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Whoever said it didn’t get cold in California was the worst of liars.

It did, and Thomas could tell you all about it; the autumnal shift when reusable plastic tumblers would become thermos flasks and iced lattes would turn into white mochas, when lemon bites vanished from the counter in favor of cinnamon rolls and gingerbread, and the come-and-go of customers would bring shiver-worthy drafts into the shop.

He rather liked it, that side of Santa Monica, the one no one else knew about. The world was different in the winter, when a slight chill would settle, cold enough to draw tourists away yet clement enough to keep the waters of the bay warm. Decembers, though irrevocably snowless, were Thomas’s favorite slices of existence; a time borrowed from the hectic madness of Californian summer.

This year, however, winter had come in the unexpected form of a boy, made of ice and snow it seemed. Tall and sharp-witted, meticulously mysterious, and irritably charming to everyone he met. Or at least to everyone but Thomas who, despite his best efforts at small-talk and silly jokes, still hadn’t managed to get the slightest chuckle out of his new coworker. 

“Did I do something wrong? Like, I don’t know, did I make a weird face when he walked in on his first day and now he thinks that I think that he stinks or something?” 

“Listen, Thomas,” Brenda sighed, pressing the button of the milk steamer and disapearring in a cloud of sugary vapor. “You can’t be friends with everyone, okay? Some people simply will not like you and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“There has to be,” he insisted, toying with a loose thread of his apron.  

“Why do you care so much anyway?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, himself unsure of what his motivations were. 

In all honesty, he could have let it go and torture his mind with anything but the young blond cleaning tables and filling up the cookie trays, but his senses were irrevocably drawn, as soon as no customer was in sight, to dainty fingers pianoting some unknown melody on the wooden counters and to a faint smell of a Givenchy cologne he spent hours in perfume shops trying to recognize.

“He seems lonely,” Thomas concluded, vehemently scrubbing a clean mug with a towel. “He is clearly not from here and no one ever comes to pick him up or say hi to him. I just think he could use a friend.”

“Well, you did try to invite him to the potluck last week and he said he couldn’t come,” Brenda reminded him.

“Yeah, but he didn’t say why, and now I’m intrigued,” he frowned, letting go of the cup and crossing his arms, leaning against the wall behind him. “What is he even doing in Santa Monica to begin with?” 

“You know what I think?” Brenda asked, mirroring his position, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “He is on the run because he owes a lot of money to some very bad people. Did some sketchy stuff back in London, was in a gang, fucked up royally and now the leader wants his head, so he got the hell out and now he lives under a new identity, because honestly, what parent in their right mind would call their child Newt?”

“I think it’s cute,” Thomas pouted. “Also, a gang? Really?” 

“I asked Fry what he thought and he had the same answer,” the girl argued. “London boy has some mafia ties. I’m sure he’s hiding some weird skull tattoo under those jeans, right on his buttcheek.”

“Bren!” Thomas scolded her, relieved that he could blame his reddened cheeks on the heat of the milk steamer. “Could we not talk about our coworker’s buttcheeks during our shift?”

“Since when are you such a prude?” she asked before her eyes widened, smirk deepened, the realization sinking in. “Oh, wait! Oh, so, that’s what it’s all about? You have the hots for Mister Gang Member over there?”

It was a good thing Thomas had put the cup down, for he would have probably dropped it as he shouted hushedly, “I don’t have the hots for him!” 

“Yeah, you know, you said that for the last three customers I saw you ‘discreetly’ handing your number to, so forgive me if I don’t believe you on that one,” Brenda argued, audibly less worried about making a few customers’ heads turn.

“You’re the worst sometimes, you know?” 

“Yeah, but you love me,” she taunted him before welcoming a new client, letting Thomas foolishly believe that she would drop the matter. Only a few minutes passed and a couple of drinks were concocted before she smoothly sneaked beside him by the cash register and whispered, 

“You should make him coffee.”

“What?” he almost yelped, in a rather surprising manner, at least if the face of the customer waiting for his change was anything to go by.

“To break the ice,” Brenda explained, playing with the few coins from the drawer. “Take five, bring him a coffee, seduce your way into his pants. I’ll cover for you. It’s a slow day; better make the most of it.” 

“For the last time, Brenda, I don’t–” 

“It’s too late, I’ve already prepared the cup.” With her other hand, she grabbed a mug that was patiently waiting on a countertop and practically shoved it in his hands, almost spilling the whole drink on his feet. “It’s on the house.”

In all honesty, Thomas wasn’t usually one to think things through. More often than not, he had, in his twenty-or-so years of existence, winged things and dealt with whatever consequences arose later. To this day, Minho still mocked him for having picked his college major by spinning a wheel on which he had listed all of his options, which had doomed him to taking Computer Science despite not being able to tell an operating system from an internet browser.

Yet, awkwardly standing there with a hot coffee in hand and an attractive ( yes , he could admit so) boy in sight, he felt his legs go numb under the sheer anxiety of what would happen if he dared to be reckless. All things considered, it may have been the way sunlight fell upon Newt’s fair skin like powdered gold as he was cleaning the shop’s windows that tilted the scales.

“I hate you so much,” he cursed as he made his way to the windows.

“You’re getting repetitive, sweetie,” she replied, and closed the cash drawer he had so smartly left wide open.

Standing a couple feet from Newt, Thomas realized he could just do that; stare at him for a while or forever, and admire how he could seemingly turn the most mundane of tasks into a captivating ballet, swaying between tables as he put mugs and glasses away, every movement done with uppermost care. He could have admired that dance for hours, but the slowly-burning skin of his palm informed him that he would most likely regret that decision later on, so he built up some courage and spoke up with, he hoped, some panache and elegance.

“Hey!”

It was a work in progress. But it got the job done, and radiant, chocolate eyes landed on him, with a spark of something between curiosity and surprise.

“Hi?”

“Coffee?” he suggested, handing him the cup.

“Oh, thanks?” Newt welcomed it, a hand on each side, like one picks up a fallen bird with the hope to help it fly again. “Are we even allowed to consume our own goods on the job?”

“I won’t tell Jorge if you don’t,” Thomas replied jokingly, with the silent hope that his conversation skills had improved in the past four seconds. 

“Well, then,” Newt shrugged with – finally! – a soft smile hinting at the corner of his lips, to which he brought the cup. Thomas’ gaze couldn’t help but follow the movement, swift and scrupulous as always, and it was a first victory to him, right there and then, to see Newt drink up a first sip of what he saw as their olive branch.

Until he spat it all back in the cup in a distinct noise of disgust.

 “What is that?”

“...A gingerbread latte?” Thomas indicated, suddenly aware of the pairs of intrusive customer eyes spying on their conversation, bees to the honey of Newt’s nauseous reaction.

“And we sell that to people? And call it coffee?”

“Well, yeah!” he desperately defended with an awkward smile. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything?” Newt scoffed, setting the cup on a nearby empty table.

He shouldn’t have taken it personally, really; he wasn’t even the one who had prepared the drink. It didn’t stop Thomas from feeling dizzy, hoping the floor would swallow him whole and make this interaction vanish from existence.

“But–” 

“You know coffee is supposed to be black, right?” Newt continued, a mocking contempt slowly replacing repugnance in his features. “That is barely even beige.”

“Well, that’s–”

“There must be like 5% of coffee in this. It should be illegal to call that coffee.”  

“Well, technically–” 

“Americans really manage to strip the essence out of everything.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong, we really–”

“And we charge 8 dollars for this? People should call the police on us.” 

He was going to regret it. He knew it before he even did it, and yet, it couldn’t help himself. He would later blame it on the terrible weather that ruined his mood, or on the awful song playing at that moment on the coffee shop’s radio that got on his nerves, but really, it was infatuated, nervous hopes crashing down and burning into flames before Newt’s obvious disdain that pushed Thomas over the edge.

“Yeah, well, it does contain this very new invention called ‘milk’, don’t know if you’ve heard of it before. Hot new thing from the land of the free. You should try it sometimes. Maybe it will soothe your transit and make you more amicable.” 

Judging by Newt’s flabbergasted state, wide eyes and raised eyebrows, smirk frozen in place, he wasn’t expecting to be hit back tenfold. It took him a second or two to react, a second or two that were long enough for Thomas to realize that maybe, just maybe, Newt’s mocking tone was actually just that, a playful comment that meant no harm, and Thomas, overcome by nervousness, had twisted it into a reproach directed right at him. But the damage was done, and the consequences of it were waiting on Newt’s tongue,

“Or maybe I could just accidentally throw it at your face. Heard it does wonders to the skin and you’re clearly in dire need of a moisturizer.”

Oh, so that was Newt being mean. Okay, noted, he was good at this.

“You know what? I tried,” Thomas admitted. “I really tried multiple times to be nice to you and make you feel included here. But if you’d rather be rude to everyone and stay on your own, that’s fine by me, but don’t come crying when loneliness catches up to you.”

And so he walked back to the bar, heart heavy and an indescribable mess of emotions boiling inside, before stopping mid-step and turning back with the little pride he had left to pick up the forsaken mug. “And I’ll take this. Wouldn’t want you to poison yourself with it.”

On the bright side, there was cookie dough in the back shop to drown his sorrows in.

