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If someone had asked him to describe this city a week ago, Newt would’ve said something along the lines of “magnificent” or “breathtaking”. This was Venice, after all—the pictures he’d seen in the travel brochure were so beautiful, he could hardly believe they were real.
And now he was here, thoroughly disappointed.
Crowded. Expensive. Jam-packed with stores selling the same touristy goods for much more money than they were worth.
He knew there must be more to it—there had to be. He refused to believe he’d come all this way for this.
If only he could get away from his bloody sister.
“Can't you just pick one? They're all the same anyway.” Newt said, annoyed.
“Ugh, don't be such a buzz kill, Newt,” Sonya said, not bothering to look at him. She rummaged through a pile of leather bags, most of them either too small or too ragged to be useful. After completely demolishing the somewhat orderly stack they’d been in, she pulled out a dark green bag. The one she’d also held in her hand and tossed away only a few minutes ago.
“Harriet, I've found just the thing you were looking for!”
“Thank God,” Newt muttered, “I thought it'd never end.”
Harriet appeared from behind a shelve, taking the bag from Sonya and pursing her lips. “Hmm, I dunno… Don't you think it's a bit small?”
Sonya took the bag from her, turning it over in her hands. She opened it up and peered inside. “Well, it's not big. But you don't want to be walking around with a giant thing ‘round your neck, do you?”
“Yeah, I suppose… but I don't really like this colour. It's a bit too bright for me, y’know?”
Sonya nodded. “That's what I was thinking too.”
“But you just said it was the thing you've been looking for!” Newt exclaimed, exasperated, “And, mind you, we've been in here for over half an hour. And you spent over twenty minutes in that jewellery shop down the road. And, before that—”
“Oh, shut up, will you?” Sonya put her hands on her hips, rolled her eyes. “I know shopping isn't your hobby, but this is my holiday I got for my birthday, and you were lucky enough that we let you come along.”
“Mum and Dad forced me to take you,” Newt sneered. That wasn’t technically true—they’d asked, and Newt had been all too glad to agree. But now, he was starting to wish that he hadn’t.
“If I’d known that all I'd be seeing is the inside of souvenir shops and the hotel lobby, then I would've told them no. It's not my fault they won't let you travel alone. I'm doing you a favour, here. Or would you've rather had Dad peering over your shoulder every minute?”
Sonya turned to him, unphased. “At least Dad wouldn't be moping around all day, complaining about nothing.”
“We're in Venice, for God's sake! Don't you want to see things? There's supposed to be beautiful architecture here, and all we've seen so far is a bloody fountain on the main square. It's just a waste.”
Harriet had watched the exchange without a word, sending looks between her and Sonya. Then, cautiously, she said, “Why don't you go and explore the city yourself, Newt? Sonya and I can manage.” She flashed Sonya a look, a smile dancing on her lips. “Like you said, all we'll be doing is shopping and relaxing at the hotel. We'll be fine.”
Newt pursed his lips. He wasn’t supposed to leave them alone. They were only fifteen, after all, and he'd promised Dad he'd look out for them. But, Venice is pretty safe, isn't it? And his sister could take care of herself well enough, especially with Harriet there.
Besides, what trouble could they ever be in if all they did was buy overpriced rubbish and eat ice cream?
“Alright. I think I'll go for a stroll around here. Maybe take some pictures,” he said, pointing to the camera around his neck. “I'll meet you at the hotel for dinner. Let's say at six?”
Sonya smiled. “Six sounds perfect. We'll be in the lobby.”
“Good that. I'll be off, then.” Newt gave them a wave as he made his way to the exit, desperate to get out of there as quickly as possible.
Freedom had never tasted this good.
He let out a content sigh, feeling the sun warm up his face, a pleasant glow stroking his skin. When he looked up, all he saw was a sea of blue; the clouds were probably all gathered in England, which they’d left in the rain.
