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Thomas loves London.
He knows most people don't like it because they think it's too rainy, but that's one of his favorite things about the city. He loves when it rains at night, the moist smell of the air, and when his feet get all soaked with every step he takes, when the lights reflect on the puddles and Thomas feels like he's living in a fairy tale.
He loves pubs, too, loves how they smell, a mix of sweat and alcohol. He loves all kinds of people you can find there, the ones that spend more time at the door than inside only so they can smoke even if it's mid-October and it's freezing, the ones who can dance for hours lost in terrible music and strangers's bodies, and the ones that sit at the bar, drinking glass after glass of whatever the bartender gives them until they're too drunk to walk and too gone to think.
He loves pretty English boys, too. He's one of those people who go to pubs looking for company. Sometimes he finds someone who's interested in listening to his rants about how he got to London, his mom telling him he was stressed because the big New York was too much for him, that he needed to disconnect, breathe a different air for a while. Other times he just needs to have a good time dancing or he feels like drinking while listening to other people's problems, it makes him feel better about his own life, and it makes him feel guilty -- but he tells himself that these people need someone to listen to them just as much as he needs someone to listen to him sometimes, so he doesn't care too much about the guilt if he gets to bring someone home with him to feel less lonely for a few hours.
He always gets the company he needs for a night, a pretty boy listening to him, talking to him, or only drinking with him, and he gets a warm body curled beside him on bed if he's lucky enough, but no one sticks around more than one night.
----
There's this new pub in front of his house, it was opened three weeks after Thomas got to London. The first time he steps into it, he goes straight to the bar, takes an empty seat, and turns around to look at the dance floor as he waits for the bartender to attend to him.
Everything is a mess of bright lights and sweaty bodies pressed together, with damp clothes, messy hair, and happy eyes. There's a tall, lanky boy that catches Thomas's attention instantly, he's one of the prettiest boys Thomas's ever seen, blonde hair and a little smile playing on his lips. He moves awkwardly, trying to follow the rhythm of the music, but Thomas finds it ridiculously cute.
He's thinking about getting up and walking toward the boy, starting a conversation maybe, asking him if he wants to have a drink, when the bartender pats his shoulder and puts a shot right in front of him without even asking him what he wants to drink and leaves, giving him a wink. Thomas follows him with his gaze. He has Asian features, tiny eyes and plump lips; his tanned skin seems to glow under the colorful lights, and his black hair is perfectly styled, as if he hasn't spent hours in a local pub that always smells like sweat and where the air is always moist.
The bartender goes right to where the blonde boy is dancing, he puts his hands over his waist, gently, and the boy leans against him instantly, and Thomas realizes it isn't the first time they've danced together, that it's not gonna be the last time probably. The wink the bartender gave him before makes sense.
Thomas stares as they move fast, the lanky boy isn't moving as clumsily as before, it's like the other guy guides him. It's almost beautiful, kinda sexy, too. They dance pressed together, the bartender's face hidden into the crook of the other boy's neck, his hands going up his sides slowly and back down til he reaches his waist, again and again.
When the blonde boy turns around and puts his hands over the bartender's shoulders, leans in to press their lips together, even the kiss seems to go to the rhythm of the music. Thomas guesses he's going home alone tonight.
He drinks the shot, he takes the bartender's wink as an invitation, and he leaves the pub without paying.
----
When Thomas goes to the pub for the second time, the blonde boy is sitting at the bar talking to his bartender. So he decides to stay at the door, pretending he's trying to decide if he should go out and smoke a cigarette or dance with some stranger, but he's actually glancing to where the pretty guy is every two seconds.
It's kinda creepy, he thinks, but it's a whim; he needs to take that boy home with him and fill his quiet room with moans, run his fingertips over his skin, tangle his hands in his blonde hair and sink his teeth into the soft skin where his neck meets his shoulder. He needs to be the one winking at the bartender in a cheeky way the next time he steps into this pub.
The guy is laughing now, with his head pulled back and his eyes closed, the bartender looks at him with dimples on his cheeks and a fond smile on his lips. When the boy stops laughing, he's blushing, he leans in and kisses the Asian's nose, and it's such a cute image that Thomas almost feels bad for thinking about taking that boy home and probably ruining a good relationship.
But when the bartender leaves to attend a new customer, the blonde guy turns around and smiles when his eyes meet with Thomas's, a crooked, mischievous smile, and he winks. Thomas is taken aback at first, but the wink isn't sassy like the one the bartender gave him. It's more inviting, as if the boy's telling him to stop staring, to move his ass and buy him a drink.
So Thomas walks toward the guy, biting the inside of his cheek nervously, and takes a seat next to him.
He's so much prettier up close, his hair and eyes shine under the colorful lights, shadows dance over his face, and his smile is now tiny and shy, as if he's trying to hide it, and right now all Thomas wants to do is to make this boy feel comfortable enough to laugh out loud, with a wide smile, his head pulled back and happy wrinkles around his eyes.
"Hey, do you wanna have a drink?" Thomas asks, leaning toward the guy so he can hear him over the music. He can smell his cologne, his shampoo, and something else -- he can smell the boy's own scent, something bittersweet.
"Already have one," he says as he raises the glass that's in his hand. Thomas feels a little stupid for a moment, but he doesn't give it a lot of thought -- he's too busy melting with the boy's English accent and the soft tone of his voice.
"What about a dance?" Thomas gestures to the dance floor with his head and the guy's smile gets a little wider, there's a light blush covering his cheeks. Thomas doesn't know if it's because of the pub's heat or because of him, but it makes him look even cuter.
"You know, English boys just like sex," the words leave his mouth slowly, and his eyes are looking right into Thomas's. He leans closer, still smiling, the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and there's this knot in Thomas's throat threatening to choke him when he tries to speak, sudden nervousness pinching the back of his neck, something that has never happened to him with someone he doesn't even know.