“Okay, spit it out. What’s wrong?”

Minho wouldn’t let it go, and Thomas knew it. In the past hour and a half, he had told his best friend about six times that he was “alright” and four times that he “simply had a long day at work”. Perhaps if the weather had been kinder and offered them a few good waves to surf on, they wouldn’t have been miserably laying on their boards mid-sea, doomed to resort to conservation to keep themselves entertained. Early December wasn’t the best moment of the year for a good surf, but part of him had foolishly hoped Mother Nature would be kind enough to offer him something to take his mind off his earlier altercation. Turns out the cards were definitely not in his favor that day.

“What do you mean?” he innocently asked, drawing circles in the still water with right hand.

“I don’t know, man, but you feel off today.” Minho explained, mimicking him from his own board. “Something happened at work?”

“If by something you mean a hot, beautiful guy I’ve been crushing on for weeks finally showing his true colors and being the absolute worst to me resulting in me being the rudest I remember ever being to someone to him, then yeah, something happened.” 

“Oh, you mean new guy?” Minho asked, woken up from boredom by the prospect of gossip, switching position to lay sideways on his board, facing Thomas. “What’s his name again?”

“Newt,” Thomas replied, annoyed by how enamored his voice still sounded whenever he said that name. 

“You’re moaning over a guy.”

“I’m not moaning over him,” Thomas replied furiously. “Moaning is what you do when you’re in love with someone, not when you have some stupid fleeting attraction.”

“A fleeting attraction? Really?” Minho snorted. “Do I need to remind you what you sounded like the first time you talked to me about him?”

“No, Minho–”

“‘Oh my god , Min, there’s this new guy at work and he’s so handsome and he smells so good and he has a British accent, he speaks like velvet , and you should see that ass !” 

“I do not sound like that!” Thomas cried, flipping some water at Minho’s face, which only made him laugh harder. “And anyway, he’s a dick and he hates me and now I hate him too, so nothing’s ever gonna happen.” 

“That’s sad,” Minho commented, seriousness finally dawning on him. “I was rather looking forward to you being in a relationship again. You’ve been quite miserable ever since that whole thing with Teresa.” 

“Well, not all of us are as lucky as you,” Thomas replied, more happy than jealous.

“Speaking of the devil, I gotta go,” Minho suddenly declared. adjusting his position on the surfboard.

“Already?”

“Yeah, it's Friday. Which means Gally will be back from his business trip in Boston in two hours, so I have a romantic dinner to prepare, and by that, I mean lube to buy and bed sheets to clean.”

“Please, spare me the details,” Thomas begged, trying to kick the vision of a naked Gally out of his mind. 

“You’re staying?” Minho asked, gesturing around, vaguely indicating the surrounding waters. 

“Yeah,” Thomas nodded. “I think I need to be alone with the ocean for a bit.”

“Ever the poet, Tomboy,” Minho taunted him. “Alright, make it home safe, yeah?”

“Always,” Thomas responded, as cheerily as he could given the circumstances. A quick fist-bump and Minho was gone, swimming back to the shore on his board, the sun slowly setting on his back, turning the water into a kaleidoscope of reds and oranges, even a deep crimson as he vanished. 

It was Thomas’s favorite thing to do, watching the sky going through that colorimetric range of emotions before welcoming the night, mourning the day to welcome the stars, and he had learned at a very young age that the best place to observe that spectacle was the ocean, where all was reflected, felt tenfold. Maybe he laid there for five minutes, maybe for fifty. There was no way to tell the time in the stillness of the ocean, where all senses became useless but for the sensation of your body moving to the rhythm of the water.

When the first drop of rain hit his board, he didn’t notice it. He didn’t notice the second either, nor the third. It took the start of a downpour to bring him back to Earth, or rather to sea; and the cold winter rain was a rather harsh call to reality, a reality where the night had long fallen and Thomas found himself in an ocean of pitch-blackness. 

“Oh, fuck,” he cursed, and flipped on his board to swim back to the shore, lights from the ferris wheel and the surrounding buildings leading him home.

It was easier said than done, though, as the wind he had been begging for all day finally decided to show, giving birth to increasingly violent waves that repeatedly crashed into him. The pouring rain didn’t help, blurring his vision and the little sense of direction he had left. When he finally – and rather painfully – reached the beach, soaking wet and panting, his wetsuit unbearably sticking to his skin, he desperately looked for a sign of life, someone or something to save him from his own stupidity. And, miraculously, he found it.

A car.

Nestled between two trees by the pier, hidden from spying looks; the headlights off but a faint glow peering from the fogged-up windows, a beacon for the lost at sea. For a second, Thomas even thought he was imagining it, delirious from drinking sea water. But caught in the deluge, he didn’t have time to question his sanity and ran to the old Impala, sand sticking to his feet and water dripping from his hair and all over his face.

“Please!” he begged, knocking on the car window like a madman. “Please open up!” 

Miraculously, the latch on the back door clicked off, and it opened slowly, progressively revealing an all-too-familiar face.

“Oh my god, thank yo–...Newt?”

“Thomas? 

Even the batter of the pouring rain on the car wasn’t louder than the silence that followed, both of them visibly baffled by fate’s twisted sense of humor. Oh well…

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Thomas yelled, his voice barely audible in the rain.

“What the…What are you doing here?”

“I was surfing and…and then the storm–” 

“Oh, for God’s sake, get in!” Newt cursed, squeezing against the opposite door to make room. “Get in, you idiot!”

“Thank you,” Thomas breathlessly said as he hopped in, drenching the backseat in the process. 

“What kind of idiot goes surfing in a storm?” he heard as he shut the door behind him.

“It wasn’t storming an hour ago, in case you hadn’t noticed the bright sun we had all day.” 

“You look like a wet dog,” Newt pointed out, and before Thomas could pull out a witty comeback, Newt fetched a hoodie and sweatpants from the front seat and offered them to him. “Take off your swimsuit, you’re gonna catch a cold.”

“You want me to get naked in front of you?” 

“Oh Jesus,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a perv, I’ll look away, bloody hell. Unless you’d rather die of pneumonia, of course.” 

“Ah, always so chivalrous,” Thomas bitterly commented, but took the clothes anyway, and Newt, as he promised, pretended to be utterly fascinated by the blinking lights of the ferris wheel outside.

Stripping out of his wetsuit was easier said than done, restricted to a sitting position in a confined space, with who appeared to be becoming his mortal enemy just a foot or two away. Inevitably, he gave a good kick of the elbow to the car door, making Newt sigh loudly, unaware that he would be the next victim.

“Ouch! Thomas!” he yelped when he was hit in the ribs by a knee.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, potentially as a first genuine apology to him. “I have long limbs.” 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Newt sneered.

“I’m decent, you can look,” he finally declared once the sweater was on.

“Took your sweet time.” 

Stripped out of that awful wet sensation, Thomas started to properly realize the situation he was in, and above all, the one Newt was in. Christmas lights taped to the ceiling, clothes piled up on the front seat alongside a few worn-out books, a sleeping bag waiting by Newt’s side, squished between him and the car door, food wrappers and empty water bottles littering the floor where his swimsuit now laid. Memorabilia here and there; pictures taped to the dashboard, a snow globe in a cup holder; and a pillow that had seen better days. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

“Well, it’s quite cozy in here,” he cheerily noted.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Give me the pity treatment,” Newt wearily explained.

“I’m not,” Thomas argued. “I’m just surprised. You don’t really look the part of a guy who sleeps in his car.”

“How so?” Newt frowned.

“I mean, you always look so put-together. I figured your daily routine was more American Psycho-like. Well-pressed sheets and all that.”

“You’re saying you thought I was a psychopath?” Newt asked, the shadow of an amused smile appearing on his face.

“Actually, the general consensus is that you’re a runaway gang member.”

He would have given anything to have a camera at that moment, to capture the indescribable mixture of confusion, surprise, outrage and utter amusement on Newt’s face.

“Excuse me, what?”

“Well, we don’t know anything about you, so we came up with theories? I did tell Brenda that it was ridiculous, but she simply wouldn’t let it go.”

Laughter. It took Thomas by surprise to realize that, despite having spent about 7 hours and 54 minutes of each of his 8-hour shifts observing Newt, he had never heard him laugh until now. And damn, that jerk laughed with his whole face, eyes crinkling and all, in that way that causes the littlest of tears to bead in the corner of your eyes, those that simply beg to be cherished. 

Thomas was definitely still very much fucked.

“To be fully honest, I’d rather it be the case. It’s much more exciting than the actual truth.” Newt declared once his laughter calmed down.

“I’m sorry if that sounded rude,” he answered. “It must definitely suck.” 

“Don’t be. I mean, it is quite cozy here,” Newt admitted, shrugging, with a bitter smile. “Plus I don’t have to leave my bed to go to the kitchen.”

Proving his own point, Newt, twisting his body over the front seat in a way that would have cost Thomas three weeks of physiotherapy sessions if he tried to replicate it, but that, in the present situation, allowed him a panoramic view of Newt’s rather satisfying behind, fetched a small paper bag from the glove compartment. 

