unlucky (newtmas)

27

Newt was standing there waiting for me when I arrived. There was a street lamp lighting up the area he was standing, and as there were no cars in sight, I assumed he had chosen to walk. He wore his signature red hoodie, though the hood was down, exposing his bruised face.

He straightened when he saw me approaching. For a second we just stood there, staring at each other silently in the very dim lighting. His eyes flickered over my face, landing on my bruised cheekbone and busted lip. His gaze flickered downward, and I imagined him scanning down my body, wondering what other injuries I was hiding.

He sighed then gestured for me to follow. We walked for a couple minutes while he led me down a number of side streets. Part of me wanted to ask where we were going, part of me was satisfied with the silence. Finally we came to a dead end, and I scrunched up my eyebrows, preparing to turn back. To my surprise, Newt started to climb the piled up trash to the side. I glanced over my shoulder then followed.

We came out on top of low-cut, abandoned building. We were up on a hill, and the flat roof overlooked a good portion of the city in the distance. It was beautiful, bathing softly, quietly, in the still night air.

Newt walked to the edge and looked out. He sat, patting the seat beside him. I stepped forward softly and perched myself precariously next to him.

"I didn't want you to fight him," Newt said after a few more minutes of silence. His eyes were trained forward and seemed to glitter in the light reflecting from the city. I didn't want to look out at the city, I just wanted to look at him.

Whenever we weren't speaking, the silence felt oddly intimate. I had no doubt that Newt probably came to this spot often, as he had navigated the area with ease. I briefly wondered why, and if this was his spot, and if by sharing his spot with me it became our spot. I focused my mind back on the conversation.

"I know, but I had to," I said. My voice had a bit of a lilt to it because my lower lip was swollen.

Newt looked over at me. His face was pained and my heart ached. "I don't want you to get hurt for me," he said lowly.

"I'm not," I reassured pitifully. My lip gave a painful throb in protest.

"Thomas, you look like crap." Newt shook his head at me. He wasn't fooled at all by my pretenses.

"Hey, I landed a good punch or two on him, too," I defended.

"Did you get detention?" Newt asked, looking away to play with his fingers in his lap.

"Just a weeks worth," I replied.

"And Finn?"

"Two days," I replied bitterly.

Newt sucked in a small breath. He chewed on his lip, looking terribly small, just as small as that day in the lunchroom. The man I had seen standing up to Finn in the ice cream shop had gone; his facade had faded, and his true form now shown through for me.

There was an even longer stretch of silence now. I moved closer to Newt, shivering in the cold night air. His eyes were trained ahead and he looked determinedly lost in thought.

"Finn was my first boyfriend," he blurted suddenly. The words flew out of him before he could reign them back in.

"What?" I said in surprise. My voice rang out loudly in contrast to our surroundings. "But he's--he's such a homophobic--"

"He's catholic," Newt interrupted. His voice was void of emotion. "And he's so fucking deep in the closet, I wouldn't be surprised if he never found his way out."

Newt had cursed, and that probably surprised me more than anything else he had said. I couldn't help but wrap an arm around him in comfort. He leaned into me automatically, resting his head on my shoulder like he had done it a thousand times.

"My dad found us together," Newt continued, still void. "And Finn ran, in fear of being outed. He left me to deal with my dad on my own, and that was the end of that."

His voice held an air of finality I didn't like. I pulled him closer to me as if I could somehow protect him.

"I'm sorry," I said lowly.

He shook his head. "You didn't do anything."

This was so far from anything I had ever seen from Newt, was so opposite from who he seemed to be. But slowly, barely, I couldn't help but begin to wonder: was the Newt I knew really Newt at all?

"And I can't fight him, or hurt him, or even really offend him," Newt went on like there hadn't been a large lapse in the conversation, "because his dad--his dad's my family doctor. And he--we need him. He gets what we need, and he's one of very few around here that can help us properly."

I tightened my grip on his waist. What does that even mean? But I had learned my lesson as to not push Newt, because often the only reason he withheld information from me was when he was trying to protect me, or someone he loved, or sometimes, very rarely, himself.

"But you can at least hate him, right?" I nudged him softly in vague hopes of cheering him up.

Newt looked vacantly down at the city. "No," he answered. "I can't even seem to do that."