"That's great," he gets to say after he swallows the insecurity, "American guys love sex, too." He's the one smiling in a hussy way now, when the pink blush turns red and the guy is looking down at his hands, playing with his half-bitten nails.
The bartender appears now, rests his hands over the bar and looks at Thomas with his eyebrows raised, asking what he wants to drink without words.
"Good thing we have something in common," the blonde boy says, he gets up from his stool and flashes another smile before he turns and leaves.
Thomas stays there speechless, trying to figure out if he should follow him out of the pub or not, feeling like a big idiot because he didn't even ask for his name, and wanting to get to know that guy more than ever. Curiosity has settled into him, and it seems that it doesn't plan to leave soon.
There's a chuckle next to him. Thomas turns around to see the bartender still staring at him, his tiny eyes almost closed because of laughter, and it feels worse than a wink, it feels almost like a punch in the face.
"Fuck off," Thomas mumbles and gets up, he won't stay at this place if someone's gonna laugh at him.
"Hey, hey wait!" Thomas turns to face the bartender (Minho, that's what the little white tag on his shirt says). "C'mere, dude." He motions for him to get closer with his hand.
Minho puts a glass in front of Thomas when he gets back to the bar, he opens a bottle and pours a dark liquid into it.
"Drink up, you'll need it if you're gonna get involved with Newt." He pats Thomas on the shoulder and adds before he leaves, "It's on the house."
His words leave Thomas thinking he's getting himself into something he'll regret, but he's too stubborn and too curious to back off now. So he drinks up because it's free -- and because he has to celebrate that at least he's got the blonde guy's name.
----
The next time Thomas sees Newt, he's thinking about going home when he hasn't even had one drink.
He's been stressed with college and feeling more homesick than usual, he thought that maybe going out and drinking something strong would ease his mind. But the loud music makes his head hurt and the moist air makes it hard to breathe, so going home and drinking a beer alone sounds better than trying to forget his loneliness dancing with unknown people.
He's making his way towards the door when someone grabs his wrist and pulls it, a firm and strong tug. He's too surprised to react and his shoulder bumps against someone's chest.
"Can I have a dance?" Warm breath hits his ear, smelling like sweet alcohol, and the soft English accent has Thomas biting his lower lip, stopping a smile from spreading over his face at that voice he's already able to recognize.
He doesn't reply, he doesn't have to. Newt tugs at his wrist again, and Thomas lets him guide him to the dance floor.
It's a little bit awkward at first, Newt just starts moving, trying to follow the rhythm of the music; and even though Thomas still finds it kind of adorable, he isn't good at it, and Thomas just stands there looking at him, between fascinated and amused and not knowing what to do. It's strange how he's so used to picking up one night stands, but he feels all nervous around this guy he barely knows. It's uncomfortable.
Thomas feels like he's making a fool out of himself standing there, so he moves closer to Newt, puts a hand on his waist, and starts to move with him. Newt looks almost shy when he wraps his arms around Thomas's neck, a small, crocked smile on his lips, his cheeks red; but he leans in until his hot breath is hitting Thomas's ear, presses himself against Thomas's body.
They're moving in sync now, Thomas guiding Newt, just as Minho was doing that first time he stepped into the pub, and he wonders if someone is looking at them like he did that night. If they find the way they dance together just as sexy.
Thomas for sure finds it sexy. He remembers thinking that Newt was a little awkward dancing, but it's not when he's dancing pressed up against him, with one of his thighs between Thomas's and his mouth so close to his ear that Thomas can hear every little sigh he lets out.
They don't care about the music anymore, they're dancing to their own rhythm, Thomas's hands over Newt's hips, feeling the way they move under his sweating palms. Newt's mouth is pressed against Thomas's ear, he can feel Newt's smile every time an unintentional moan leaves Thomas's lips when Newt's thigh presses a little too hard between his legs.
"What's your name?" Newt asks, his lips stroking Thomas's ear.
"Thomas," it comes out breathlessly, almost like a whisper, he's too overwhelmed to be able to speak louder.
"You said you like sex, Thomas," Newt mumbles, pulling back, looking at him with a mischievous smile but red cheeks, looking shy and cheeky at the same time. Thomas doesn't answer, he just stares at Newt's shiny lips, wide-eyed and mouth shut, afraid of failing miserably if he tries to talk. "Take me home," Newt whispers in Thomas's ear, voice low and breath warm.
Thomas reacts then. He stops feeling stupidly nervous and kind of numb and starts walking toward the door, Newt stumbling right behind him, giggling with his fingers entangled with Thomas's, and he's relieved when he notices he isn't the only one with sweaty palms.
Minho catches Thomas's attention before they reach the door. He's following them with a hard look in his dark eyes, and Thomas is expecting jealousy swimming in his serious brown irises. He's surprised when all he finds is worry. He doesn't give it importance, not now with Newt practically throwing himself at Thomas, trying to kiss his neck, the skin behind his ears, as they walk. He just winks at Minho, not in an arrogant way, just in a 'we'll be fine' way.
They cross the street running with their hands still intertwined, and Newt stumbles into Thomas when he stops to open the door of his apartment. He laughs into his ear, a chirpy, happy giggle; he sounds like a kid, and it makes Thomas feel like a kid for a moment, just excited and carefree.
It's amazing how nervous he feels. The keys almost slip from his hands and fall on the floor when Newt presses his chest against Thomas's back, licks a wet stripe over the back of his neck and sinks his teeth in right where his hair starts to grow. It's amazing but also scary, he always goes to the pub looking for someone who will keep him company, distract him from thinking, but the feeling of not knowing what to do is haunting him. His hands are shaking with anticipation, he can't even get the key into the door lock; and he's half hard only for the pressure of Newt's hand on his waist, his hot breathing on his ear.
