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Chapter Text

"Pass it!" Thomas screamed, voice raw against the whistling air. His hockey stick slammed the ice twice, sharp cracks echoing over the roar of the crowd. Ten seconds. The puck slid toward Gally near the blue line. I've got a wide open net, Gally, Thomas thought to himself. Tie the game. 

Gally never looked his way. The senior's jaw clenched tight as he dug his skate into the ice, driving forward alone. Thomas watched in disbelief. Gally's shot was wild, flying too high and too fast. It clanged off the goalpost, a hollow sound that punched through Thomas's chest as if he'd been hit himself. The buzzer screamed, ending the game. 4-3 loss. Thomas's stick slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the frozen surface. His breath came in ragged clouds, mingling with the sharp bite of ice spray and stale sweat.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Minho skated past Thomas, slamming his stick against the boards before retreating to the locker rooms. His glare at Gally was venomous. Winston and Ben exchanged a look of resignation as they slumped toward the bench. Frypan, while leaving the goalie net, pulled off his helmet, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead. He didn't meet Thomas's eyes. The crowd's cheers for the opposing team roared like static in Thomas's ears. He'd rather lose than let me win, Thomas thought. He could feel the phantom sting of his father's belt buckle. His knuckles whitened inside his gloves.

Thomas forced himself to stay. He shook hands with the other team's captain, a blur of smiles and sweaty palms, but he tasted bile with every polite word. When he finally pushed open the locker room door, the air hit him: ammonia, damp concrete, and simmering rage. Gally was already ripping off his pads, throwing them into his locker with a clatter. Minho stood inches from him, eyes narrowed to slits. "What the hell was that?" Minho spat. "Thomas was wide open!"

Gally spun around, chest heaving. "I had the angle! You think that rookie deserves the shot?" Thomas froze. Rookie? The word burned. He'd been captain since sophomore year. Coach Jorge's calm voice echoed in his head: Control the room, Hijo. Always.

Minho shoved Gally's shoulder. "Angle? You missed by fucking a mile! Fucking blinded by your damn jealousy!" Gally's face flushed crimson.

"Jealous?" Gally snarled. He surged forward, slamming Minho into the dented metal lockers. The crash echoed like a gunshot. Minho gasped as Gally pressed an arm across his throat.

"Hey!" Thomas shouted. He felt his own pulse hammering in his temples. Protect him. He lunged, only for a calloused hand to clamp his shoulder like iron.

"Easy, Hijo." Coach Jorge's voice cut through the locker room's electric tension. His grip tightened, anchoring Thomas. The coach stood like weathered stone: calm beneath his faded baseball cap, eyes narrowed. Gally froze mid-shove. Minho gasped against the lockers, knuckles white against the metal grille. The scent of sweat and anger thickened. Jorge didn't yell, he leaned in close to Gally's ear, his tone a gravelly whisper. "You pinning down teammates now? That what seniors do?" Gally's grip faltered. His eyes flickered, anger warring with shame. Jorge's knuckles brushed Minho's shoulder. "Get up, kid. Breathe."

Thomas remained locked in place, Jorge's hand still heavy on his shoulder. Blood roared in his ears. Protect him. The impulse had been instinctive, primal, a reflex honed dodging his father's fists. But Jorge's restraint felt like cold water. Shame washed over him. I'm Captain. I should've stopped it before it even started. He watched Gally step back, shoulders slumped. Minho rubbed his throat, coughing softly. The silence that followed was worse than the shouting, thick with accusations unsaid. Thomas's thoughts spun: Gally's rookie jab, Minho's choked gasp, the sour taste of defeat still coating his tongue. The locker room's fluorescent lights hummed like a taunt.

Jorge waited until Minho straightened, his glare still fixed on Gally. "Both of you," Jorge said, voice low but slicing through the tension. "Shower, change. Now." He didn't raise his volume, but the command brooked no argument. Minho stalked off toward the showers, muttering curses under his breath. Gally hesitated, jaw working as if chewing on words too bitter to spit out. Finally, he snatched his towel and followed without looking back. Thomas felt Jorge's hand lift. "You," Jorge said to Thomas, nodding toward the hall. "My office."

Thomas trailed behind him, boots scraping against damp concrete. His mind raced. I should've stepped in faster. I should've seen it coming. The coach's silence was worse than shouting, an accusation hanging thick in the air, heavy with the scent of mildew and old leather pads. He braced for Jorge's disappointment, the lecture about leadership failing when it mattered most. His stomach knotted while his father's voice echoed in his mind: "Weak. Always too slow."

Jorge's office was cramped. A concrete box plastered with faded team photos sat on the left side of his desk and a dented filing cabinet filled most of the space. He sank into his creaking chair, tossing his cap on the desk. Thomas hovered near the door, fingers digging into his palms. Jorge didn't look up as he shuffled papers. "Sit." Thomas obeyed after hesitation, the plastic chair groaning under his weight. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows.

