Break-Ups (Newtmas Short Story) (COMPLETED)

V

3 weeks later

Winter had drawn into the small suburban area out of nowhere, springing up as suddenly and violently as a predator striking prey. Snow fell in blankets, transforming the once lively trees and cobblestone streets to replicate a statue in a snowglobe, though without the warm festivity. The streets were dark, quiet, and mostly--cold.

Outside of 212 Glade Ave, Thomas stood shaking. He blamed the cold snowflakes that were dancing on his skin, but truthfully, his trembling form had nothing to do with the icy droplets crawling down his neck. They had nothing to do with the unwelcomed feeling of dread, nor his racing pulse, nor the numb sensation clawing at his heart. The snow was not the reason, no matter how much he denied it, for him blinking back tears at the familiar door in front of him, either.

He raised a fist and knocked without the hesitation he briefly had withheld. Thomas was almost surprised by the surety of the motion as the sound rang out on the quiet street, because he himself felt uncertain--afraid. There was no answer even after a few silent moments waiting, so after briefly deliberating, Thomas let himself inside Newt's home.

Newt had, after all, called him to come over.

Thomas tensed as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the dark hallway, running over the framed pictures of friends and family that decorated the walls. He took a deep breath--a small attempt to recompose himself--and breathed in the scent of Newt's home. He sighed.

He didn't know what he expected. Thomas might have thought that maybe Newt's home would have changed since the last time he had been here. It hadn't.

"Newt?" Thomas called. The lights were off but the door was unlocked; surely Newt was here somewhere?

He hesitated just slightly before taking slow, careful steps down the hallway. He glanced into the kitchen, eyed the living room, even paused by the bathroom, but Newt was nowhere to be found. Biting his lip, Thomas made his way to Newt's bedroom.

He pushed the door open slowly, painfully slowly, as he called again, "Newt?" followed immediately by an empty silence. The room was dark, as if every sense of light had been pushed from the consuming air and even from the doorway Thomas felt as if he was suffocating. He gulped when he heard a light sniffle, and through the darkness he made out a small obelisk atop Newt's bed.

He moved forward with a hesitation he hated himself for having. Thomas despised feeling unsure, but he couldn't help it when Newt's scent engulfed him, blindsided him. After weeks of static silence, the quiet that surrounded them now felt unnatural. Pained.

Thomas stopped by the bedside. Closer, he could make out Newt's small form, huddled beneath a pile of blankets. It made Thomas's heart ache, and unknowingly he pressed a hand to his chest--almost as if the action alone could protect him against his selfish feelings of hurt.

With a deep breath, Thomas laid down next to Newt. He pressed close by instinct, just like he would in the past, before everything had changed. Newt tensed for a brief second before relaxing, pressing himself into Thomas. He couldn't help it; Thomas was his drug to take away pain.

They didn't speak. Not for a while, for so long that Thomas worried Newt had fallen asleep. They just lay there, quietly entangled--pressed close with skin almost touching skin, with breaths sharing the same air--but with hearts feeling horribly distant.

"You were right," Newt finally conceded after a while. He couldn't take the silence anymore, he couldn't take being left alone with his thoughts. Because that's how he felt a lot these days: alone.

Thomas swallowed roughly. He knew, of course he knew he was right, but he couldn't bring himself to rub it in Newt's face. He had seen it with his own eyes, after all.