When Thomas finally opens the door, Newt pushes him against the elevator as soon as they're in. He kisses him hard and demanding, caressing with his tongue every corner of Thomas's mouth, erasing all his worries about complicated emotions and feeling too much. It's overwhelming and breathtaking to the point that Thomas has to pull at Newt's hair to push him away because he needs air, he's suffocated, panting against Newt's shiny lips. The only thing he can think of is that he just had the best kiss of his life, and something warm but sharp runs through his spine when he realizes he has all night to kiss Newt's mouth as many times as he wants.
He doesn't want to waste time, so he pulls Newt closer again, even though he's still panting and there's not enough air in his lungs, and tries to press the elevator button with his eyes closed and all his senses focused on Newt. The kiss is rough, almost desperate, there's more teeth than tongue and there's spit everywhere, but that's exactly what Thomas wants.
The door opens suddenly and Thomas stumbles in, he almost falls down but his back hits one of the walls soon. Newt trips over and collides with Thomas, he rests his head over his chest and laughs out loud again, with his mouth open, and Thomas can feel his hot breath warming his shirt and the skin underneath it. He can't wait to feel it directly over his body.
A few moments later, Thomas is lying on his bed, half-naked and fully hard. He doesn't even know how they got to his apartment, he doesn't remember pressing the elevator's button or opening the door; and when he tries to think about it, his mind is filled with the taste of Newt's lips, sweet alcohol mixed with something bitter and addictive.
Thomas sits up a little, rests all his weight on his elbows and looks at Newt, stripping down in front of him. They haven't turned on the lights, the bedroom is dim and shadows draw weird patterns over Newt's skin because of the street lights coming in through the open window. It's a beautiful image, his blonde hair falls over his forehead, and there's a dangerous glint in his eyes matching his little mischievous smile when he crawls over Thomas completely naked.
When Newt straddles him and starts unbuttoning Thomas's pants, hands sure and his bottom lip between his teeth, Thomas decides that he misses his taste too much. He entangles one of his hands in Newt's hair, takes a handful of it and pulls hard, he knows it hurts, because Newt whines when he lifts his head to meet Thomas's eyes. But his pupils are dilated, his cheeks are red, so Thomas guesses Newt likes it when it hurts a little. He leans in and crashes their open mouths together, scratching Newt's lips with his teeth, his hand on Newt's hair never letting go, always pulling hard.
They kiss for what feels like a year, for Thomas, the sweetest year in a long time, not stopping even though they need air and their jaws hurt. The need and the want are setting Thomas's chest on fire, right where his bare skin meets Newt's. He can't keep his hands still, always stroking Newt's body impatiently, nails scratching his back, trying to get more and closer.
Thomas is painfully hard in his jeans when Newt stops him, he breaks the kiss with a rough move and pushes Thomas away, getting his hands off of him. He goes back to Thomas's pants, unbuttons them and gets rid of them and Thomas's underwear, leaving him relieved but drowning in anticipation.
When Newt straddles him again, Thomas tries to kiss him, he tries to put his hands over the smooth skin on the small of his back, but Newt doesn't let him. He avoids Thomas's touch, wraps one of his hands around both of Thomas's wrists and pins them to the mattress, right above Thomas's head. Thomas knows he's stronger than Newt, he could free his hands and change their positions in the blink of an eye, but the dangerous glint in Newt's eyes, that dominant light, is making him harder and hotter and even more breathless. So he just whines and moans and his hips shake, desperate to find some kind of friction.
The smell of sweat is dizzying, Thomas should be used to it, he spends most of his days going to pubs where everything is sweat and smoke and his bedroom always smells like sex. But tonight it smells bittersweet, sweat and sex and salt and Newt. The moist air is almost impossible to breathe, his chest feels tight, his lungs and throat burn when he looks at Newt, with his damp hair sticking to his forehead, face wet and red, lips and eyes shining, one of his hands still pinning Thomas's wrists to the bed, the other one stroking himself so slowly it's driving Thomas's crazy. He feels one step away from the edge when he hasn't even been touched yet. It's ridiculous and fascinating.
Thomas's body goes tense when Newt leans in and breathes over the hot skin of his chest, he licks all the way up to his throat, bites his chin and moves to the side of his neck, sucking hard under his ear right when he stops touching himself to line his dick with Thomas's. He presses their dicks together and wraps his warm hand around them, starts moving it, stroking up and down slowly, his palm rough even though it's wet with sweat and precome.
It seems like there's not enough air in the room, the way Newt's moving his hand in a slow pace but pressing hard, his dick hot against Thomas's, his hips thrusting hard and sure but shaking a bit, trying to follow the rhythm of his hand but wanting to go faster. It's like a torture that has Thomas gasping and whining, arching his back, trying to feel Newt's chest against his. He's mumbling nonsense words mixed with 'please,' he wants Newt's mouth on his but his mind is too blurred to find the right words, too overwhelmed by the sight of their dicks, red and shiny, pressed together, Newt's fingers stroking them as slow as he can go.
There's blood mixed with Thomas's spit, he's biting his lips so hard they're bleeding. His body is so tense his muscles hurt, he has his toes curled and his throat is in flames. He's squirming under Newt's touch, trying to free his hands because he needs to touch and press and scratch but wanting to stay in that position at the same time. He's fighting against his orgasm, he feels like he can't resist much longer. Newt's long fingers are wrapped tight around them and he's moving his hips at the same time he moves his hand, jerking them and grinding their dicks together. Everything is wet and there's precome everywhere. It may be disgusting, but it's the hottest handjob Thomas has ever received.