Instead of the lecture Thomas expected, Jorge slid a crumpled sheet across the desk. Thomas recognized it: his English midterm, circled in angry red ink. D-minus. "Mr. Vince called," Jorge said, voice flat. "Says you're drowning."

Thomas's throat tightened. Not now. He pictured his mother's icy stare when report cards arrived, his father's belt already unbuckling. "Coach, I—"

Jorge cut him off with a raised hand. "Save it. You fail, you ride the bench the rest of the season. School rules." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Captaincy's not just about screaming passes on ice. It's about showing up. Everywhere."

Thomas stared at the failing grade like it was a fresh bruise. The locker room clash felt distant now, replaced by the cold dread of home. Bench me? Without hockey, his father's rages would have no buffer. The fluorescent light flickered, humming like trapped wasps. Jorge's gaze didn't waver. "Fix it," he said, tapping the paper. "Go talk to Vince tomorrow. Grovel if you have to." A ghost of his usual smirk surfaced. "Tell him I'll personally assign laps to anyone who laughs."

Thomas's fingers curled around the chair's edge. The plastic dug into his palms. "What about Gally?" The question escaped before he could cage it, raw and jagged. Jorge leaned back, chair groaning. "Handled." The word landed like a gavel. "Focus on what you control, Hijo. Starting with that D-minus." He jerked his chin toward the door. "Go shower. You stink worse than Frypan's gear."

"Yes sir." Thomas stood too fast. The word tasted like ash, too close to his father's demanded respect. He pushed through the office door without looking back. Concrete chilled his soles through worn boot treads. The locker room haze hung thick: steam, sweat, and the sharp tang of disinfectant. Minho stood hunched at his locker, toweling dark hair fiercely. Gally's space was cleared out, save for a stray tape roll. Winston and Ben murmured near the showers, cutting glances toward Gally's abandoned stall. Thomas kept moving, eyes fixed on his own locker. A phantom ache bloomed in his ribs where his father's boot had cracked bone last month. Bench him.*The words echoed Jorge's warning. Without hockey, home would be a cage with no reprieve.

⋆˚࿔

The bus ride home blurred: streetlights smearing yellow streaks across rainy windows. Thomas pressed his forehead to the cold glass. Behind closed lids, Gally's enraged face blended with his father's, both accusing him of weakness. The puck hitting the post echoed like a gunshot. He jerked upright as the bus hissed to a stop near his neighborhood. Rain slicked pavement reflected the bus's headlights. His house was crouched at the street's end, curtains drawn tight.

Thomas eased the front door open, the hinges groaning like a warning. The living room reeked of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. His father was sprawled across the sofa, one arm dangling, his fingers brushing an overturned bottle. Moonlight sliced through a gap in the curtains, illuminating the ridge of his father's bruised knuckles. Thomas froze mid-step. Don't wake him. Silence pulsed louder than the distant highway hum. He could hear his own heartbeat, frantic against his ribs. The carpet swallowed his footsteps, but every creak of floorboard beneath felt like betrayal. His mother was nowhere to be found. She'd vanished again. Probably another "business trip." Her cold absence chilled the air.

He slipped down the hallway, past his mother's closed study door. From beneath it, the faint blue glow of her computer monitor seeped out. There she is. She was in her nightly ritual of emails and secrets. Thomas held his breath, picturing her inside: spine straight, fingers tapping keys, ignoring the wreckage in her living room. Her detachment was its own kind of violence. He reached his bedroom door, the knob cold in his palm. Behind him, his father snorted, shifting on the couch. Thomas didn't turn. He slid inside, pressing his back against the closed door until the cheap wood dug into his shoulder blades. Only then did he exhale, shaky and thin. Darkness enveloped him, thick and familiar. He didn't bother with the light.

Thomas peeled off his damp school clothes, the fabric clinging like guilt. The mattress groaned as he collapsed onto it, the springs digging into his ribs, a dull echo of past bruises. Outside, rain hissed against the pavement. He imagined it washing away the game's sour taste, Gally's sneer, Minho's choked gasp against the lockers. But the images stuck, sticky as sweat. He should've passed the fucking puck. He punched his pillow, once, hard, before settling into his bedding. He drifted away on the uneasy current of exhaustion, the damp scent of mildew from his bedroom window mingling with the faint tang of whiskey seeping under the door, sleep overtaking him.

⋆˚࿔

Morning came too soon, gray and damp. Thomas dressed in yesterday's hoodie, the fabric smelling faintly of sweat and ice rink disinfectant. Downstairs, his father still slept, mouth agape, breath sour. Thomas stepped around him, avoiding the spilled whiskey soaking into the carpet, and slipped out into the drizzle. At school, the corridors buzzed with chatter. It was a Friday night, students were probably wondering where the party would be that weekend. Thomas kept moving, his English textbook heavy in his backpack. Jorge's warning echoed: Fix it. Thomas slipped into the classroom.

Mr. Vince's English class felt like a refuge. It was warm and orderly, lined with chessboards and poetry books. Vince sat at his desk, grading papers, his expression unreadable. Thomas approached him, clearing his throat. "Sir? About my grade..."