“Are those…”

“Jorge’s cookies? Absolutely,” Newt confirmed, dipping a hand in the bag and making a first victim, a white chocolate and macadamia cookie, if Thomas wasn’t mistaken.

“Did you steal those?”

“ Excuse me? ”

“I’m just asking!” 

“No, I didn’t steal those.” Thomas was starting to worry Newt’s eyes would get stuck forever spiraling in circular motions if he kept rolling them at his constant stupidity. “Who do you think I am?”

“Well, two minutes ago I still thought you were running from the English mafia, so honestly, stealing cookies is a pretty minor crime in comparison.”

“Are you serious? The English mafia?” Newt repeated, dumbfounded, which didn’t stop him from wordlessly handing Thomas a peppermint cookie he starvingly accepted.

“Listen, I’ve seen Peaky Blinders and trust me,” he took a bite of said peppermint cookie before adding “you don’t want to get in the way of those guys!” with a supplement of crumbs unceremoniously falling from his mouth at each word.

“You’re a weird one, Tommy,” Newt commented in return, with that wicked smile that led Thomas to think it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing coming from Newt’s mouth. “To answer your question, Jorge knows about this whole…situation. Kind of had to let him know after he found me scavenging the café’s rubbish for a leftover something . Not my finest moment, I reckon, and if you tell that story to anyone, please be aware that I will deny to the grave that ever happened.” As he explained all of this, Newt grabbed a thermos flask from a cupholder and passed it to Thomas, who, caught in Newt’s story, took a sip without a question, almost as a reflex, and was happily met with some warm Christmas tea. “So Jorge said I could take the unsold goods at the end of the day. I didn’t really want to do it at first, but he insisted, and food banks are crowded enough as it is at that time of year.” 

“Fair enough, there’s only so much one can do to resist a cranberry and orange cookie.”

“Right? Those are the best!” Newt cheerily replied. “I get so pissed every time a customer wants some because that means less for me at the end of the day.”

It was new, this shade of Newt. This whole side of him, friendly and teasing and bubbly and oddly familiar. There was, despite his recently-uncovered sarcastic nature, a fondness to his genuinity. His hatred was all-consuming and his disdain was scathing, but his joy was just as ravaging and welcoming, forcing you to feel everything he felt, and Thomas couldn’t help but echo the playful smirk on Newt’s face.

Everything about this was weird; the (un)fortunate chain of circumstances that led him to this car, next to the boy he hated to love and who seemingly loved to hate him, though the tables were undeniably turning, judging by how casually Newt had taken him in, offering him shelter, dry clothes, his hospitality, some fine humor, the both of them flung on the backseat, sharing a drink, munching on cookies and chatting, like some surreal kaffeeklatsch birthed out of thin air.

“So what’s the actual story?” Thomas ended up asking. “You don’t have to tell me, though, it’s none of my business. I mean, I’m just one of the most annoying people within a 50 mile radius. Who better to share your sad story with?” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Tommy,” Newt snorted. “You are the most annoying person within a 50 mile radius. I could bet my car on that.” 

He got a playful shove in response, as well as a very polite “Get fucked.”

“It’s the good ol’ story of the broken American dream, Thomas,” Newt sighed, stretching his arms above his head until they bonked against the car ceiling, then placing them against behind his head. “Wanted to be an actor since I was three. Had a pretty rubbish mundane life I hated. Grew into a presumptuous wanker and decided I wanted more. Woke up one morning and decided to ditch it all, sold everything I owned for a one-way ticket to Los Angeles, went to each and every casting call I could find and guess what? I wasn’t better than the rubbish mundane life. So now I’m here, stuck in a wonky car in California making coffee for hipsters and suburban mums.” 

“You grew into a presumptuous wanker?” Thomas pointed out mischievously. “I thought you were born that way,”

“You’re laughing?” Newt shouted in pretend-indignation, which would have been believable if he hadn’t himself laughed in the process. “I’m sharing my very tragic backstory with you and you’re laughing? I knew I should have left you to die in the rain.”

“It’s never too late.” 

“Don’t tempt me.” 

“I don’t get it though, that whole American dream thing,” Thomas admitted, doodling on the mist that covered the car window.

“It’s everyone’s goal, isn’t it?” Newt replied, something akin to nostalgia rooted in his words. “Making it. Being remembered. People knowing your name.”

“Well, it’s not mine,” came as a chuckle from Thomas’ mouth.

“Yeah, sure,” Newt scoffed, and grabbed a dark chocolate cookie from the bag. “So you’re perfectly happy with making coffee for ungrateful, rich people who can afford daily $8 adult milkshakes for the rest of your days,” 

“What else could I want?” 

“Have you never wanted something more?”

“Have you never wanted something simple?”

“Honestly? No,” Newt confessed. “I don’t get it. I don’t get the 9-to-5 and the commuting and the Netflix show while eating dinner and the utter boredom of everyday being exactly the same until I die of old age, unhappy and filled with regrets. Don’t you agree?”

“No, not really,” Thomas admitted in return, handing the thermos of tea back to Newt. “I don’t know. To me, happiness is precisely in those little things. Like, I’m happy everyday because I get to watch the city wake up as I walk to work, and because customers smile when they take the first sip of their drink and they like it, and because I get to go surfing with my best pal after work. Like, I don’t mind doing that until I’m 90 and totally senile.” 

“Find happiness in the little things,” Newt repeated slowly, as if he was hearing about this concept for the first time. “I can’t afford to think like that. I think my brain simply isn’t wired that way. No serotonin up there.”

“What good is there in being an actor anyway?” Thomas wondered out loud, staring at the ceiling. “Being exploited by an evil industry, having one big success you’d spend your life trying to replicate, failing at it, dulling that pain with stupid substances. Catching chlamydia and dying at 27, fully committing.”

“You know chlamydia doesn’t kill you, right?”

“Alright, then, syphilis.”

“Why am I necessarily dying of an STD?”

“Haven’t you heard actors have a lot of unsafe, unprotected sex?” Thomas asked him, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively. “That’s like a job requirement, you know? Maybe that’s why you didn’t make it.”

“Blimey, I knew I should have shagged my way to the top!”  

Why was it that easy? Why did it feel that easy and that nice and that fucking right to be with Newt, to feel the boy’s thigh against his own, to hear the off-key melody of his chuckle echo in his right ear, making the left one horribly jealous? Thomas had known him for over a month now, had observed him from afar and exchanged hello’s and goodbye’s with him, had fantasized about pushing him against the shelves of the back shop (though he largely preferred imagining Newt doing the pushing, a smell of indecency in the words he would whisper in his ear, coffee kisses down throats and finger messily unknotting aprons – or taking everything off but for aprons), but now he realized he had never seen Newt, the core of him, the vulnerability and the playfulness, everything that made him human and not just a mold Thomas could fit his fantasies into. And the idea of him was nothing compared to the reality.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you this morning,” Thomas almost whispered, with the carefulness of a child about to place the last ace on top of a house of cards.

“Well, you wouldn’t have had to snap at me if I was less of a wanker,” Newt admitted in a shrug, a weak smile as a peace offering.

“I’m not going to deny that,” Thomas chuckled, which only made Newt chuckle louder.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, you know,” he sighed, looking out the window, this time actually captivated by the ferris wheel’s motion. “I figure I’m simply not good at that whole ‘making friends’ thing.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Thomas commented, which would have most likely enraged Newt this morning, but simply made him snort now.

“Don’t start being rude, I can still kick you out of this car.”

Thomas took another look outside and shivered.

“Do you think it’s gonna stop raining soon?”

“Honestly? I wouldn’t be surprised if it lasted all night,” Newt said, rather unphased, as if he were okay with them sharing a back seat for the night.

“I really need to get home.”

“I know I’m not the best company, but I’m kind of offended you’re so willing to risk tuberculosis to escape me.”

“Trust me, your company is lovely,” Thomas assured him, “The thing is, I have a goldfish to feed and he follows a really strict schedule.”

That seemed to amuse Newt beyond measure, if the high-pitch of his laughter was anything to go by.

“A goldfish? Really?”

“I have the attention span of a three-year-old and watching it go round and round is kind of hypnotizing and it helps me stay focused on my thoughts,” he explained. “I’m like those Alpha-Gen kids who need to watch a Subway Surfer video to keep their brains from melting away.” 

“I kind of like it when you don’t need my help to diss yourself.”

“Well, at least that goldfish keeps me entertained. What do you do in there for fun?” 

“I listen to music a lot,” Newt replied. “The radio is a bit wobbly but it still works.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Thomas cheerfully concluded, and he perched himself over the front seat to move the needle around until he stumbled upon something else than white noise.

“Oh, oooooh,” he gasped, recognizing the first notes of the song he had just found.

“No, absolutely not,” Newt reacted, shaking his head with determination.

“What? You don’t like ABBA?”

“I hate it. Absolutely hate it.” 

“Are you serious?” Thomas cried out, falling back into his seat. “You hate fun? And joy? And old-timey Swedish pop?”

“You should know by now that I do indeed abhor any form of amusement whatsoever,” Newt dramatically replied, and he must have read Thomas’ thoughts, because he quickly added, “You better not start singing…” 

“Or what?” 