Thomas is ashamed, it feels like they've just started but he's so close he's already seeing everything blurred and white. The way Newt is moving his hips, impatient but sure, has Thomas wondering how it would feel if Newt was thrusting inside him; he wants to ask, wants to moan the question in Newt's ear and have him come inside him, but he's panting just at the thought of it.
Newt starts to shake, his hand loses that slow rhythm he was trying to follow and his hips move clumsily and out of control. Newt starts losing it and Thomas isn't ashamed anymore, he closes his eyes tight when Newt sinks his teeth into his throat and he lets go. He comes all over their chests, Newt following a few seconds later, the hand gripping Thomas's wrists slides between his hands, and Thomas sinks his nails into Newt's skin as he moans out loud.
Thomas feels so numb and blissed out after his orgasm that he doesn't even care about Newt falling onto him and their cum between their skin. He knows he should get up and take a shower, but he just keeps his eyes closed and takes a deep breath, and he loves the smell of sex and sweat.
He doesn't know how long they're in that position, just sprawled in bed, limbs entangled and completely naked. It could be one hour, maybe just ten minutes, but Thomas is more asleep than awake when Newt laughs into the crook of his neck and gets up, making a little sound in the back of his throat like a grunt.
The bedroom is suddenly cold and Thomas feels terribly lonely when he stops feeling Newt pressed up against him. He opens one eye and looks around, sees Newt kneeling in front of the bed, looking for something in the pockets of his pants. When he stands up there's a lit cigarette between his lips and shadows all over his pale skin. Thomas really wants to touch him.
"Well, it was a nice night, wasn't it?" Newt says, so quietly it's almost a whisper. He falls onto the bed again but he leaves space between the two of them this time, looks at Thomas with his eyes shining behind the smoke of his cigarette and a crooked smile on the corner of his mouth.
"Will you let me touch you next time?" Thomas asks, his voice tired and a little broken at the end. There's something in the back of his mind trying to warn him, he feels like he shouldn't have asked something like that, but he's so numb and drained he doesn't really care.
"Who told you there would be a next time?" Newt words sound bittersweet, as everything that's involved with him. Thomas knows that if someone asked him to describe Newt in one word, it would be bittersweet.
He isn't worried about Newt's answer, though, because he got the company he needed for tonight and he's used to people not sticking around for more than a few hours. But the little smile he sees on Newt's lips right before he falls asleep tells him this is far from over.
----
Thomas isn't surprised when he wakes up alone at 5 pm, between rumpled sheets and dry cum, with his neck bruised and hot.
----
The pub is weirdly empty the next time Thomas is there. Well, actually it would be weird if it wasn't empty, knowing that it's a Monday at 4 pm. The rest of the world probably has something better to do than go to a pub when the walls of their tiny flats start closing in around them.
Thomas sits at the bar and waits patiently for Minho as his eyes run around the dark, dirty local pub even though he knows he won't find what he's looking for.
"He isn't here, never comes in before 8." That's Minho's way to greet him, with his hands resting over the bar and looking at Thomas with his eyebrows raised, a tiny smile hidden in the corner of his plump lips. "What do you wanna drink?"
"Whatever," Thomas mumbles, his words slurred with tiredness. He presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyes until he starts seeing little colorful lights, trying to make his headache go away, but it doesn't work. "Surprise me," he says, taking his hands off his eyes soon enough to catch Minho's amused smile before he turns around.
He likes Minho, he doesn't like the way he looks at him, as if he knows exactly what's going on in Thomas's head, in his life -- but he guesses that's the wisdom of a bartender. He's sure Minho has met a lot of people like Thomas before. But he likes how calm he is, how easygoing he seems. Thomas feels like he could tell him anything even though they don't know each other. He thinks that's also a bartender thing. He likes how pretty he is, too, with his deep, dark eyes and nice hair and smooth skin. He would have taken him home that first night he saw him if Newt hadn't been there.
When Minho comes back he puts a glass in front of Thomas, and he drinks it without even knowing what it is. It tastes sweet, but it burns the back of his throat from drinking too fast.
"So, you and Newt," he says, leaving the glass on the bar again once he's drunk the whole thing, "were you boyfriends or something?"
Thomas expected Minho to get upset over him getting into things that has nothing to do with him, or even jealous because he knows what happened between Thomas and Newt a couple nights ago. But he just gives him a crooked smile and shrugs.
"Or something," he says, with his eyes half-closed and wrinkles around his nose, never losing his smile.
"What happened?" Thomas asks, fascinated by how cool Minho is about this.
"We messed around for a while, then I guess he got tired." He shrugs again, as if whatever he and Newt had wasn't a big deal, and Thomas remembers when he saw them dancing together, how beautiful it was, intimate.
There's something cold and sharp pinching the back of Thomas's neck and his stomach. He shoves a hand in his pocket and throws some money on the bar, probably more than what the drink costs, but he doesn't care, he wants to get out of there before Newt comes. He isn't interested in knowing if Newt will get tired of him, too, he doesn't understand why the words 'who told you there would be a next time?' hurt a little now. But he doesn't want to stay and find out the reason.
"Hey, Thomas!" Minho yells when he gets up and starts walking toward the door. He doesn't remember telling his name to Minho, maybe it was Newt who told him, that thought makes Thomas feel a little warmer inside. "Be careful, yeah?" Minho says, and he's serious this time, not even a tiny smile hidden in his expression.
Thomas just nods before leaving the place, not even sure why he should be careful, completely lost because of all these feelings after one stupid one night stand.
----
Thomas is smoking outside the pub the next time he sees Newt, walking fast toward him, at 8 pm, with his hands hidden in the sleeves of a big sweater and that mischievous smile panted on his lips.
