Chapter Text
1.
“Newt!” Thomas called, already halfway out the door. “Going for a run with Minho, I’ll be back later!”
There was a muffled response from the bedroom, something soft and tired. Probably a “bye.” Newt had been in bed for the past hour, claiming he was going to read, but Thomas knew he’d be asleep within minutes.
Some things never changed.
Running with Minho at dusk had become routine—something steady in the chaos of becoming an adult and everything that came with it. Ever since Thomas had fallen into their friend group in high school, Minho had practically dragged him into it.
(“No one ever runs with me,” he had complained once. “It’s actually tragic.”)
Thomas had rolled his eyes then, just like he did now, jogging toward their usual meeting spot.
Minho was already there, staring him down like he’d kicked a puppy.
“Finally,” he said dramatically, throwing his hands up. “I thought you ditched me.”
“I’m barely five minutes late jeez,” Thomas shot back, barely slowing down.
“Five minutes too long.”
Thomas laughed, shoving his shoulder as he passed. “You’re such a drama queen. You literally once showed up 30 minutes late.”
Minho gasped, feigning offense and putting a hand on his heart for dramatic effect. “Excuse me? I was fixing my hair.”
Thomas glanced at it, unimpressed. “Yeah. I can tell.”
“At least I have hair worth fixing,” Minho fired back instantly. “Yours looks like a bird built a nest and moved in.”
Thomas stopped dead in his tracks.
Slowly turned.
“Oh, you’re dead.”
Minho didn’t even wait—he took off running, laughing as Thomas chased after him.
And just like that, the world felt easy.
By the time Thomas got home, it was late. The sun had set and night time creatures had poured out.
The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled deep into the walls. Only the dim lamp in the corner was on—Newt hated sleeping in complete darkness, and Thomas had learned that the hard way.
He shut the door carefully, easing it closed with barely a sound.
Step by step, he moved through the apartment, quieter than he ever was during the day. The last time he’d woken Newt up had ended in a lecture long enough for Minho to never let him live it down.
Thomas slipped into the bathroom, showered quickly, then paused outside the bedroom.
The door to their bedroom was slightly open.
Inside, Newt was already asleep, half-buried in blankets, a mess of blonde hair sticking out. The book he’d been reading was abandoned somewhere near the pillow.
Thomas smiled, soft and content.
He changed, turned off the lights, and slid carefully into bed.
Newt shifted almost instantly.
Like he’d been waiting.
He curled closer without waking, fitting against Thomas like it was second nature. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Thomas wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in just a little closer.
Yeah.
This was his favorite part.
2.
The door creaked open sometime past midnight.
Newt didn’t bother to look up.
He stared at the same line in his book, reading it over and over without actually processing a single word. The sound of uneven footsteps echoed faintly from downstairs, followed by something hitting the wall.
Thomas.
Again.
Newt closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against them for a moment. He didn’t need to see it to know. He could already imagine the flushed cheeks, the careless grin, the way Thomas would laugh like nothing mattered. Even though he had promised Newt that he would stop drinking.
Like promises didn’t matter.
Newt set the book down beside him and stood, inhaling deep breaths.
Each step down the stairs felt heavier than the last.
By the time he reached the bottom, Thomas was leaning against the wall, blinking like the room wouldn’t stay still.
“N—Newt,” he slurred, face lighting up instantly when he saw him. “There you are.”
Newt’s chest tightened.
He ignored it.
“What did I say about drinking?” His voice came out sharper than he meant, but he didn’t take it back, not with anger bubbling in his skin.
Thomas winced slightly, like the words actually reached him through the haze. “I know, I know… I’m sorry.”
He always said that.
And somehow, it still worked.
Because Newt looked at him—really looked—and the anger slipped through his fingers like it had never been there at all.
It was pathetic.
Newt hated that he had feelings for his best friend, his best friend since he had known since childhood, his best friend that was so clearly straight, his best friend that would never reciprocate the same feelings.
“Come on,” Newt muttered instead, stepping closer. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
Thomas didn’t argue. He just reached out, grabbing onto Newt’s arm like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Or maybe like he didn’t want to let go.
Newt tried not to think about that.
Getting him up the stairs was slow and unsteady. Thomas stumbled more than once, laughing under his breath like it was all some kind of joke.
Newt didn’t laugh.
By the time they reached the bedroom, Thomas practically collapsed onto the bed, dragging Newt down with him for a second before he pulled away.
The blonde stood up and was on the way to walk out the door when he heard:
“Stay,” Thomas murmured, voice softer now. “Please?”
Newt froze.
For a second—just one—he almost said yes.
Because this… this was everything he wanted, wasn’t it?
Thomas close, Thomas reaching for him, Thomas asking him to stay.
But this wasn’t real.
It was just alcohol and poor decisions and something that would disappear by morning like it never happened at all. Plus, Newt would be taking advantage of him. He would be selfish.
Sighing, he shook his head.
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re drunk, Tommy.”
Thomas frowned. “So what?”
So what.
Newt let out a small, humorless breath.
And in a voice so quiet he wasn’t sure if Thomas heard it, he said,
“So you won’t remember this, and I will.”
Thomas’s expression shifted, signifying that his ears did, indeed, pick up what he said. Confusion spread across his face, and despite that, Thomas still looked as if he was certain on his decision.
Newt turned around, back facing the brunet, and finally walked to the door.
It felt worse than it should have.
His hand trembled as it enveloped the handle.
“Get some rest,” Newt added, softer now. “You’ll feel like bloody hell in the morning.”
Thomas looked at him like he wanted to say something else.
Like he almost understood.
But then he just sank back into the bed, eyes already drifting shut, already halfway to sleeping.
Newt stood there for a moment longer than necessary, just looking at the man, admiring him. He forced his eyes to look away, making at least one right choice.
He twisted the knob and left, pulling the door closed behind him with a quiet click.
The hallway felt colder than before. It was eerie and felt unfamiliar, as if he hadn’t been passed the same halfway for years.
Newt leaned back against the wall, staring at nothing.
He stayed there for a long time before returning to his room.
With a blank face, he laid down on the bed and clutched the blanket like it was a lifeline.
Because for years, he liked the one person he should absolutely not like.
Because in the end, all he received was pain and suffering.
And in that moment, Newt cried himself to sleep.