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Thomas grunts, burying his face into the familiar curve of the sun-warmed shoulder next to him. The same noise that woke him pokes his senses again, waking him for good. He doesn't want to, but blinks his eyes open anyway — without hurry, lazy with comfort.
Under the pinpricked shade of an evergreen tree, he and Newt lie sprawled on a blanket. They've fallen asleep again — Newt still halfway between dreams and reality, shifting blindly towards the point of contact — but at least this time, they aren't waking up half-baked on the beach. Thomas winces just remembering it: skin tight with heat, then peeling for days. Even though it's a discomfort he never wants to live through again, he'd choose it a thousand times over anything they went through before arriving to this benevolent island.
The memories sting, but don't burn anymore. This island has allowed that, too.
Sighing contentedly, Thomas drags his sleep-laden hand over Newt's bare chest until it reaches the side of his face and sinks into his curls. A languid smile tilts Newt's mouth sideways, the scales of his joy tipping over in slow motion as he purrs under Thomas's touch.
Eyes still closed, Newt murmurs, “Mornin’.”
Thomas kisses the freckle on Newt's shoulder, then shifts even closer to press a kiss to Newt's waiting mouth. “It's afternoon, actually.”
“Right.” Newt's lips brush over Thomas's. “We dozed off again?”
“It's not the beach.”
Newt laughs, a soft puff of breath. “I can hear that. No waves.”
They stay like that for a moment — sharing the same pocket of breath, Thomas stroking an absent-minded path along Newt's hairline and the shell of his ear. When Newt wraps his arms around him, Thomas is ready to bury his nose into Newt's neck and sink back into sleep again, the slick warmth of this summer day be damned. He doesn't even feel guilty about how glutinous he has grown on moments like these; he takes serenity whenever it is offered to him, even seeks it out sometimes.
What makes Thomas even happier is that Newt does the same.
The noise that woke him makes itself known again, and now Thomas recognizes it for what it is. He kisses the curve of Newt's smile, then says, “We've got company.”
Newt hums, part question and part acknowledgement. Even though Thomas is loath to move — especially when Newt cracks open his eyes to look at him with half-lidded, sleep-glazed adoration — he kisses him again before rolling off of him to squint at the grass.
Summers are merciful in Safe Haven: the Sun is warm but not scorching, the ocean cold but not freezing, the air humid but not suffocating. Still, it's unusual for frogs to start vocal exercises before the Sun melts into the horizon. When it speaks up again, Thomas spots the culprit in the grass, a wayward ray of sunshine revealing its hiding spot.
Its skin isn't as shiny as it should be. A familiar driving force stirs within him, pushing him up and forward. The frog doesn't protest being nudged onto the palm of his hand, merely blinks at him with its protruding, beady eyes.
“If you kiss it, it might turn into a prince.”
Newt is teasing, Thomas knows, but his smile twitches like a twinge from an old scar. Thomas knows this smile, so he takes it seriously.
“Why would I want a prince when I have you?”
The smile tapers off into something infinitely more tender. Newt reaches out and Thomas takes his hand, giving it a gentle caress with his thumb before bringing it to his lips. The frog settles more comfortably in the palm of his other hand, and suddenly a thought pops into his mind.
“Besides,” Thomas begins, meeting Newt's eyes, “you’re already very ribbiting.”
Stunned, Newt only blinks at him, but then his laughter cracks the gentle reverie around them like dawn. And, okay, Thomas is self-aware enough to admit that the warmth that surrounds his heart is not only affection and love, but pride too. He did that — he made the love of his life laugh. He can do good.
Newt pushes himself up, leaning on their joined hands, then grabs Thomas's face and kisses him square on the mouth. Mirth sparkles in his hazel eyes.
“Let's get that little guy to water, yeah?”
“Thinking of the same place as I am?”
Newt lifts his eyebrows. “The pool?”
“Yep.”
“Then I am. We could dip in for a couple of minutes too?”
“Sure.” Thomas smiles, leaning in for another kiss. Newt obliges. “Since we’ll already be there.”
🐸
A little bit downhill runs a river, shallow and wide, with more stones in its bed than water. In the particular part where Newt and Thomas are heading, the riverbed has been widened and deepened into a pool of sorts — the water runs slower and is deep enough to comfortably swim in. Trees dapple it with shade. On days when the waves are too unruly or when they don't feel like cramming onto the beach with everyone else, the pool is a perfect getaway place to spend a hot afternoon in.
This afternoon, they have it all for themselves. As soon as Thomas is close enough to the water, the frog leaps from his hand and plops into the pool. A little laugh escapes him as he watches it swim away as if in a hurry, tiny waves rippling the surface in its wake.
“You're welcome.”
Behind him, Newt spreads out the blanket. Thomas considers it for a moment, then squints up at the puzzle pieces of the sky, cut out by the shy crowns of the trees. Dusk isn't upon them yet, but it will be soon. As he lowers his eyes, his gaze falls on Newt; the hitch of his smile alone tells Thomas that their thoughts are aligned. Without further ado, they toe off their shoes, pull down their shorts and pants and throw them onto the blanket. A breath of a breeze blows gently over Thomas's sweaty skin, making him break into goosebumps. He then turns to Newt with a grin, earning a fond but exasperated snort as he runs a short distance up the hill, then turns back towards the pool.
“Any predictions?”
“You’ll slip on the grass here,” Newt points to a wet patch with his foot, “and manage to faceplant instead of cannonball.”
“Wow.” An exaggerated pout. “I thought you had faith in me.”
“I do.” Newt grins, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. “I have faith in you being predictable.”
Thomas jumps in place, readying himself. Points an accusatory finger at Newt. “You're gonna eat your words. I’ll get it this time.”
“‘Course you will, darling.”
Warmed by the endearment and the need to prove a point, Thomas runs. He concentrates on missing the wet patch so hard that he steps right onto it instead. Cursing, he slips, but manages to right himself in time to make an awkward jump. He doesn't faceplant — he doesn't, his entry is just a tad stiff — and even manages a somersault before he comes up for air, smoothing his hair back.
Silent laughter crinkles Newt's eyes. The same warm feeling from before curls around Thomas's heart; he walks closer, careful where he places his feet, and offers Newt a hand.
“It's slippery.”
Newt snorts, but takes his hand. He slips once too, but Thomas is there to catch him. Once they're both safely in the water, Newt stamps his gratitude to Thomas's cheek with a chaste kiss, then swims away. Thomas follows.
For a while, they dive and chase each other back and forth across the pool. The water is blissfully cool, a true balm to their summer-warmed skins. The chase ends with a tackled embrace, which resolves into each of them floating star-fished on their backs, the tips of their fingers bumping when the current pushes them into each other's paths. Thomas closes his eyes, a content smile stretching homely across his face, and listens to the muted hum of water.
Some time later, when the light gets dimmer, Newt takes his hand. Thomas turns to him; in abandoning his starfish pose, the chorus of cicadas and frogs greets him. His eyes meet Newt's — it's time for them to go.
They don't bother drying themselves — by the time they reach the village, summer will do the drying for them. Once they're dressed, they shake out the blanket, roll it up and, hand in dearly beloved hand, slowly head back home.