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Newt has never really enjoyed the taste of the Glade’s makeshift alcohol, but despite wanting to vomit after the first few sips, it’s worth it to feel nothing at all.
And he always, always drinks alone. He never indulges Minho with requests to join him and the others around the fire, getting drunk off their asses and telling ridiculous, over-hyperbolized versions of stories that were rather quite boring in the first place. He doesn’t like talking or listening or putting up with anyone’s bullshit…
…which is why he’s pretty surprised that he’s not spitting mad when Thomas plops down beside him, eyes glazed over with a major lack of sobriety.
“They’re all nuts,” Thomas huffs, sounding surprisingly decent despite the multiple drinks Newt watched him gulp down out of the corner of his eye. Even Alby can’t hold his liquor that well, and Newt has been convinced for the longest time that nobody could do anything better than Alby.
But Thomas is here, and he’s already broken so many rules and made so many changes, and Newt thinks that there’s a difference between the way he looks up to Alby and the way he can hardly even glance at Thomas without getting flustered.
“That’s the Glade, for ya,” Newt sighs, staring down at what little remains in his glass and tipping his wrist so that it swirls, becoming a pool of bubbles that he wishes he was small enough to drown in.
Thomas is watching him and Newt feels it all over. Like a touch that he can’t run away from. Like a blanket that’s being thrown over his bones despite his already flushed skin.
The other boy scoots a bit closer, knocking their hips together, and if Newt was a weaker man, his whole body would have jerked. “You look sad.”
Newt swallows. “You sound drunk.”
Thomas’ laughter is sweet and quiet, even though Newt knows for certain that it can be joyful and loud. The sound has wound its way into his dreams at night, following him despite his best attempts to run away from it.
“I watered down every single glass I drank,” Thomas chuckles, keeping his voice low like it’s some kind of secret that only he and Newt will ever share.
“Oh my god,” Newt groans, smiling despite himself. “Of course you would, you bloody shuckface. Can’t handle your booze?”
“Just don’t like the taste.”
Newt snorts, shaking his head in a way that he refuses to believe conveys any fondness towards the other boy.
Thomas is suddenly closer, eyebrows furrowed as he watches Newt with an almost uncomfortable intensity. “You still look sad.”
“Listen, Greenie, I – “
He’s cut off by Thomas’ fingers curling into his sides.
He squeals and drops his drink, soaking the grass with poorly-concocted liquor. Thomas laughs – loud this time – as he throws his leg over Newt’s bottom half and tickles him.
Fucking tickles him.
Newt is wheezing and giggling and trying to grab Thomas’ hands, but the alcohol in his bloodstream is making his movements too slow. “Thomas…Tommy…stop it…ah!”
The other boy’s happiness is a quick-spreading disease, infecting Newt from his toes to the roots of his hair. Thomas’ hands are only on Newt’s torso, but his touch is everywhere.
It’s enough to drive a man insane.
With all of the strength he can muster, Newt lunges forward, knocking Thomas onto his back and reversing their positions.
Thomas is still laughing, but Newt can only focus on the way Thomas’ body feels beneath him. He rests his hand on Thomas’ chest and feels the oddly reassuring ba-bump of his heartbeat. Yet another phantom to plague his dreams.
Eventually, Thomas gets the picture, and his smile fades. The sight of it makes Newt’s chest ache.
“Hey, Newt – “
“Tickling is very juvenile, Tommy.”
His voice is stern enough that any trace of amusement is absolutely wiped from Thomas’ face. He looks like a little boy, afraid of getting scolded by the kid with the limp.
Newt wonders for the briefest of moments if they actually knew each other as kids. In the life before this one, were they friends? Were they…
No.
“Newt?”
Their eyes meet and, maybe if Newt was sober, the moment would be brighter. But he’s drunk and confused and he doesn’t like talking to people when he’s drinking.
So he smiles and jabs his fingers into Thomas’ sides instead, letting their intertwined laughter wash over him like a waterfall that he’s never actually had the privilege to see in person.
He thinks it’s probably beautiful.