Without A Single String Attached (Rewrite)

Sweetheart, you look a little tired

Rain pattered against the roof and the stray drops collected on the glass. He sat, knees to his chest, watching intently. A hair's breadth out of reach, so his soft exhales would not fog over the window. The blanket he'd draped across his shoulders had already begun to sag and slipped down his spine to gather at his crossed feet. He paid it no mind. His eyes were too focused on the racing droplets and his ears too keen, caught on the sound of gravel underfoot.

He hardly acknowledged the knock at first, too intent on examining the fog that had begun to settle across the street like a blanket. The rap came again, knuckles brushing the worn wood of his front door. Pushing himself onto unsteady legs, Newt paused. His hand hovered above the knob. It wasn't as if he hadn't expected this— he knew soon as the dismal sky greeted his waking eyes— but a heaviness still weighed in his chest. An inhale. He opened the door.

Tommy. His Tommy. Hair plastered to his forehead, shirt soaked with rain, eyes highlighted with the dark circles beneath. His lips quirked at the corners, a pitiable attempt at a smile before he slumped forward to the man inside the house. Newt caught him automatically, hands going to rest on his waist, and he led the lifeless form to the bathroom.

Perhaps it was the gloominess that always brought Thomas to his doorstep. The usual rush, rush, rush of the world dying down. The silence rain brought with it. As unpredictable as Thomas was, this tradition was one that always remained. When the rain came, it brought Thomas with it.

Newt, in all honesty, could never really name how he felt about the whole ordeal. He wasn't sure if it was a spark of possessiveness that sprung to his chest with the knowledge that Thomas had chosen him. It could have been doubt. The lingering ache that came with being used. However, if Thomas didn't seek him out, Newt would have gone to him. This knowledge carried a burden with it as well.

When he'd awake to rain, he would prepare. Blankets and pillows would find themselves scattered about the living room, the movies he'd bought especially for these days would wind up on the table, and coffee would be brewing. Newt would set up snacks he knew Thomas favored, awaiting the whistle of the tea kettle. By the time Thomas arrived, he'd have the refreshments completed and the house thoroughly groomed of dust.

They'd bundle together on the couch, bickering about the movie they wished to watch. Thomas always won, much to his satisfaction. Newt would feign frustration with his defeat, jostling his companion with a snort. Not even ten minutes in, Newt would have lost all interest. He'd tap his fingers along the base of Thomas' neck in a silent plead to play with his hair. His digits would curl in the dark strands, twisting them as he'd press feather-light kisses to Thomas' face. The tip of his nose, the jut of his cheekbones, the dip between his eyebrows.

Newt relished in this tenderness. The quiet freedom bravery earned him as he'd press himself to Thomas, his nails scraping along his ribs. Thomas would stake his claim, nipping at the blond with huffs of laughter in between the clash of their teeth.

This morning, however, his Thomas was nowhere to be found. Instead, a man clad in his skin took up Newt's hallway as he retrieved dry clothes. He ushered the shivering form to the bathroom, taking no embarrassment as he undressed Thomas and assisted him with drying the water from his skin. He dried his dark hair and moved on to pull the shirt over Thomas' heaving chest. Newt captured his pale face between his hands, pressing their foreheads together. Thomas went slack in his grip. His arms came around Newt's waist, enfolding the thin man in a hug. His shoulders trembled; a sob escaped him. He fisted Newt's shirt, his knees weak.

Newt, eyes tearing up, tugged Thomas from the room, all the while encased in his arms. They stumbled to the couch, falling upon one another in a tangle of limbs. Thomas wrapped himself about Newt like a vise and pressed his face to his chest, gasping sporadically. Newt caressed his face, pressing tender pecks to the corners of his lover's mouth. Thomas began to still, bit by bit, soothed like a wild animal. He buried his face under Newt's jaw, entangling their legs as he dragged a blanket from the back of the couch. They lay, lungs moving in sync, listening to the sound of the rain. Newt's hand slipped up the back of Thomas' shirt, his fingertips tracing circles around the faint notches of his spine. Thomas groaned, huffing against Newt's chest indignantly, but made no move to stop him. Newt snorted in response, eyes rolling to the ceiling. He waited patiently in the quiet, dragging his nails along Thomas' back, planting soft kisses on his forehead at intervals.