He doesn't even go inside the pub, he stops right in front of Thomas and takes the cigarette out of his lips to give it a puff without asking for permission. Newt's fingers are cold when they touch Thomas's lips and he's looking extremely adorable but also extremely dangerous.
"Lead the way to your apartment," he says after the smoke leaves his mouth, his lungs. "I remember where it is, but you have the keys."
Thomas thinks for a while, he actually thinks it twice. After his conversation with Minho the other day, he feels like he could end up disappointed at best when this kind of relationship ends.
"I thought there wouldn't be a next time," he's proud of himself when he finds out his voice doesn't shake and his hands aren't sweating. Maybe there weren't weird feelings on that first night, just the typical nervousness. Maybe he's just overthinking because of Minho's words.
"I never said that," Newt's biting his lip when Thomas looks at him, his cheeks are red, and it's that weird combination again, something between shy and cheeky.
Thomas's thoughts are suddenly filled with the image of the way Newt looked when he came that night, cheeks red, eyes closed and his hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat. He grabs the cigarette when Newt hands it back to him but only to throw it away and take Newt's hand instead, leading the way to his apartment for the second time.
----
The creaky noises the mattress makes when someone gets out of bed is what wakes Thomas up the next morning.
He needs to blink a few times to get his eyes accustomed to the bright light entering the open window. He stretches his body and rolls on the bed until he's lying on his back. He feels numb, as if his limbs weigh too much, his muscles and mind are so tired he almost thinks he's imagining it when he sees someone sitting at the foot of his bed.
Newt has his back to him, bending over, probably putting his shoes on. He's shirtless and his hair is a mess, there are marks on his back, fine lines the bed sheets have left there for sleeping over them. Thomas can see a red mark right where his neck meets his shoulder, and he smiles sleepily when he remembers Newt's salty taste when he bit on the soft skin there last night, how he made him come only by grinding down against him, Newt's nails digging into Thomas's back, trying to fight for control or dominance but too gone because of the pleasure of Thomas's dick rubbing against his, Thomas sucking his neck, biting, marking him.
"Get your ass out of bed, Tommy," Newt says, standing up after grabbing his t-shirt from the floor. "I'm sure you have stuff more interesting to do than staying asleep all day."
"What time is it?" Thomas mumbles after a yawn, rolling over until his face is pressed against the pillow so Newt can't see the blush that appears there after hearing the nickname.
"Quarter to eight," Newt says from somewhere in the room.
"What day is it?"
"Thursday." Thomas groans against the pillow. He wishes he could stay in bed all day, but he has classes to attend if he wants to go back to America with his shitty career finished and make his mom proud.
He hears Newt's giggle. It sounds a little tired but still as carefree as always, and it's just sweet and happy, nothing bitter there, as if he's happier in the mornings, when his day hasn't had a chance to go to waste yet.
"C'mon, get up," Newt slaps Thomas's thigh and he turns around to look at him, he's already completely dressed up, his big sweater all wrinkled and covering his hands and his hair still a mess. "I'll see you later, yeah?" he says, his English accent sounds thicker in his sleepy voice, and he turns around and leaves the room.
Thomas stays lying there after he hears Newt closing the door of his flat, a small, foolish smile settled on his lips as the domestic feeling of the moment sinks in, still finding it hard to believe that Newt stayed until he woke up.
He's rather scared, as if this morning was too couply to be normal. But maybe Newt won't get tired of him after all.
----
The first time Newt fucks Thomas is in the toilets of the pub and Thomas is so drunk he hardly remembers anything when he wakes up hungover the next morning.
He remembers getting to the pub soaked from head to toe, thinking how much he loves London and how it smells when it rains, wet stone and humid air. He remembers removing his wet sweatshirt after ordering a shot and shaking his head, Minho's complaints when splashed him with little drops of water from his hair.
He doesn't remember how many drinks he had or the number of mixed liquors in his blood, but he remembers dancing pressed up against Minho and laughing out loud when he noticed Minho's clothing had gotten wet because of his own wet clothes.
He isn't able to remember the moment when Newt entered the pub, but he does remember his smirk and his eyes shining with the little colored lights that filled the dance floor, the feeling of anticipation that appeared in his stomach when Newt started licking the drops of rain that still fell from his hair and slipped down his neck.
He doesn't remember how he got to the toilets or the times he stumbled along the way, but he can remember Newt's warm hands running over his wet, cold skin, his fingertips digging into his hip bones when he turned him around sharply and pressed his chest to his back, Newt's mouth on his neck again, his teeth sinking into his earlobe, his breath smelling like sweet alcohol, his fingers stretching him slowly, tearing involuntary moans from the back of his throat.
He can't remember the exact moment when Newt pushed into him, or if it hurt, what crossed his mind right when Newt was completely inside him for the first time, or if there were intense feelings he should worry about; but he remembers Newt's thrusts, fast and rough, his rapid breathing against his ear, rarely letting out moans.
He remembers how cold the tiles were against his forearms and forehead. He remembers losing his force, getting weak at the knees when the pleasure became too much to handle, and trying to hold onto something, but only closing his fist against the cold wall, gritting his teeth and growling.
He doesn't remember coming , but he remembers the heat he felt throughout his body when Newt came inside of him.
He doesn't remember what he said afterwards, he only remembers turning around and sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his skin burning and the cold of the rain forgotten. He remembers throwing his head back and laughing as loud as he could, with his mouth open and his eyes closed.
He remembers the half smile on Newt's mouth before he left the toilets and he remembers feeling an awful fear in the pit of his stomach after the door closed, but he can't remember why he was afraid, or of what. And that's what scares him the next morning, when he wakes up alone in bed wearing yesterday's clothes, already completely dry, and his mouth tastes like vomit and it feels like his head is going to explode. And he finds himself wishing that someone he barely knows was waking up next to him, feeling just as tired and just as wasted.