“Tommy, I swear to Go–” 

“I ’ve been cheated by you since I don’t know wheeeeen , ta-na-na-na-na-na ta-da-na-na-na-na! ” 

“Lord, help me,” Newt sighed, but the innocent chuckle in his tone betrayed him, and so did the way his body naturally reacted to beat, begging his brain to let go.

“ So I’ve made up my mind, it must to an eeeeeend, ta-na-na-na-na-na, ta-da-na-na-na-na !” 

“If you keep going, I will kick you out back in the rain, you hear me?”

“ MAMMA MIA! HERE I GO AGAIN !”

“Thomas, stop!”

“ MY, MY! HOW CAN I RESIST YOU? ”

“Tommy! Come on!!” 

Three minutes went on, of endless banter and horrid karaoke, of laughs fuzzing in all directions no matter how much Newt pretended he was furious, of pure joy captured in a bottle. And Thomas wished he could have done just that, capture it in a jar to keep on his nightstand. They must have been so bright, him and Newt, alone in the world, existing wholly and just for each other.

Something calmer eventually came on, a ballad Thomas had once or twice heard before, and under the Christmas lights, he noticed a few details of Newt he had never seen before; a small scar on his cheekbone, the bags under his eyes that, now that they had a clear explanation, were considerably more prominent, the way his teeth were slightly, cunningly uneven. He was going to dream of all those details, he could already tell. Sharp teeth against skin, the bump of a scar under his thumb, all of this night on loop, wishing for it to never stop.

“It stopped raining.”

Oh?

A quick glance outside was enough to confirm what Newt had said. The sky had cleared up, a still darkness of orange pollution replacing the rain clouds. 

What a stupid, stupid clear sky.

Was it over, then? What would even happen tomorrow? Would he and Newt put their costumes back on and play the part of simple coworkers now that the mysterious stranger was not so mysterious anymore, now that he had opened his heart and his car door to a lost boy seeking shelter? What if Thomas woke up tomorrow and found out it was all merely a figment of his imagination, something his affection-deprived brain had cooked up to dull his loneliness?

Was it really over, then?

“You know, I don’t have a guest room but I do have a pretty comfortable couch,” Thomas said before he could think it through. “A guest couch if you will. Not a convertible but–”

“No,” Newt replied in an instant. “No, we’re not doing this.”

“Newt–”

“I told you I didn’t want your pity,” Newt repeated bitterly, though sounding more exhausted than upset.

“It’s not pity. It’s just–”

“Listen, Thomas, I’ve been getting by alright for months. I’m fine. I don’t need your help,” Newt insisted, and Thomas’ face must have shifted against his will, for he added, “Don’t look at me with your puppy eyes, I’m serious.” 

“Puppy eyes? Really?” Thomas mocked in return.

“Really,” Newt replied, decisively. “Now go home to your goldfish or whatever.”

Reluctantly, he put his hand on the handle, wordlessly wishing for rain. “Promise you’re okay?” he asked, taking a last look at Newt.

“I’m fine, Thomas,” Newt repeated, his sad smile trying to be reassuring. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay,” Thomas capitulated, pushing the door open. 

“And take your bloody wetsuit with you,” Newt shouted when he was already halfway out, throwing the clothes in question at his face. “I’m not sleeping next to that sea monster.”

Said wetsuit nearly hit him in the face, eliciting a chuckle out of him that, on the empty beach, sounded like a firework going off. 

“Goodnight, Newt.” 

Salty air welcomed his words, merging them with the melody of the waves, weaving it into the tide. Newt’s name would be part of the ocean, along with the taste of Christmas tea and peppermint cookies. They would stay there, lingering, to rekindle memories every time Thomas would dive into the sea. The ocean, in his vastness, was the best place to keep secrets.

“Bye, Tommy.” 

Those two words, however, would follow him on the way home, in the puddles reflecting the picture of a boy wearing another boy’s clothes. They would follow him all the way up to his apartment and between his sheets, where he could still hear that voice, rough and sweet. They would follow him into his dreams, the smell of artificial car heat, two brown eyes shining brighter in the night than he’s ever seen them do in daylight.

The tide of his feelings is all-consuming.

“ Weather in Santa Monica is expected to reach historical lows starting tonight, with even a possible freeze overnight, something the region hasn’t seen in decades–”

Clouds of coffee steam hadn’t yet disappeared, plunging the shop in a mocha-induced haze, the sound of the radio struggling its way through the chatter of thick-headed customers glued to their chairs long after closing hours, stubbornly clinging to their empty cups despite Brenda’s scolding and Jorge’s desperate attempt to very kindly and politely kick them out of his establishment. Their reluctance was understandable, though, given the endless downpour that flooded the streets with a mishmash of mud and cold water, raindrops violently carried by the wind, sharp as knives. 

Thomas had kept an eye on the sky all day, casting a glance at the windows every now and then in hope to see sunlight piercing through the cumulonimbus, but it remained stubbornly shy today, cursing Santa Monica with dullness and dooming his surfing plans.

But more importantly, he noticed he wasn’t the only one worryingly checking the weather. 

“The offer still stands, you know?” he told Newt as he brought back a tray of dirty coffee cups to the back shop.

“God, you’re stubborn,” the other replied, hands deep in hot water and soap, not even bothering to look up from the sink.

“About not letting people die in potentially dangerous weather conditions? I sure hope I am.”

“Rain isn’t going to murder me, you know?”

“Come on, just for one night,” he insisted, leaning on the sink. “If not for you, do it for me,”

“For you?” Newt asked, finally taking a look at him, and Thomas noticed right away how the bags under his eyes hadn’t shrunk, quite the contrary.

“Well, if you spend the night out there, there is no possible way I won’t be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, worrying my ass off wondering if my favorite work nemesis is going to make it through the night.” 

Perhaps his negotiation methods needed some work, but his comic skills were definitely on point, according to the way Newt chuckled. “Favorite work nemesis?”

“Do you prefer ‘local latte rival?’”

“I do enjoy a good alliteration from time to time,” Newt said, turning off the faucet and grabbing the dish towel resting on his shoulder in a slick move. “Is there any possible way you’d take no for an answer?”

“It’s simply that failure to assist a person in danger is a criminal offense and I don’t think I’d last long in jail.”

“You–”

It was a pretty sight, that of Newt trying to hold back his laughter, the way his eyes shone, betraying him, or how a little dimple appeared there, deep in his cheek, when he bit his lip. 

“Okay, I’ll come,” he gave in, rolling his eyes and shrugging, in a what do I have to lose? fashion. “But just for tonight. Just this one night.”

“Okay, one night.” Thomas nodded, exhilarated, and with a wink and a tremendous amount of impulsivity, he added, “It’s a date.”

“You wish,” Newt scoffed right back. “I’m already regretting this so much.”

Walking back to Thomas’ place was no walk in the park either. Like kids, they hopped around on the sidewalk in a desperate attempt to avoid puddles, until Thomas entirely gave up and jumped right into one, causing a big splash that Newt very narrowly escaped. They laughed about it later on when, waiting at a crosswalk, they spotted two kids down another street, also sloshing in rainwater. There was a couple, too, dashing down the streets with nothing but a jacket held above their heads to keep them dry, desperate to get home, yet giggling at the ridicule of their situation. It was the beauty of human nature, the ability to turn a dreadful situation into a beautiful memory. Finding happiness in the little things.

Eventually the traffic lights did lead them home, a small apartment Thomas had been renting since he graduated college, and they kicked their shoes off in a haste, took their coats off as well, all piled up by the door to be taken care of in a nevercoming “ later ”.

“So here’s the living-room,” Thomas announced, showing Newt around like a real estate agent. “Kitchen’s right there and this is the door to the bathroom–” 

“You’ve already set up the couch to be slept on?” Newt asked, inspecting the sofa on which a thick blanket had been laid, with two pillows piled up at one end.

“I might have perhaps planned ahead the potential possibility that we may find ourselves in this situation,” Thomas confirmed, definitely not as embarrassed as he reasonably should have been.

“Why am I even surprised?” Newt snorted, and sat on said sofa, bouncing up and down to gauge how comfortable it was, letting Thomas go further into the apartment and his explanations. 

“That one’s the door to my room, if you need anything. You might hear a weird scratching noise coming from the front door but that’s just the neighbor’s cat trying to break in, so don’t worry about it. And if you feel like having a midnight snack, just help yourself, really. I don’t mind. There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge and instant noodles in the cupboards. Also cookies, if you’re more of a sweet tooth kind of guy. Oh, and be careful, the tiles in the bathroom are very slippery, so try not to break your neck falling if you go take a pee in the night and remember to turn on the–”

Was that a snore?

Thomas turned around, and indeed, Newt was fast asleep, lying on his side, an arm dangling from the couch, the other resting on his stomach, his legs slightly bent to fit under the covers, looking like a child fallen asleep while watching television past curfew. Thomas couldn’t help the chuckle that came out of his mouth. It was perfectly insane, he thought, how quickly the tide could change, putting everything back into question. Gazing at the almost stranger on his couch, he realized how much he wanted to know him, truly know him, from what kept him awake at night to what kind of kid he used to be, from his deepest secrets to how he liked his eggs in the morning. Thomas had been wrong about people before, letting the wrong ones in, letting the right ones go. He had never been a good judge of character, his mother always complained, and she would probably have reiterated her point had she known a previously suspected gang member was crashing on her son’s couch. But Newt was good, that much he could tell, and the sweatpants and sweater drying on the bathroom radiator surely wouldn’t object. Newt was good, even if the world hadn’t been good to him, and to Thomas, that was the most important of all things. 

