Newt has always admired Thomas from afar, and it's a shock to everyone that Thomas hasn't noticed, but with Newt's bad-boy persona, who can blame him?
A romantic story filled with hurt, hate, and a dash of love.
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Newt's POV:
Thomas was late. 45 minutes late. And now, I'm sat here, probably looking like an idiot, because I actually expected him to show up.
He had texted me saying he wanted to meet with me because he couldn't wait till Friday, and I was beyond happy, but also a little bit concerned.
How could I be so foolish?
How could I really believe that he would waste his time on a deadbeat like me. Someone so beautiful and precious as Thomas.
I sit, twiddling my thumbs, the small amount of hope in my chest slowly dying. I want to believe he will show up, but a part of me knows he probably won't.
I sigh, checking my watch, and realising he's now an hour late.
Standing up, feeling a little sad, and a little angry, I shove the white rose I bought him into my pocket, before walking away.
But when I look up, I see him walking towards him, dragging his feet and hanging his head low.
My anger flares, and I storm up to him, ready to yell at him for being so damn late, but before I'm able to utter a word, I notice his puffy red eyes and the purple mark underneath his eye.
All my anger suddenly disappears, and I instinctively wrap my arms around him protectively in a tight hug. "Tommy..." I whisper softly, pressing a delicate kiss to his hairline affectionately.
As soon as I do this, he starts to cry. Really cry.And it beyond scares me, and makes me feel an awful ache in my chest.
His tears soak my shirt, his fists clutching handfuls of my shirt, as I continue to press soft kisses to his head.
"Shh, don't cry love." I whisper calmly in his ear, resting my chin on top of his head, my arms still tightly around him.
He continues to cry, whispering non-coherent words to himself.
"Darling," I whisper, "Please stop crying. Please tell me what's wrong."
I pull one of his hands away from my shirt, before placing it in my own hand.
Eventually, his cries slowly stop, before he looks up at me with puffy, sad eyes.
"It's my fault," He whispers, mainly to himself. "It's all my fault."
"What's your fault?" I whisper, tracing patterns on his hand, the hand I'm holding.
