Thomas’ eyes. “What about you?”
Thomas takes a step towards him, and the hopeful look on Newt’s face is enough to make him fall in love all over again. “No,” he says, and Newt’s expression dims. “No, I don’t want it to be this one, either.”
Newt reaches over and takes Thomas’ hand in his, threading their fingers together, and Thomas is pretty sure that Newt’s relieved smile is echoed in his own.
Maybe they’ve still got some issues to work out, and maybe there’s still a long way to go until they become the people they want to be. But as Thomas stares down at their joined skin, feeling the rush of emotion from a thousand different versions of himself, all in love with the same boy, he realizes that while this isn’t reconciliation, it’s a new beginning. And that might just be good enough for him.