Here, that fierce ball of light provided the only contrast with the blue, and it burned so fiercely that his eyes were blinded when its light hit them.
This is what being alive feels like.
He took a few steps forward, and looked around. Where should he go now? To his right lay the fountain—vast and magnificent. Its artfully carved edges framed a sculpture of a man surrounded by animals, while he himself sat on the back of a lion. Newt figured it was a mythological scene, but he didn’t know the exact meaning behind it. They’d all laughed when Harriet had pointed out that the water was coming out of the lion’s arse.
And, of course, he’d snapped a picture of it.
But, he’d had his laugh, and now he was looking for something new. Something exciting. A few streets behind the fountain lay their hotel, and he hadn’t yet had a chance to explore what lay beyond it. He could go further down that road. But for some reason, it didn’t seem very appealing.
To his left lay nothing but shops, each a copy of the one he’d just escaped. Tons of people crowded the streets like mice, with at least three plastic-bags hooked around their arms. Their high-pitched American voices were so loud, they stung in his ears.
No, that didn’t seem very interesting.
But up ahead, he noticed a channel, filled with turquoise water that reflected the sunlight like a mirror, flickering and bright. A little stone bridge crossed over it, leading to a different part of the city that looked much more colourful.
From that same channel, about a dozen waterways stretched out through gaps between buildings. They were so narrow that Newt couldn’t imagine a boat passing through without getting stuck.
But, as if determined to prove him wrong, a gondola appeared from behind a tall, red building. Newt followed the wooden boat as it emerged. It moved through the water with ease, gliding across the surface like a feather drifting on the stream, with only the wind to guide it along.
As the gondola drew nearer, he could make out its passengers. A woman sat inside, along with her two children, whose tiny faces were filled with joy; a man stood at the rear, pedal in hand. They were clearly not locals—even the woman, who appeared rather classy with her big hat and neat dress, couldn’t contain her excitement at the beauty of it all. She leaned over the side of the boat, showing her kinds something in in the water.
This was the Venice he’d imagined in his dreams. A city of exploration and wonder; of crystalline waters and hidden alleyways.
Newt started making his way toward the bridge, fumbling a bit with his camera while he walked. He wanted a shot of those buildings up ahead, especially the red one, which looked much more like a fairy-tale home than a real house. It seemed to rest on top of the water, almost floating—of course, wooden poles stood underneath, forming its foundation. He wondered if anybody lived in that house. Probably not. More likely that it was a hotel or a restaurant.
He crossed the bridge and kneeled down, carefully guiding his left knee to the ground. He’d been having a lot more trouble with it, lately. He hadn’t had a chance yet to check in with his doctor. Not that he could do much about it.
When he finally got into a comfortable position, he turned on his camera and adjusted the settings a bit. To be fair, he had no clue what he was adjusting—he just clicked some buttons and turned some knobs until he got a good view. The gondola was just in the right spot, passing before the red house, but not blocking it.
Newt was ready to take a few shots, when one of the kids in the boat noticed him. The little boy turned around and gave him a wave. He could barely stand—maybe because he was so young, or maybe because the gondola wasn’t as steady as it appeared to be. But, albeit with wobbly feet, he sent Newt a smile. The camera flashed and Newt waved back, giving the boy a thumbs-up.
As he continued on his way, he looked back at the gondola one last time. The family were about to go under the bridge, and they all ducked their heads since the arch was so low above the water that the tip of the gondola almost hit the stone. Even the little kids, who had no need because of their height, lowered their heads.
The sight filled Newt with an inexplicable warmth, which had nothing to do with the hot weather.
- · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The sun had sunken low, drifting above the horizon like a forgotten beach ball bobbing in the sea. Orange streaks of light leaked through from behind the buildings, creating elongated shadows on the walls of the people passing by.
Newt’s shadow walked ahead of him, much like his mind.