Like the tide, his words came back to him. “Goodnight, Newt”.

There was a thief in his kitchen.

Well, no, there wasn’t. This isn’t that kind of story. But there was definitely someone in that kitchen, and while you and I know very well who that was, it took Thomas a minute or two to remember the events of the past evening (please don’t hold it against him, he’s not a morning person.)

Newt. There was a Newt in his kitchen. There was Newt in his apartment. How had that even happened? What even was happening? Were they friends now? Had they buried the hatchet with cookies and a sofa- not -bed? Had it been that easy, all this time, to become part of Newt’s system and start revolving around him?

Of all the situations he could have found Newt in when he opened his bedroom door, him crouching in front of the fishbowl was definitely not high up Thomas’ list, but the blond, steaming coffee in hand, was seemingly hypnotized by the waltz of the tiny pet.

“Told you it was fascinating,” Thomas teased, leaning against the doorframe.

“Tommy, hi!” he cheerfully said, straightening up. “Slept well?”

“Yeah, you?”

“I haven’t slept that good since…” he thought, walking over to the kitchen to grab a second cup, then back to Thomas and handing it to him. “Since I left London, if I’m being honest.” 

“Glad I could provide,” Thomas smiled, accepting the drink. “What’s that?”

Newt shrugged with that little adorable frown of his. “I haven’t settled on a name yet. I’m torn between ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Coffee!’ and ‘Forbidden Campbell Morning Soup’.”

Needless to say Thomas’ eyes doubled in size. “You betrayed your allegiance to black coffee for me?” 

“Consider this a ‘thank you’ gift,” he explained, and rushed to say, “Now shut it and drink up before I change my mind and flush it down the sink.”

“Aye, aye captain!” he comically said, and drank up. 

Vanilla syrup, a lot of it, almond milk, a pinch of cinnamon it seemed, and something else Thomas couldn’t quite pinpoint despite it coming from his own kitchen. Newt might have hated them, but he had a gift for over-the-top coffees, and if he sold them with the smile he was blessing Thomas with at that moment, he could very well overtake Starbucks. Had Thomas known a good night's sleep was all that was needed to make Newt go from a cranky prick to an absolute ray of sunshine, he would have knocked him out long ago, right there in the middle of Jorge’s coffee shop.

“Hey, do you maybe wanna take a shower?” he suggested, halfway down his drink, stopping Newt in his contemplation of his bookshelves.

He cocked an eyebrow in response, “Are you suggesting that I stink?” 

“What? No, not at all!” Thomas panicked, nearly choking on his coffee. “I just figured going all the way to the gym now would be kinda stupid when you can have a shower here, you know, in privacy and all.” 

“Chill, Tommy, I’m just messing with you,” he teased, and nodded appreciatively. “I’ll gladly take you up on the offer.”

It was a sunny morning, ironically enough, and in the calm after the storm, all was gifted with a certain sense of newfoundness, cleaned off previous ire and blessed with youthful desire. It seemed possible then, for anything to happen, to redefine everything, from the simplest of details to whatever was going to happen now that Newt’s eyes had a tenderness to them whenever their gazes met. 

“There’s…uhm…,” he painfully stuttered. “Clean towels in cupboard above–”

“I think I’ll manage,” Newt laughed off, heading towards the bathroom, treating Thomas with a little shove on the way there. “Thanks.”

Now, that was something Thomas still didn’t quite understand; how, sometimes, being with Newt was the easiest thing in the world, as if they had known each other their whole lives, and then, suddenly, he would be hit with a sudden sense of serendipity, leading his body and mind to forget how to function, randomly rendered dumbstruck by Newt’s adorable frown or lavish laughter.

It wasn’t just the lust he used to feel when he would – very accidentally, of course – peek at Newt’s collar during his shift whenever it was just one button too open for him to keep his mind straight. It wasn’t the ping of jealousy he had more than once experienced whenever a customer got a little flirtatious and Newt would play along. Those, Thomas could manage. But that all-consuming warmth down inside when Newt looked at him that way, like he was all the good things in the world put together and wrapped up with a bow, he didn’t know yet how to pretend it didn’t move him to the core. So he did the next best thing and searched for something to take his mind off it, and like for all other devastating feelings, pop music would do the trick.

When a certain song popped up on his playlist, he smiled to himself, unable to resist the urge to press play, very aware of the havoc he was about to wreck when the Bluetooth speakers of his living-room would go off.

Seconds later, Newt was storming out of the bathroom, shirt off and jeans unfastened.

“Uh-uh, no. No way! I’m not showering to that hell of a song!”

“I’m sorry, buddy. ABBA stays on during the shower,” Thomas sneakily replied, trying his best not to steal a glance at the literal masterpiece that was Newt's torso and instead rummaging through his kitchen cabinet. “Come on, I know you secretly love it.” 

“You’re most insufferable, you know that?” Newt lovingly pointed out, and despite his best efforts, Thomas looked up, faced with that ravishing grin and absolutely tantalizing body, on which the bright morning sun tauntingly decided to reflect.

“I do, actually,” Thomas confirmed, glancing down to hide his burning cheeks. “Now get your ass in that shower or we’re gonna be late for work.”

Newt stuck his tongue out at him before vanishing back into the bathroom, losing a battle he didn’t care to win, perfectly unaware that he had actually vanquished, turning Thomas into a hot mess in his own kitchen. But more than Newt’s extraordinarily dazzling looks, the banter was what got him. The teasing and the laughter that never failed to make him feel like a piece of him that had long been missing was finally found, making him complete. 

Which reminded him of something.

“Wait!”

The door opened just enough to let Newt’s face through.

“How do you like your eggs?”

Newt seemed both taken aback and amused by the question, a weird combination that Thomas visibly elicited rather often in him. 

“Soft-boiled,” he replied. “You better have an egg cup. And toast.” 

“I have a question.”

“Huh-hm?”

“Did you hide my phone charger this morning so I would be forced to come over to your place to pick it up and you would trap me into sleeping on your couch one more time?”

As the terrible liar he was, Thomas couldn’t help the sly grin that arose on his face, and as much as he tried to hide it, pretending to tidy up some nameless somethings under the cash register, he knew very well he was busted. 

“Maybe,” he confessed, leaning forward on the counter. “But you have no proof it was me.”

Magnets never move by themselves, so Newt leaned forward as well, caring very little about the growing line of customers behind him Jorge would scold them both about. “Mmh, I see. Probably the rats living in your pantry then.”

“And are the rats being successful with their little scheme?” he cockily asked in return.

“You really are insufferable,” Newt snorted, shaking his head in a fruitless attempt to erase the grin on his face. 

“But that’s what you love about me, right?” he teased, and wow, where was that confidence coming from? 

Something shifted in Newt’s confident gaze, a destabilizing spark, but he didn’t look away. 

“Actually, what I love is that shower gel of yours,” he replied, collecting himself.  “No, for real. Where did you get it? I’m sure customers told themselves I was a creep because I kept taking sniffs at my skin all day.”

“A lady always keeps her secrets to herself,” Thomas said. “But if you come over, I’ll let you borrow it again.” 

That made Newt look away, bashfully. “I said one night, Tommy,” he whispered.

“I bought an egg cup during my lunch break,” Thomas insisted, trying to catch a hold of Newt’s gaze again. “You wouldn’t be cruel enough to doom it to an eggless life, would you?

The trick was done. Newt’s eyes were back on him, bewildered. “You bought–” he stuttered into laughter mid-sentence. “You went all the way to the store–”

“Yes, I did,” Thomas proudly replied.

“I hate you,” he said with the widest of grins. Biting his lip to try to hold a giggle back (and miserably failing at it), he repeated, “I really hate you.” 

“I’m sure you do,” he nodded, matching grin from ear to ear.

“Okay, fine. I’ll come,” Newt sighed. “But I’m not letting this become a habit.”

It became a habit; so naturally that Thomas quickly forgot what life was like before. Two days turned into three and turned into four, a week into two and into three, and all of it became his new normal. The tiptoeing to go to the bathroom at night so he wouldn’t disturb Newt’s sleep. The two plates and two glasses set on the coffee table while an episode of The Office was on. ( “ Okay, I’ll admit it’s one of the few instances where the American version is better than the British one, but that’s just one exception, Tommy!” ) The smell of “real” coffee and how it now stained the bottom of all his cups. The extra pair of shoes by the door and the extra jacket on the coat hanger, hidden amongst his own. Two toothbrushes in the cup by the bathroom sink, facing, like in endless bickering.

