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S A T U R D A Y
"Let's sneak out," Newt says.
Thomas doesn't feel like following him like an obedient dog, but he's curious.
"Sneak out where?"
"Of the house, stupid. I want to go somewhere."
Thomas turns to face him. It's nearing four am, and he'd be lying if he said he was tired. In fact, he's oddly wide awake. He has been, lately. His mind is a ticking clock that never seems to sleep. It's infuriating, to say the least — but Newt seems to be suffering the same.
"C'mon, Thomas. Don't be so boring."
Thomas doesn't answer. Instead, he smirks, rolls out of bed, stretches and grins.
"Boring who?" He says, and Newt laughs.
They scamper to remake the beds, leaving on their night gear. Thomas actually quite likes the pyjamas — not exactly fashionable, but warm. Comfy. They're like paddington pyjamas, buttoned up and cuffed. Old timey pyjamas.
Newt takes off his socks at the window, eyes lit up like a firelight. Thomas watches him a bit suspiciously.
"Why do you've got your socks off?" He says, before he can help it. He's kind of shocked at himself — since when had he started to sound so like them?
Newt starts to laugh at him, quiet but high pitched. "Well, well, well. Looks like somebodies starting to fit in!"
"Shut up."
Newt turns away, focusing on unlatching the window, but Thomas is deep in thought. It doesn't seem like much, but it's a little scary. He's adjusted so quickly, so well, here. How is he possibly going to leave when he's so easily accustomed to their ways? To Newts ways?
How is he supposed to leave this tiny cottage, in a tiny village with kind hearts and generous souls? He's so used it now — the beach, the lighthouse, the meadow. How will he just suddenly turn it all away?
Does he really want to?
"Oi. Socks off, mister. Get over here."
Thomas doesn't dwell on it — tonight is about adventure, after all.
Thomas abandons the socks, a little wary, standing up to watch as Newt climbs halfway out the window, sitting on the sill. He's waiting for Thomas — but God, he looks truly beautiful.