He took a right into a narrow street. It was stupid, but he never would’ve thought he could get lost in Venice. He didn’t expect it to be this big—in his mind, half of the city’s expanse was made up of water, and every street would magically lead him back to San Marco, where Sonya and Harriet were waiting for him at the hotel.
Newt looked at his watch. He was half an hour late already, and he had absolutely no clue where he was. And, on top of that, his leg had started slowing him down.
The street he was in now was just as lovely as the past dozen he’d walked through—colourful, crooked buildings surrounded him, their balconies adorned by a variety of flowers that dangled over the edge like garlands.
From a house to his right, the sound of an acoustic guitar travelled through an open window. The song held a whisper of the waters as they brushed up against the pier. Like the waves themselves had evolved into sound.
Newt hadn’t realised he’d stopped walking to listen until something hard hit his leg—his bad one. A sharp, jabbing pain erupted in his ankle and shot up his knee, which immediately gave in. His leg buckled like a twig snapped in half, and Newt sank to the ground, clutching it in pain. He grit his teeth so as not to cry out.
“Oh, scusami!”
Newt looked to his left. The sun blinded his eyes, and he had to shield them with his hand in order to see anything, but he could make out a figure jogging towards him, approaching fast.
It was a boy, about his age. Maybe younger. When he reached Newt, he came to a halt, and words started flowing out of his mouth in a stream of Italian that made Newt’s already throbbing head spin even more, “No go visto nissun che caminava qua, e jero soło che zugando in giro, te sa, alenando pa ła partia ła setimana che vien—”
“I, Uh…No parlo Italiano,” Newt managed to croak out. He held up his hands apologetically. “Do you speak English? Inglese?”
The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, and he took a small step back—a fragment of the sunlight fell upon his face, hitting his cheekbones with a bright, golden flush. A mix of freckles and moles dotted his face, like a honey-coloured rain had poured down on him and the droplets had been left to dry in the sun, seeping into his skin.
My God, Newt thought. Where did that thought come from?
“I am so sorry!” The boy said in surprisingly good English. He brushed a hand through his curls, which had stuck to his forehead, the sweat that ran down his face acting like glue. “The tourists usually don’t come here…I, uh…I was practicing football, and I didn’t see you. Are you hurt?”
Newt couldn’t help but huff out a laugh—only now did he look to the side and notice the football that had rolled away from him, lying still against a flowerpot. A football. He’d fallen to the ground, clutching his leg in pain, because of a soft, round and harmless football.
He must’ve looked like a complete fool.
“I’m fine,” Newt said as he shifted on the ground, trying to shift the position of his leg so he could get up. He stretched it, only a bit—but that was enough for another wave of pain to soar through him. He yelped, then quickly covered his mouth with his hands and ducked his head, facing the ground.
“Oddio! You are not fine!” The boy dropped to his knees and—much to Newt’s embarrassment—placed a hand on his back. “It’s your knee, no? Let me look, maybe I can—”
“No!” Newt’s head snapped back up, but the boy was already reaching for his leg. He slapped his arm away, a lot rougher than necessary, and took in a tight breath. “I mean, there’s nothing to see,” he lied, “it’s an old injury. Fell from my bike when I was a kid.”
But the real memory danced before his mind’s eye in a flash of horror, amplifying his agony by about a thousand times. He tried to shake the image away and bit down on his tongue. Please, he thought, please don’t cry right now. Don’t you fucking cry.
He held his breath, trying to distract himself by staring at the boy, who had retreated a few feet back, clearly a bit startled. Newt knew he only meant to be polite, and when he looked into those big, chestnut-coloured eyes, he found only concern. But there was a reason he was the only person in this whole city wearing long trousers during a heatwave—and he didn’t feel like letting this stranger find out about it, however sweet he may seem.
After a few minutes, the worst of the pain subsided—or at least lessened enough for Newt to trust the use of his voice again.
“Look, uh…” he started, a bit sheepishly. “What’s your name again?”
The boy raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t told you my name yet.”