He found out 1AM Mario Kart sessions were funnier when it wasn’t the computer he played against, and discovered how much houseplants improved life in an apartment after Newt convinced him they should get a ficus with the money from their tips. Soon, everything in his own home reminded him of his new roommate, like the chipped cup Newt broke while doing the dishes, or the Givenchy scent now embedded in his sofa (vanilla and cedarwood, he had now identified, absolutely not by giving Newt’s pillow a sniff while doing the laundry), or the simple warmth that came with sharing your life with someone else. Cigarette buds now littered the outside of his windows, and the utter horror that was orange marmalade now stood proudly on his kitchen shelf, but midnight conversations were a rather satisfying compensation, endless sobremesas Thomas couldn’t get tired of. All of it felt right, tremendously right; and he didn’t want it to ever stop. He realized with terrifying bliss that, if the rest of his life looked exactly like this, he would cherish every moment of it.

Part of Thomas wished it had gone horribly. If only Newt never took out the trash and reorganized everything in the apartment, if only he didn’t tidy the bathroom after showering or the kitchen after cooking, then it would have given Thomas a reason to resent him. Then it would have nipped his feelings in the bud. But Newt said good morning to his neighbor’s cat everyday when they left for work and he stopped randomly on the streets to take candids of things he found pretty; and Thomas was doomed, helpless, feeling his heart skip a beat every now and then when Newt would give him the bigger half of unevenly-cut cookies, or simply during those moments when he would catch him staring and Newt wouldn’t even bother to look away. He would stare deeper, even, into Thomas’ eyes, and let his gaze travel, from mole to mole, as if Thomas was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “What is it?” Thomas would ask then, and Newt would reply “Nothing,” way too often for it to be the truth.

Wherever Thomas went, Newt followed. It had become a thing; them walking to their morning shift, squeezed on the narrow sidewalk, arms and hands brushing way to often for Thomas not to blush from time to time, cleverly blaming it on the cold shifts of wind; them grocery shopping, arguing for fifteen minutes over which brand of toilet paper to get just for the sake of bantering, often throwing theatrical tantrums just in order to entertain other customers and being kicked out of the shop; them going to the beach for Thomas’ almost daily surfing session with Minho, which, in itself, was a gargantuan effort on Newt’s part, who eagerly complained about every single aspect of all ocean-related matters, and categorically refused to approach the water.

“I hate the beach,” he said the third time he agreed to follow Thomas there, sitting on the hood of his car, hidden behind his (quite useless) sunglasses. “I hate sand. It gets everywhere.”

“Okay, Anakin,” Thomas sneered. 

“Listen, he may have been a child murderer and a dictator but he had a point right there,” Newt defended himself. Of course, he did. After all, he had forced Thomas to watch all of Star Wars twice after Thomas told him he had never seen them.

“Sure you don’t want to try?”

Newt shook his head. “My life may not be amazing but I haven’t reached the point where I want to become shark bait yet.” Thomas must have looked despondent then, because he added, “Don’t worry, I have the company of a great book while you go play heads or tails with your survival,” a copy of Good Omens he had borrowed from Thomas’ library carefully tucked under his arm, shooing Thomas away as he would have with a cat.

The good thing about the ocean (and Thomas kept repeating it to Newt, even though he would pretend not to hear it) was the utter sense of peace that existed nowhere else. It was the kind of quiet that doesn’t oppress you, the silence of the water, of the birds above your head, the soundless lull of waves. Under the surface, that sensation was even greater. Losing all senses, just for a few seconds. Focus on the now and not on the after. But lately, the sea hadn’t been enough, never truly freeing him from his thoughts. Instead, always, always, always, like the tide that never truly stopped, pictures and voices flooded his head, memories of a life he used to dream to have, giggles at midnight by the windowsill, cigarette smoke slithering to his nostrils, whispers in-passing at the shop, like secrets to be kept, coffee-scented smiles, freckles like cinnamon dust, on hands, on cheeks, even on chest he had unfortunately learned, his name – no, nickname instead – endlessly repeated, like a mantra, sometimes with annoyance, sometimes with laughter, sometimes in a murmur, like a promise, tommy, tommy, tommy, tommy.

He broke the surface, panting. 

“You good?” Minho asked, from where he was sitting, a few feet away on his board. “You were under there for a while.”

“No, I’m fine,” Thomas pretended.

“Good. Wasn’t really feeling like telling your boyfriend you drowned on me.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Thomas reminded him, climbing back on his board.

“Why not?” and to the death glare he received from Thomas, Minho justified his stance. “No, but really, I know for fact that you’re into him, and dude’s looking at you like he’s Augustus Gloops and you’re a river of chocolate. What’s stopping you?”

“I’m not sure how he would feel about that comparison,” Thomas pointed out.

“My point is, if I wasn’t there right now, he would be devouring that little ass of yours on the backseat of his car,” Minho bluntly explained.

“No, trust me he wouldn’t,” Thomas resignedly stated. “I told you before he couldn’t stand me. I mean, it’s gotten better, yes, but that doesn’t mean he wants anything to do with me.”

“He’s literally been sharing your life and sleeping on your couch for the past month, and as far as I’m aware, he hasn’t really been looking for an alternative. Don’t tell me you're that blind, Thomas.”

“It doesn’t mean he wants to spend the rest of his life on that couch.” 

“Are you sure about that?” 

Glancing at Newt from afar, raven-like silhouette on his car, Thomas let his hopes linger. Could Newt really want all of this as much as he did; a normal, impactless life of Sunday brunches and movie nights, of trips to the mall and laundry days, after he fled his home for something greater? Could he see in Thomas something he hadn’t before, something worth recalculating the whole trajectory of his existence? He wasn’t anything special, though. He was just a boy, not even the brightest or most handsome one, and Newt was a shot of espresso; intense, quick-witted, something you long for and that awakes a part of you that stayed dormant for years. Virtually speaking, nothing had changed in Thomas’ life since Newt had stumbled in it. He still lived by the same habits, still followed the same schedule, but places had new colors and new scents, and a weight he had learned to live with was now nowhere to be found. Take the same lyrics, change the melody.

Did Newt hear it too, that song they were composing together?

As the evening settled in and the waves grew quieter, Thomas and Minho parted, leaving the sea behind. The first thing Thomas noticed when he made it back to the shore was the sad pout on Newt’s face, the book long discarded on the car hood.

“You’re okay?” he asked once he was close enough to be heard.

“I miss Christmas,” Newt said pensively, eyeing the decorations the city council had hung pretty much all over town;

“Good thing it’s like, two days from now, right ?” Thomas joked, hoping to alleviate his mood, which wasn’t quite effective.

“No but like, I miss Christmas in London,” Newt explained, glancing down at the sand. “My childhood was, let’s say, not the funniest, if we want to stay polite. But on Christmas, every bad thing would simply go away. My parents would stop fighting and I wouldn’t have to face the kids at school every morning. I remember the snow falling so heavily the whole city would be white, and I remember the Christmas lights and how colourful they made the house look, and that feeling of utter joy that I haven’t really known since. The smell of mulled wine, the cheesy songs; I hate them all but hearing them is so comforting. Everything falls short of it now. I thought that, when I grew up and got to make my own choices, everyday would feel like Christmas. I couldn’t have been more wrong.” 

By the end of his confession, Newt was starting to tear up, and Thomas knew very well not to bring it up. He’d blame it on the wind or the salty air, not on everything he had bottled up for years before crossing Thomas’ path.

“Sorry, I’m absolutely ruining the mood right now,” he apologized, trying to smile.

“No, no you’re not,” Thomas reassured him, hopping on the car hood by his side. “It’s okay to be upset.”

“What do you usually do for Christmas?” Newt asked, “It’s probably better than listening to Mariah Carey on the radio and watching from your car seat as couples and families have fun at a Christmas market, wishing you could live as carefreely as them.” 

“You know, sometimes you do say things that really make you sound like a gang member. I’m starting to get Brenda’s point,” Thomas quipped, which did prompt a timid smile on Newt’s face. “We usually do Christmas at my place.”

“With Minho?” 

“Yeah, and his boyfriend,” he confirmed. “Actually, it’s a good thing you’ll be there this year. That way I won’t have to third wheel by myself.” 

“Or maybe I should join them as a throuple and make you fourth wheel,” Newt quipped back.

“Trust me, you’d rather eat shards of glass than be with Gally,” Thomas warned him. “He puts the milk before the cereal.''

“That’s rich coming from the guy who puts pop-corn syrup in coffee. From a guy who buys such a thing as pop-corn syrup, even.” 

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it!” 

“That’s the thing. I’ve tried it, and it’s awful. How do you not get diabetes with that thing?”

“It’s because I’m Mother Nature’s favorite child.” 

Newt nudged him in the ribs, something he had done so many times by now Thomas could see it coming and easily avoid it. It was almost eerie how well he knew Newt by now, all the while knowing there was still so much more of him to discover. 

“It’s getting dark,” Newt told him, eyes up to the sky where strings of stars started to appear. 

“Wanna go home?”

Home. Thomas used to hate that place, barely named it that. He would refer to it as “my place” or “where I live”, but never home; with its liveless white walls and the neon-like lights, the crushing silence that came with living by oneself, the anxiety that used to sit with him on the couch and watched over him at night. But Newt had barged into his place and made it home, painted the walls with his presence, all the colors of him, the blue of his deep-rooted melancholia and the yellow of his well-hidden gaiety. In the rooms now echoed both their voices, from the nights when Newt would let his guard down enough, when he would join Thomas during his spur-of-the-moment midnight sing-along sessions, and they would belt the cringiest pop songs while doing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen. He had made a home of Thomas’ place, and, fatally, of Thomas’ heart.

