and here we are (again and again and again)

1934: Life 79

Newt had never wanted to move to America anyway. "The land of opportunities," as they said. Wrong. Everything is absolutely dreadful because of that stupid stock market crash. Newt listens to the radio and reads the paper; the officials are calling it The Great Depression, and how accurate it is. 

Everything is gloomy. Even the bright colors dull into something bland. Everything fades into another shade of gray. Maybe that's just Newt's imagination, but if that's true, it is also everyone else's imagination. 

Newt's mother, luckily, kept her job during the beginning, but his father was not so fortunate. Newt doesn't have to be formally informed that the money situation is bad, worse than bad, the sort of worse-than-bad that means Newt has to go without dinner a lot. Newt understands, he really does, he knows it's not directly anyone's fault, but he has every right to be upset. 

Stupid America. They should have stayed in England. 

Newt is out for his regular evening stroll, hands tucked into his pockets, when he meets him, the boy with dark hair and dark eyes and smooth skin and a smile too wide for the empty street. 

They run into each other -- literally. Newt is looking down at the papers strewn over the streets when he slams into someone walking in the opposite direction. 

"Sorry --"

"Oh, sorry --"

They look up and something happens. Neither one of them really know what, but it is certainly something, yes, something indeed. The other boy smiles -- no, he grins, he grins something that Newt hasn't seen in a long time, not with everything that's happened lately, and it is so refreshing and wow, it's dazzling. 

The other boy laughs, ducking his head a little. "Um, sorry. Didn't see you." 

"Yeah, me either." 

The boy's eyebrows raise. "You're English?"

Newt nods. 

A great laugh explodes from the boy's chest and Newt finds himself smiling right along with him, as if he is desperately trying to understand a joke that went right over his head. The boy says, "Hell of a time to move over here." 

Newt chuckles, "I tried to tell my parents. They don't listen to me." 

"I know the feeling," the kid says, nodding a little, his brightness looking incredibly out of place in the dreary environment. The world is in black and white, but he is painting color into it with every breath. He continues, "I'm Minho."

"Newt," Newt offers. 

Minho says, "I know it's getting dark, but you wanna walk around? I don't have anywhere better to be." 

Newt knows that really, he should get home, crime has risen exceptionally lately, but something keeps him from denying, something in the sound of Minho's voice that's almost like music, and if it is music, he has definitely been listening to the wrong genre because this is clearly the right one. 

"Yeah, sure." 

Off they go. 

~~**~~

They are quick friends. Minho asks about England and Newt asks about Minho. Newt finds himself spending all his free time with his new friend, never wanting to be anywhere else and always wanting to be right there when he is. 

They talk and talk and talk until there is almost nothing to talk about anymore, but there is always something, always. They are writing a story and they never run out of words. Newt is convinced that Minho is hiding an arsenal of small-talk topics in his back pockets because damn he is good at it. Newt could talk to him for hours on end, and sometimes he does.