“Yes,” Newt gave a half-hearted smile, “I know that. It’s just a way of asking for it, without being awkward. Like I’m being right now.”
That earned him a smile in return, and one much better than his own. This one was genuine. The corners of the boy’s mouth turned downward, forming something of a half moon—an upside-down smile. Radiating a fondness as if he were gazing upon a long-lost friend.
“Ah, capisso. You wanted to ask me for my name.”
“Yes, I did. I mean, I do. Usually, it doesn’t take this long to find out.”
The boy chuckled, a sound that eased the relentless throbbing in Newt’s head for the second it lasted. “You have a strange way of asking. My name is Tomasso. But I think in America you say Thomas, no?”
“I’m not American,” Newt blurted out, almost as a reflex. Somehow, he felt offended by the idea. “I’m British, thank you very much.”
Thomas tilted his head, as if he really needed to process that statement. Then, he gave a slow nod. “Hmm, okay. But what is your name?”
“The name’s Newt.”
“Cossa? Newette?”
A genuine laugh escaped him this time, and he shook his head. “No, Newt. N-E-W-T.”
“Newt,” Thomas repeated, hesitant, looking at him as though he’d been asked to call him a tomato. “I have never heard that name before. Must be a British name.”
“Not really. It’s not very common anywhere, I don’t think.”
Thomas hummed, but didn’t say much else. A silence settled between them, and the whole street seemed to follow suit—the guitar from the window above had stopped playing its mellow tune, and even the birds that had crowded the street before had now left it empty.
Nothing but the steady rhythm of their breaths filled the air.
And with the silence came the ache. Newt had managed to suppress it for a while, or had at least been distracted from the pain for long enough for it to slip his mind. But now, it had returned in full force, almost worse than it had been when he’d first fallen down.
As if his body felt it needed to catch up on those few minutes spent without agony.
Without a word, Thomas got up from beside him. He walked over towards the flower pot and grabbed the ball that still lay there, tucking it under his arm. Then he made his way back over to Newt, who hadn’t dared move a centimetre, and extended his free hand.
“My house is not far. I will take you there. My mama will have something for your leg. And you will eat with us.”
Newt looked at the hand, then at Thomas’s face—that lovely, moon-like smile again—and then at his leg. He swallowed hard.
“I don’t think I can get up.”
“I will help you. You can lean on my shoulder.”
“I…I’m not sure…”
“I will carry you if I have to!” Thomas exclaimed, with a surprising fierceness. “I did this to you. So you will let me help you.”
After a moment of consideration, Newt nodded. What else was he to do? He had no clue where he was—that’s what you get for wandering off on your own—and he certainly had no chance of getting out of here without help. Thomas was his best option.
And, with any luck, he'd know the way back to Newt’s hotel.
“All right, if it's not far.”
“It’s not, trust me. Now, you take my hand. Here.” Thomas bent over, extending his arm so that it was practically in Newt’s face. “Go on. We will go slow.”
A shaky breath left his lips, and then Newt reached out and clasped his hand in his. Thomas’s hand was warm, but not clammy like his own. Anxiety had started seeping its way out of his pores, covering his back and his palms in a layer of sweat.
He told himself it was because of the heat. Maybe the pain.
“I will pull you up on three, okay? You stand on your good leg.”
“Yeah,” Newt mumbled, licking his lips, “All right, yeah. On three.”
Thomas nodded reassuringly. “On three. One. Two—”
Then, he pulled on his arm, and Newt clung to it, trying to push himself up with his good leg. Thomas was much stronger than he looked—he did most of the work, since Newt himself was too busy trying to keep his balance. If he’d accidentally shift his weight to his left leg, he’d pass out for sure.
A breath. Then, a laugh. Newt was standing, albeit on one leg.
“Sì! Ben fato!” Thomas was smiling too, and quickly took Newt’s arm and draped it across his neck. “Do you think you can stand on it? Your other leg?”