And when he gets out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen, prepares a black coffee and sits alone on one of the uncomfortable chairs -- he thinks that perhaps what he was afraid of, after Newt left him alone in the toilets, was missing someone after having gotten used to being alone, having forgotten what it's like to miss someone who isn't part of your family.
----
Thomas has begun to lose count of the nights he and Newt have spent together. Sometimes they fuck messily in the toilets of the pub. Other times Newt goes home with him and leaves the same night after smoking a cigarette that he doesn't share with Thomas. And there are a few times where he stays until Thomas wakes up, already dressed up and ready to leave when Thomas opens his eyes.
He thinks that he's finally understood what Minho's words mean, why he has to be careful if he's gonna get involved with Newt; they will never have something serious, simply because they don't know each other, because Newt doesn't want Thomas to know him. But it isn't a big deal, it isn't as if Thomas wants a relationship or something, he's never wanted one. He's so used to being alone, the wordrelationship freaks him out. He doesn't need to be careful, he and Newt are on the same page.
Or that's what he thinks until Newt wakes him up one Saturday at 11 am.
He removes the blankets from Thomas's body sharply and pokes his cheek until Thomas opens his eyes slowly, frowning at Newt's smiley face.
"The fuck you want?" he mumbles, burying his face in the pillow.
"C'mon, get up. I made breakfast."
Thomas sits up a little and looks at him with one of his brows raised, running a hand through his tangled hair.
"Why?" Newt giggles at Thomas's incredulous question and grabs one of his hands, pulling at it to make him get out of bed.
"It's Saturday, I had nothing to do, so..."
Thomas gets up and lets Newt guide him to the kitchen, he shuffles behind him, trying to make the tiredness and numbness leave his body and mind by rubbing his left eye with his free hand.
When they enter the kitchen, Newt goes straight to the coffee pot and Thomas sits on one of his old chairs. He has to stop himself from laughing when he looks at Newt, with his blonde locks all messed up and only wearing his underwear and a big sweater. He looks like a small kid all lost in a house that isn't his own.
Thomas isn't sure if you can call a cup of coffee and three burnt slices of toast a breakfast, but there's a small smile on Newt's lips and this happy glint that's in his eyes here every morning, so he eats his burnt toast and thinks that maybe, just maybe, this thing between them could be going somewhere serious.
He doesn't even know when he stopped being afraid of the word relationship.
----
Thomas has never been in a relationship, he's never been interested in one before, and he doesn't really know how it works -- but he's pretty sure whatever he has with Newt is close to one, but not quite.
They love to dance with every inch of their bodies pressed together, kiss messily lost in the crowd and bad music, but there's always this big space in bed between them when they fall asleep, worn out, covered in sweat, smelling like sex and like the other. Thomas knows Newt likes to have coffee for breakfast and dip toast in it, but he doesn't know how he likes his coffee or if he burns the toast on purpose every morning. He knows Newt likes it when it rains, but he doesn't know if what he likes is the smell or the way the city seems to shine when the lights reflect on the puddles or getting home with his clothes soaked and his hair dripping drops of rain. He knows Newt has a lot of over sized sweaters, but he doesn't know if he likes them when they're too big for him or if they belonged to someone else before.
He knows so much but so little at the same time, it's like when you watch a movie that's based on a book. It doesn't matter how many times you watch it, you will never know everything about the story until you read the book. But what if that book doesn't want to be read?
He tries to get under Newt's breastplate sometimes. He remembers a time after Newt woke him up, with the house smelling like coffee and winter, Newt dressed up and ready to leave with a 'see you later' on his lips. Thomas asked him if he could have his number, his palms sweating and his cheeks burning and his heart racing, as if he was asking for a date with someone he's never been with, as if they didn't fuck almost every night. Newt said, "Why do you want it? You know where to find me," and left with a mumbled 'goodbye' instead of a 'see you later.' There was this other time, late at night, between dirty, rumpled sheets and the house smelling like sex and smoke, Thomas felt confident in the darkness and asked about Minho for the first time. He remembers himself saying, "What happened with your boyfriend?" and the way Newt looked at him, his wide eyes shining in the shadows, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, the way his laugh resounded through the quiet house when Thomas told him he was referring to Minho, and Newt leaving after one last cigarette.
Thomas has learned not to ask about personal stuff, Newt's family or studies or what he does for a living, he knows he'll never get an answer. And he always gets this bittersweet feeling in the pit of his stomach and going up his chest, reminding him how close they are to having something serious but how they will never get there.
----
At six pm, the pub is always almost empty. It's still dark and humid, but the bar is clean and you can rest your arms over it, the floor of the toilets isn't covered by toilet paper and it smells like bleach instead of vomit, and there's like four people quietly drinking, with their heads low and their eyes drowned in the bottom of their glasses.
It's nice going to the pub after class, when Thomas knows Newt won't be there and the music is low so he can keep a conversation with Minho. Usually they talk about their families, how Thomas misses his mom and America, how Minho Skypes them twice a week but it isn't enough, how he doesn't want to go back to America but still misses it; they talk about going to the beach one day, preferably if it rains, and swimming at night and trying to reach the reflection of the moon, watching the sunrise from the shore; they talk about music and sports and Minho tries to teach Thomas how to make cocktails and tells him about drinks he's never heard of.
"Do you know something about Newt's family?" Thomas asks, one day he's feeling confident, drinking from a glass of something he's forgotten the name of.
"Not much," Minho says, never stopping work behind the bar, cleaning glasses and classifying bottles. "Just that they don't talk much. But I guess he's the one who has to tell you about them."
"That's the thing," Thomas's frustrated tone makes Minho stop and look at him with raised eyebrows. "He never tells me anything."