“Yeah,” Thomas agreed, his eyes not leaving Newt for one second. “Yeah, let’s go home.” 

December 24th came knocking on Thomas’ door, along with Minho and Gally, the former carrying enough presents to put Santa Claus to shame, the latter a literal keg of eggnog.

“Oh, I’m going to like that guy,” Newt told Thomas before fetching glasses.

Of all the Christmases Thomas had known, the latest ones, those of his late-twenties, had been the happiest. As a child, Christmas had meant being fought over by his divorced parents, his custody a trophy they could brag about. It meant being told to quiet down when he played with his gifts, to the point where he stopped receiving toys altogether. It meant locking himself in the bathroom, faking an indigestion to avoid the clatter of conversations and the storm of questions, the “what are you gonna do with your life?” and the “still no girlfriend this year?”. It meant watching the world from afar while being right there in the middle of it.

On his first Christmas in Santa Monica, he had gone to the beach, popped a bottle of champagne by himself and eaten a KFC bucket and a bag of Hershey’s kisses, alone with the sea, until he noticed another silhouette sat in the sand, with a takeaway pizza and a box of Reese’s. He had waved, the silhouette had waved back. Wings and slices were traded, and that was the story of his first Christmas shared with Minho.

“So that’s why we’re having KFC and pizza instead of, like, turkey and mashed potatoes?”

“Trust me, Newt, I tried to talk them out of it many times but apparently it’s ‘the dinner of true friendship’,” Gally growled, biting into his pepperoni pizza. 

“Well, it’s definitely better than my Aunt Shirley’s meatloaf,” he commented, dipping a chicken tender in cranberry sauce. 

Over dessert (S’mores, an unhealthy amount of them they messily melted over Thomas’ stove, all four of them sandwiched in the small kitchen, wrestling to get access to the flame), more stories were shared, like how Gally and Minho had met, something involving roller skates, takeaway coffee, a slippery sidewalk and a trip to the emergency room; and even Newt had confessed some of his secrets, from the time he had stolen a friend’s puppy in seventh grade because his parents wouldn’t get one for him, or when he had grown his hair long so he could swap places with his sister.  

Inevitably, Thomas dragged them all into an impromptu karaoke, thinking he could compete with Kelly Clarkson (he couldn’t) or Freddie Mercury (really, who did he think he was?), singing off-key enough to persuade even Newt to join, the four of them throwing questionable dance moves, casting drunken shadows on the cream walls of the flat, bathed in the reds and greens of the Christmas lights. They must have been quite the sight from down the streets, four silhouettes partying, drinks in hands, like if it were their last chance to do so.

It wasn’t unusual for Thomas to catch Newt staring into space every now and then, as if disconnected from reality altogether. It happened often at night, when they were at home, alone. More often than not, it was near impossible to break him out of his trance-like state, Thomas having to call his name multiple times to bring him back to reality.  And that night, it was happening a lot. 

“Newt, you’re alright?” he eventually asked after the fourth time, Newt inexplicably looking like a deer in headlights, though the four of them were simply squeezed on the couch, watching an umpteenth Christmas romcom on TV. 

“I’m…just gonna use the bathroom real quick,” he muttered, escaping from the room. 

“That’s what a quattri formaggo and hot spice wings does to the inexperienced,” Minho affirmed once the door behind Newt was closed.

“It’s quattro formaggi, actually,” Gally corrected.

“Listen, not all of us took French in high school.”

“That’s–” Gally sighed, bewildered. “Baby, that’s Italian.” 

“No, it’s not.”

“I guarantee you, it is.”

While Gally and Minho got wrapped up in their senseless argument, as they always did, Thomas stood up and walked to the bathroom door, leaned against the frame.

“Newt?” he asked, concerned. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” the other responded, his words peppered with sniffling sounds.  

“Can I come in?”

“It’s your house, I guess,” Newt replied, resigned. 

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas sneaked into the room with Thomas as he opened the door, finding Newt sitting on the floor, back against the bathtub, his legs folded against his chest, wiping his eyes with toilet paper. 

“Hey,” he hushed, closing the door behind him and settling by Newt’s side on the floor, nuzzled against his side. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Newt confessed bittersweetly. “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong at all. That’s the problem, nothing’s wrong.”

“I’m not sure I get it,” Thomas frowned. “Why are you upset then?”

“It should feel off, right?” Newt let out in a murmur. “I’m in this limbo between what I was and what I am not yet. I don’t belong here? I’m not supposed to be here, not in Santa Monica, not in this life, not in your apartment. I don’t belong here and yet…Yet I felt like I was supposed to be here all along. I feel like I’ve wasted my life, pursuing some stupid, unachievable dreams while it could have been that simple all along to find a place in the world.”

Wordlessly, Thomas’ hand found Newt’s, there on the cold tiles on the bathroom, and held it. They had never done that before, held hands, and why would they have, after all? But there was comfort in feeling Newt’s warm skin against his, the peaceful pulse on his wrist, how instinctively their fingers intertwined. He held it and wondered when was the last time someone had offered their hand to Newt. He would make up for all of them, if Newt let him. Hold it until his fingers forgot how to function, knowing only how to hold, how to care and how to cherish.

“You know, I can’t even remember the last happy Christmas I’ve had,” Newt continued, his cheeks red with alcohol and emotion. “Or the last time I was in a room and all the people in it were happy that I was there with them. The last time I really felt liked, like my presence wasn’t a burden or too much. It’s always been a thing, like I was some gigantic monster about to destroy the lives of people around me. I was always the problem, wherever I went. That’s why I don’t…I don’t let people in. That’s why I’m an asshole to people who come to me. I guess it’s just easier to lower people’s expectations than to disappoint them.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Thomas stated, a minute or two later, once he’d taken it all in. “Really, you have no idea how glad I am that you’re here. Not just on that bathroom floor but in my life, too. I know it sounds crazy considering how we hated each other just a month ago, but I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else right now. And you’re not too much. You’re not a problem. Not to me,” he squeezed Newt’s hand and went on, “Trust me, you’ve only made my basic, boring little life better since you stumbled into it. I had no idea doing laundry and taxes could be so fun,” he joked, and it worked, a bashful smile appearing on Newt’s face. 

“You really mean that?” he whispered, and Thomas nodded, unsure any word could encapsulate just how grateful he was that the universe had put Newt on his path.

“I have something for you, actually,” Thomas confessed, slowly standing back up.

“I thought we said ‘no gift’!” Newt sighed.

“You should know better than to trust me by now,” he taunted, slipping through the door, only to reappear seconds later, a small box covered with snowmen in hands. 

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Open it!” he cheerfully said, handing it to Newt and settling back next to him.

Newt’s hands were careful, always; something Thomas, in his innate clumsiness, had always admired. He thought each brush through, each stroke, like all the things he touched matter. Even as he ripped open his present, bits of gift wrap falling in the bathtub, he did it with precision, like all things deserved to be treasured. And treasure it he would.

A snowglobe. Nothing too pretentious at all, not even especially big. Small enough to fit in a corner and be forgotten for years, only to be serendipitously found again and cause an avalanche of memories. In it were a small ferris wheel, a recognizable clock tower and a red bus, double-decker. Agape, Newt flipped it upside down, then back in place, watching the snow fall over his long-lost home.

“I can’t make it snow here, sadly,” Thomas explained in a whisper.  “But this way, you’ll always have London.”

Hours. He had spent hours at the gift shop looking for something perfect for Newt, and he had been running out of time. Newt’s appointment at the bank was going to come to an end soon and the blond would get back to the apartment and, upon finding it empty, would ask Thomas about it later; Thomas, who couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. And even though they had said no gift, it was unthinkable to him not to offer something to the boy he was falling in love with. And if he wasn’t sure his heart would be well-received, he was pretty certain a trinket reminding him of home would be just what Newt needed.

But now, witness to Newt’s astounded reaction, to the silence that was filling up the room, Thomas started to doubt his choices. 

“Newt?”

Chocolate eyes landed on him, wide with awe and wet with tears. Here it was again, that look Thomas couldn’t quite define, the one Newt pretended didn't exist, and for the first time, Thomas understood what that look meant, but before he could say a word, Newt leaned forward, grabbed the front of his sweater, and kissed him. 

Thomas had been kissed before, of course. There had been Brenda in tenth grade at his very first high school party, who had told him afterwards that he tasted like strawberry gum and that she didn’t like it. There had been a boy during his freshman year of college whose name he had forgotten or simply never known, whom he had kissed only to prove to himself that he was straight (that had worked wonders ).There had been Minho, once, after they had gotten really drunk on New Year’s Eve, and they still joked about it every now and then. There had been Teresa, for years, on and off, before he finally called it quits. 

But now, there was Newt, and no one had kissed him quite like Newt did, like he had long for a thousand years to feel Thomas’ lips against his, to make him shiver with how much devotion he poured into it. Thomas had kissed strangers at parties, boys to pass the time and girls to escape boredom. He kissed people because he could. But Newt kissed with purpose and desire, like he would stop breathing if he held back any longer. And Thomas cursed himself for having done so, for having waited so long, because there, on Newt’s lips, he finally understood. He understood the silences and the longing looks, the laughs and the warmth, the touches and the whispers, the feeling of belonging. He understood what love meant.