Newt shook his head. “No, absolutely not. Don’t even think I can extend it. Gotta keep it like this, for now, at least.”
“Can you… uh…come faccio a dire questo…” He mumbled, clearly at a loss for words. Newt waited a few seconds for him to continue.
“Can you walk with one leg?”
“What?”
Thomas huffed, shaking his head. “You know, when you—” He let out an exasperated sigh, and then resorted to demonstrating what he meant. With one leg bent, and whilst still holding onto Newt, he started hopping up and down a few times.
“Can you go like that? It's only a few streets from here.”
If he hadn't been in so much pain, Newt would've burst out laughing. But he’d bent his leg when standing up, just a little—and now his smile looked more like a grimace.
“You want me to hop all the way to your house?”
“Yes,” Thomas said, his expression dead serious.
“Well, I suppose I can try…”
And, he did.
They started walking—or rather, stumbling—through the narrow alleyway, like drunkards coming home from a good night out. It didn’t take long for Newt’s breaths to grow heavy. The ache hadn’t eased a bit, and now his other leg had to carry the entirety of his weight.
Well, not all of his weight.
Newt’s arm lay draped across Thomas’s neck, who kept a stabilising arm hooked around Newt’s waist as they moved along.
Because he was slightly taller, Newt needed to lean sideways for their shoulders to align, but that also meant he needed to bend his back at an odd angle. He moved raggedly, hopping forward on one foot like a crippled kangaroo.
He glanced to the side at Thomas, who was staring straight ahead, eyes narrowed in concentration. The beads of sweat that had gathered on his brow shimmered in the last remnants of sunset. It reminded Newt of these gemstones he’d found as a kid. They would tint the world golden whenever he'd hold them up to the sun.
Thomas's face held the same kind of yellowish, translucent shimmer.
Yeah, he thought. That's what he looks like. Golden.
“Is something wrong?”
“Huh, what?”
“You were staring at me. Like you were thinking hard about something.”
In a reflex, Newt looked away, blood rising to his cheeks. He could feel Thomas's eyes on him—avoiding his gaze had probably made him seem more guilty.
He didn't know exactly what he was guilty of, but still, he felt it. Like he'd been caught snooping in a place he wasn't allowed to be.
He quickly composed himself and cleared his throat. “I’m just… a bit tired. How much further is it?”
“Not far. It's right there,” Thomas answered. He pointed to a block of houses up ahead, almost too far for Newt to see properly. It looked terribly small, which meant either two things: Thomas happened to live in a house built for dwarves, or the building was at least half an hour away.
“That's a bloody day's walk from here, at the rate we're going! I thought you said it wasn't far?”
“We've only been walking for ten minutes, Newt.”
That shut him up for a second.
“You can't be serious. Only ten?”
“Yes.” Thomas let out a breathy chuckle. “We can take a break if you want.”
Newt wanted to say yes more than anything at that moment. But he also knew that if they stopped now, he'd never want to get going again.
Besides, it was really starting to get darker. The vast cloud of nightfall had seeped in from above, filling most of the sky and edging closer to the horizon every minute.
“No, no,” he huffed, “Let's just… keep going.”
“Va ben. If you say so.”
They fell back into silence. Newt let his head hang, turning his attention to his feet. The occasional curse word slipped past his lips, especially when they had to go over a bridge. It was a small one, and it didn’t take them long to cross it, but his right leg stung with each hop forward.
Thomas didn’t say anything else, but Newt could feel his eyes on him, at times. Whenever he exhaled a bit too haggardly, or when he almost tripped and bumped up against Thomas’s side—after that, Thomas had tightened his arm around Newt’s waist.
Only a fraction. Just a slight pull of his hand against Newt’s side. But he had felt it all the same.
And it felt good. Secure, if anything.
Then, finally, Thomas slowed down. He turned to look at him and motioned with his head to a small, stone building.
“This is it. My house.”