Minho rests his hands on the bar and looks at Thomas, trying to lock their eyes, but Thomas avoids his gaze.
"Why do you want to know, anyways?"
"I dunno." Thomas's fingers peal nervously against the glass. "I'm curious, I wanna know things about him. I want to know him."
When he finally meets Minho's eyes, he has that look in them, as if he knows everything about Thomas and he's trying to find out if there's something else to learn that he hasn't caught on to yet.
"Do you remember when I told you to be careful?" Thomas nods, a knot in his throat doesn't let him speak. "Newt is complicated, don't fall in love with him."
Thomas is taken aback, he doesn't quite understand what love has to do with this, he doesn't even understand what love is yet. So he just avoids Minho's eyes again, drinks what's left in his glass, and leaves before Newt comes.
----
Three days later, Thomas realizes he's in love with Newt.
It's such a ridiculous situation, to find out you love someone when they have you cornered against the wall of the shower at nine in the morning.
Thomas's forehead is pressed against the cold tiles as the hot water runs down his back, making his skin feel as hot as he feels inside with every thrust of Newt's hips. Everything is slippery, the heat and the steam are oppressive, Thomas feels like he could faint at any second, the only thing that keeps him grounded is Newt's fingernails digging into his waist. Newt's fast breathing and his own, heartbeats mixing in Thomas's ears, they sound louder than the running water, and their hands are intertwined over the wall, Newt's hand squeezing Thomas so hard it hurts.
Newt comes first, hot inside Thomas, his mouth open, panting, wet against Thomas's shoulder. He strokes Thomas lazily, with a firm grip around his dick, moving his hand slowly but never stopping, until Thomas is shaking and mumbling his name, a wrecked mess under the water and Newt's touch.
Newt closes the tap and giggles, his breathing is cold over Thomas's wet neck.
"Do you wanna have breakfast now?" he asks, peeling off his body from Thomas's and stepping out of the tub.
Thomas isn't able to answer, he's still too overwhelmed, the steam clouding his mind. He looks at Newt over his shoulder, he's still naked, drying his hair with a small towel; and even though he isn't sure he understands what love is yet, he wonders how he could not fall in love with him.
----
"Hey, Newt?" Thomas whispers, getting a hand out of the blankets and reaching out in the darkness, trying to find Newt's body at the other side of the bed.
"Yeah?" Newt asks, his voice soft, and he doesn't move when Thomas rests his cold hand over his forearm.
"Do you wanna do something different one day?" Thomas is still whispering, as if maybe if he keeps his voice low enough, Newt won't hear him and he can convince himself that this is only happening in his imagination.
"What do you mean something different?" he turns around to face Thomas, even though they can't see each other's faces in the darkness, and Thomas's hand falls onto the mattress.
"I don't know, go to the cinema, walk around the city and buy ice cream..." he mumbles, his hand fidgeting nervously with the sheets "...whatever."
"Shut up and get dressed," Newt says, sitting up, sounding suddenly awake and full of energy.
"Newt, it's 3 am."
"Let's have a few drinks at 3 am, that's something different."
It isn't something different, Thomas thinks when they enter a weird, old pub later that night. It's the same thing as every day but at a different hour, it isn't something couply that makes him feel closer to Newt. But he isn't able to push him away when he ends up in the dirty toilets, with his shirt off and Newt's hand shoved down his pants.
----
It isn't a special night when Thomas thinks for the first time that he and Newt are finally getting somewhere. It's a Wednesday and it's cold, but when isn't the night cold when you're in London in the middle of winter?
When he gets to the pub, Newt is already there. He's sitting outside, on the ground, his back against the stone wall that's next to the pub, his hands hidden in the sleeves of one of his big sweaters, his gaze lost somewhere Thomas can't go. He's smoking a cigarette, little white clouds leaving his pink, chapped lips, a mix of smoke and his cold breath.
"Hey," Thomas greets him, he kicks one of Newt's feet to catch his attention. "Are you okay?"
Newt doesn't answer, he stays still, looking up at Thomas and chewing on his bottom lip. His eyes are too shiny, and Thomas would worry if he didn't know that Newt would never cry in front of him.
After a few moments, Newt seems to get back to the real world. He throws the cigarette away, runs one of his sweater paws over his face and gets up.
"C'mon, take me home," he says, wrapping his arms around himself, standing awkwardly next to Thomas, with his lips pressed in a tight line, trying not to shake. "I don' feel like dancing tonight."
Thomas doesn't know how to handle this situation, he's never seen Newt like this before, so absent, lost, vulnerable. He reaches out a hand tentatively and Newt meets him halfway, Thomas grabs his sleeve and pulls at it all the way to his apartment, Newt shuffling behind him.
He lets go when they get to the building portal, Newt's arms wrap around his slender body again and stay that way until they get inside the apartment. He doesn't try to kiss Thomas on the elevator, or corner him against the first wall he finds. He walks quietly behind him, his arms tight around his chest as if they're a shield.
"Do you feel like watching a movie?" Newt asks, sitting down on the old couch in front of the tv.
Thomas doesn't know how to react at first, it's that bittersweet sensation all over again, he's getting what he wants but not quite. He wants to spend time with Newt, do other things together apart from dancing and drinking and fucking, but not when Newt is being all absent and cold.
He doesn't retort though, he just nods and sits next to Newt, turning the tv on and not bothering on changing the channel when a movie he doesn't even know pops up.
Newt takes the blanket that's always resting over the back of the couch and wraps it around himself, and then, with his eyes always on the screen, he starts talking.