But just as quickly as he had crashed into him, Newt let him go, visibly taken aback by his own actions, not even giving Thomas a chance to respond.

“I’m sorry,” Newt apologized with a bitter snort, red with embarrassment. “It’s the eggnog. Had too much of it and now my emotions are all over the place. It’s been a lot today. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Thomas mumbled, dumbstruck. “It’s fine.”

“God, I’m such a mess,” Newt groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“It’s nothing, really,” he repeated, perfectly helpless.

“Thank you,” Newt murmured, suddenly finding the snowglobe much more interesting to look at than Thomas. “For this and for everything. It’s…I don’t know how to thank you.” The end of Newt’s sentence died down in a whisper. “I should…go put it on my…in my stuff,” he rushed to say, almost jumping to his feet.

“Yeah, okay,” Thomas numbly said as Newt fled the scene.

Thomas had never been good at sorting out his thoughts. His mother blamed it on his carelessness, his father on his stupidity and his doctor on his ADHD. Regardless of the diagnosis, all had come to the same conclusion. Thomas, my boy, you need to make lists. So that’s what he did. 

Befuddled on the bathroom floor, the warm memory of Newt on his lips, he made a list.

1. He loved Newt.
2. Newt had kissed him.
3. …

He couldn’t even think of a three. His brain was going on loop with newtnewtnewtnewtnewtnewt and neither the smell of gingerbread filling up the apartment or the voices of his friends next door could wake him up from that trance.

The rest of the evening went quietly, all of them exhausted and slowly falling into a food coma, none of them mentioning what happened or may have happened in the bathroom. Gally and Minho finally called it a night around 3AM, when they remembered they had to be at Gally’s parents for lunch and preferably shouldn’t look too hungover. 

“Get home safe!” Thomas yelled through the window when they left. “Text me when you’re home.”

“Will do, mom!” Minho waved from the sidewalk, with Gally already honking from the car.

Somewhere among the confetti and the cookie crumbs that littered the whole apartment, Thomas caught a glance of the snowball; casually resting on a bookshelf, one Thomas had cleared so Newt would have room to store his stuff. Half of the things up there were items Newt had borrowed and Thomas had told him he could keep. He almost expected to find his heart there.

“ Yes, I’ve been brokenhearted. Blue since the day we parted. Why, why did I ever let you go? ”

Wait, really?

Thomas tried his hardest not to make a sound as he approached the kitchen, and leaned against the doorframe, watching in awe how Newt hummed along to the radio while washing the champagne glasses. It was quiet, almost imperceptible. Thomas wasn’t sure Newt even realized he was singing along, so it startled him when Thomas joined him on the following line.

“ Mamma mia, now I really know, my, my, I could never let you go! ” 

“Oh, Tommy! Don’t kill me but I chipped a mug again,” Newt confessed. “But maybe we could make it a brand, you know? Only having chipped mugs? It gives them charact– mpfh!”  

The muffled noise of surprise against his lips was the sweetest, cinnamon and sugarcane, even more intense than the first time, annihilating everything else around him. A few seconds of anticipation, of hesitation, then all he felt was how Newt’s fingers, still moist with dish soap, tentatively settled on the small of his back, dampening his sweater, quickly followed by Newt’s other hand, holding just as tightly. His own had cupped Newt’s cheeks, cradling them, exploring them, down to his neck, like he was the most precious of things. The tiny, surprised moans that escaped Newt’s lips to die on his own were the sweetest of tricks, for Thomas knew he would forever be trapped, craving to find out just how shameless they could get.

When they parted, the world around them still existed, much to Thomas’ surprise. 

“Too much eggnog?” Newt suggested, and Thomas felt each letter on his own lips.

“I actually really hate eggnog,” he admitted.

“Oh,” Newt let out, still a little speechless. “Weird choice to kiss a guy who has just downed a gallon of it, then.”

Thomas grinned, very much aware Newt would feel it. “Guess you were right, I’m a weird one.”

“Tommy…,” he repeated, with that same tone Thomas had heard so many times, which he now knew wasn’t annoyance, but affection.

“I thought you hated me,” Thomas blurted out. “At first, I thought you absolutely despised me.”

“I do. I hate you,” Newt said, still looking down at their feet. “You’re insufferable. You never stop talking. You have the worst taste in music and you, bloody hell, you cut spaghetti in half. And you’re always so cheerful, like there is nothing wrong in the world. And it drives me completely mad. I don’t understand how someone like you can exist.

“You were so cold to me.”

“It’s just…I can’t,” Newt cried. “I can’t do what people do. I’m not good at this. I’m not good at existing. I don’t understand how people do it, just wake up and live life and be happy with it. But I saw you, that morning on my first day at work. That smile on your face. The way you just made the whole world so much brighter by just being there. And I understood. I understood the point of it all.”

Somewhere in his speech, Thomas started stroking circles on Newt’s cheeks, and his lover sighed to the touch, as if relieved from a weight he had kept hidden from the world.

“I don’t know what you did to me, or how you did it, but you just…make me want to open all the doors and all the windows and drag you in, and hold you, and never let you go. And it’s terrifying.” Newt confided to him. “You make me want to live a quiet life.”

“That sounds nice,” Thomas nodded.

“...And have a lot of very safe, very protected sex.”

“That also sounds nice,” he chucked, and so did Newt.

“You fucked up all my plan, and the worst part is, I’m not even mad about it,” Newt concluded, toying with a lose thread poking out of Thomas’ sweater.

“You did say Americans ruin everything,” Thomas reminded him.

“And yet you had the audacity to put me back together.” Newt concluded, finally, finally looking up, meeting Thomas’ eyes, with a tenderness he had never found in anyone, and he immediately gave in to his urges, catching Newt’s lips once more with his. He was welcomed with a smile as George Michael took ABBA’s spot on the FM.

When Newt’s lewd whimpers and burning touch started being a little too much for Thomas to handle without doing anything about it, he swiftly slided his fingers in the belt loops of his pants, dragging him all the way to the couch, discarded all the clutter there and pushed Newt against the cushions.

It was a hectic mess of hands and lips and giggles, until Newt nudged him away.

“Get off,” he growled from under him.

“What?”

“I said get off,” Newt insisted.

“Did I do something wrong,” Thomas panicked, disconnecting their bodies.

“No,” Newt said, rising on his elbows. “But I didn’t pull out a whole love confession out of my ass to spend one more night on that bloody couch.”

“Oh, so I was only a ploy to get to sleep in a bed, noted,” he chuckled, letting himself be pushed back against his bedroom door.

“Rule number 1 about being in a gang: never let them know your next move,” Newt sneakily whispered in his ear.

“Alright, surprise me, then.”

And surprised he was, by Newt’s gentleness as he took his hand and pressed it against the mattress, up there above their heads, and redefined what a holy night was. Christmas miracles came by this pocketful that year, and Thomas, it seemed, had been a really good boy.

Before he fell asleep with the comforting weight of a relaxed Newt on his chest, Thomas made a mental note: Tell Brenda that Newt did not have a skull tattoo on his buttcheck, but he did gasp in pleasure when the semi-colon on his hip got kissed.

“Don’t cheat, Tommy!”

“Come on, Newt, you know me. I wouldn’t,” the boy in question shrieked.

“Yeah, that’s the problem, I know you.”

“Is it the moment you confess you are actually a gang member and your plan all along was to kidnap me for ransom?”

“Bold of you to assume any gang leader would be patient enough to deal with a chatterbox like you.”

“Is it still gonna be long?”

“Just a sec,” Newt reassured him. “Alright, open your eyes!”

It took a few seconds for Thomas’ eyes to adjust to the bright, blinding December sun. When Newt had admitted, tangled in his sheets in morning-after haze, that he too had broken their promise and got Thomas a gift, being blindfolded and led out of his apartment wasn’t really what the Californian boy had anticipated. Worse, when he started recognizing the tell-tale indicators that they were heading towards the beach, his brain fused with hypotheses, none of which could have prepared him for what was proudly peeking out of Newt’s car. 

“You got me a surfboard?” 

“It’s not for you, it’s for me,” Newt retorted cheekily.

“I…I don’t get it,” Thomas frowned. “You don’t surf. You hate the beach.”

“That’s true,” Newt nodded, a proud smile on his lips, and before said lips landed on Thomas’, he murmured, “That’s why I’m going to need a very good, very patient teacher.”

Maybe it didn’t get as cold in California as it did in London, but Newt would soon learn it didn’t mean the water wasn’t freezing cold. And though he swallowed some of it four or five times and almost drowned twice, he didn’t once regret his choice, to drift from his trajectory, to let life come at him and decide, wrecking all his plans. Wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa where he had spent nights dreaming about the boy quite literally next-door, sharing stupidly-sugary coffees and unevenly-cut cookies with him, he came to the conclusion that forever was the sweetest con, and he, as the pathetically terrible gangster he was and utter fool he had become, would gladly fall for it.