He tells Thomas about how he's never really liked watching movies, he gets tired of them in the middle of it, when you're already a little curious about how it will end but you're not interested enough to keep watching; he tells him how he used to do Star Wars marathons with his sister, how he always fell asleep after the second movie, how his sister never woke him up but she was always mad at him when he opened his eyes again a few hours later; he talks about how much he misses his sister, tells him that it's been a long time since the last time he saw her, so long he's lost count; he doesn't talk to his parents often, and when he does it's all cold voices and short answers, but he doesn't explain why; he does tell Thomas what happened today though, says his mom called him earlier and he asked for his sister and she didn't even let him talk to her.
He keeps going and going, telling Thomas about bits of his life and bits of himself but never delving too much in his story, and Thomas looks at him, the light of the screen shining on his eyes and the tip of his tongue licking his lips every time he can't find words to say what he has in mind. Thomas looks at him until he falls asleep before the end of the movie.
Thomas falls asleep a few minutes after, the tv is still on, they both have their limbs entangled with the blanket, but their bodies aren't touching. Thomas feels closer to Newt than ever before.
----
When Thomas wakes up the next morning, the tv is still on and he's still on the couch with the blanket around his body, but Newt isn't asleep on the other side. The apartment doesn't smell like coffee and toast, not even like sex and sweat. It smells like winter and loneliness.
----
Thomas loves London. He loves strolling along the river at dusk, when the sky is orange and the sun makes the water shine. He loves going to little cafés with his class books on weekends; he hates studying, but hot black coffee and nice company make it easier. He loves going to tea shops and getting lost between all the different smells and trying a different flavour every day.
Thomas also loves pubs and dancing all night long. Disconnecting with the loud music, meeting interesting people and asking them about their lives, telling them about his, sharing drinks he's never tried before.
He loves pretty English boys. He likes flirting with them in pubs, looking at them when they dance, when they're so drunk they seem carefree and fully happy, as if the only thing that matters in that moment is having a good time. He wonders if he looks the same when he's dancing.
Thomas loves Newt. He loves it when he wakes up alone in his bed but the house smells like burnt toast and he can hear the tv on the distance. He loves it when he gets out of bed and walks to the living room to find Newt sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, in his underwear and one of Thomas's t-shirts that's too big for him, sipping from a coffee mug and dirtying the couch with breadcrumbs from his toasts. He loves watching him dance, moving awkwardly but not caring at all, dancing to a different rhythm than everyone else, from a music only he can listen to. He loves it when he says something funny enough to make Newt laugh out loud, with his head pulled back and his eyes half-closed. And he loves when Newt smiles his crooked, tiny smiles that make that bittersweet feeling appear in Thomas's stomach, or when he shows his teeth and his eyes light up. He loves how he rarely moans and the little whimper that always escapes his lips when Thomas grinds their hips together. He loves how clumsy he is and even the fact that Newt has broke at least six mugs since the day they met. He loves when Newt smokes a cigarette or two naked after he comes, and the way he closes his eyes when the smoke leaves his lungs. He loves when Newt's cheeks get red when he's so hard it hurts, and his half-bitten nails, and when he avoids Thomas's eyes when he asks about his life and never answers, and the way he always catches Thomas's lower lip between his teeth before he pulls away from a kiss.
Thomas loves Newt, but he will never tell him.
----
Newt doesn't show up for a week after the day they watched the movie together, and Thomas starts to think maybe it was all a dream, the movie they didn't watch and Newt talking and falling asleep on the couch and waking up alone.
He kind of wishes it was a dream, he has the feeling that if Newt had never spoken about his life, he wouldn't have disappeared for a week.
It's been a week since the day Thomas felt the closest to Newt he's ever felt when he finds out everything is over.
When Thomas gets to the pub, Newt is already there, and it's so similar to the night he first saw him; he's smiling widely, dancing pressed against someone Thomas doesn't recognize. They move in sync, it's kind of sexy. And if Newt weren't Newt, if Thomas didn't know him, he would think it's beautiful when they kiss.
He gets to the bar with the back of his eyes burning but not a single tear falling down his cheek, and Minho is waiting for him with a big glass of some hard, weird liquor ready, and Thomas doesn't hesitate to drink half of it with just one gulp.
The look in Minho's eyes isn't worried, it doesn't even say the 'I told you so' Thomas was expecting, it's just sad and kind of tired, as if he has experienced this a lot of times before. As if he was waiting for this to happen at any time soon, and he probably was, since the day he told Thomas he would need alcohol if he was gonna get involved with Newt, and Thomas totally agrees with him now, when he drinks the other half of the glass in another fast gulp and silently asks for something more, something stronger.
When Minho puts another glass in front of him, Thomas wishes he could go back in time, as his eyes start to drown in alcohol. He wishes he had listened to Minho when he told him he should be careful. He wishes Newt hadn't stuck around more than one night, he wishes he had disappeared after the first night as everyone else always does. He wishes he had never stopped being afraid of the wordrelationship. He wishes he had understood what love was before it hit him so hard he felt like he was actually falling apart, slowly, into a million tiny pieces.
He turns around when he finishes his new glass, looks for Newt on the dance floor and finds him dancing with the same person, grinding down against them, whispering in their ear, and he feels sick at his stomach when he realizes that's exactly the way they looked the first time they danced together.
He needs another drink, and Minho has it ready for him.
"Don't feel cheated or fooled, man," Minho says, his voice is loud, so Thomas can hear it over the music, but it's still sweet, understanding. "I don't know what you two had, but it's always the same with Newt, he runs away when things get too serious, too deep."
So Thomas becomes one of those people who drinks glass after glass of whatever the bartender gives them for a night. He drinks and drinks until he's too drunk to walk without stumbling and almost falling three times on his way to the bathroom. He drinks and drinks and allows Minho to suck him off in the toilets. It's not like Newt cares, and he's too drunk to think and too gone to feel, anyways.