Vince glanced up, pen poised. "Ah. Thomas Paige." His voice was low, gravelly. "Coach Jorge called." Thomas braced for a lecture, hands clenching at his sides. Instead, Vince leaned back, folding his arms. "You've got potential. But potential doesn't pass classes." He tapped a stack of papers. "I'll give you a shot at some rewrites."

Relief washed over Thomas like a wave.

Then Vince added, "On one condition. My chess club is growing, but it needs more members. I need you to start attending my chess club meetings."

Thomas blinked. Chess? He pictured drills, ice time, the sweet escape of hockey. He didn't have time for chess, nor had he ever played. "But hockey practice—"

Vince cut him off. "Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, right after school. Before practice." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you'd rather ride the bench?"

Thomas hesitated. The thought of wasted afternoons moving pawns twisted his gut. Then he pictured home: His father's unfocused rage, his mother's glacial silence, the whiskey stench clinging to the walls like mold. An hour of chess meant one less hour trapped in that suffocating house. Vince waited, calm as stone. Slowly, Thomas nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

⋆˚࿔

The lunch dismissal bell clanged through the halls, sharp as a slap. Thomas quickly left the classroom, shoving through the crowded halls, heading for the cafeteria. The hockey team's usual table near the window buzzed with Friday energy. Frypan waved half a sub sandwich in greeting. "Thomas! You hear? My place tonight. Parents are in Chicago." He grinned. "Whole team's coming. Even Gally promised not to sulk."

Minho snorted beside him, pushing cafeteria chili around his tray. "He sulked all morning." His gaze drifted across the room. "Hey, look who's eating alone. The Brit transfer." He nudged Thomas. "Newt, right? Vince's chess club star."

Thomas followed Minho's gesture. At a corner table, Newt sat angled away from the crowd. Pale blonde hair fell messily across his forehead, catching the fluorescent cafeteria lights. He was lean, almost wiry, shoulders hunched over a paperback novel propped against a milk carton. He wore an oversized knit sweater, made of wool, maybe, in a faded olive green that swallowed his frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Beneath it, worn corduroy pants ended in scuffed leather boots. The outfit looked deliberate, like armor against the sea of school hoodies and jerseys.

Gally's low snort cut through the chatter. "Fag," he muttered, chin jutting toward Newt. Ben chuckled nervously beside him. Winston rolled his eyes but stayed silent. Minho tensed.

Thomas ignored them all. His gaze locked onto Newt's hands as the boy turned a page, his long fingers tracing faded ink, deliberate and unhurried. There was a quiet precision to him, like watching a chess piece slide into place. Thomas hadn't known anyone who read actual books in the cafeteria. Or wore sweaters that looked like they'd survived a century. Something coiled tight in Thomas's chest. It wasn't curiosity, exactly. It was more recognition. As if he'd glimpsed a reflection in murky water: fractured, familiar, unsettling. He couldn't look away.

“What’s wrong, Tommy?” Gally’s voice sliced through the noise, loud and mocking. He leaned across the sticky tabletop, eyes narrowed. “You like what you see?” Ben snickered again, fist pressed to his mouth. Frypan shifted uncomfortably, taking a bite out of his sub.

Thomas didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed fixed on Newt’s hunched shoulders, watching the way he seemed folded into himself, untouched by the cafeteria chaos. It wasn’t about attraction. Not exactly. It was the stillness. The careful way Newt turned a page, like even paper deserved respect. Thomas felt the word burn in his throat before he spoke it. Safe. That’s what it was. A different kind of escape. Slowly, Thomas raised an eyebrow, his voice flat and low. “Is he gay or something?”

Minho slapped a hand on Thomas’s shoulder, leaning in with a sharp grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes,” he declared, loud enough for half the table to hear. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.” His knuckles whitened where he gripped Thomas’s hoodie sleeve, a silent challenge to the others. Across from them, Winston choked on his milk, coughing into his sleeve. Gally’s face darkened like storm clouds rolling in. He shoved his tray aside, rattling silverware. Minho didn’t blink. “What?” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “He reads, wears nice jumpers. Probably thinks hockey’s barbaric.” He glanced pointedly at Gally’s grease-stained jersey. “Smart guy.”

Thomas barely registered Minho’s bravado. He’s gay. The thought ricocheted in his skull, sharp and sudden. Not judgment—just… weight. Newt existed outside the bluster and bruises of Thomas’s hypermasculine world. Like a chess piece perched on an untouched square. He’ll be at chess club, Thomas realized. Later. Today. His stomach tightened. Chess itself felt alien. It was slow, silent, nothing like the roar of pucks hitting plexiglass. He could picture Vince’s expectant stare, the clack of pieces on a board echoing like dropped pennies.

Humiliating.

Chapter Text

The door to Vince's classroom, propped open with a battered chessboard box, felt heavier than the hockey locker room entrance. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed over makeshift tables where mismatched chess sets stood at attention. Silence pressed thickly against Thomas's eardrums. There were no skates scraping ice, no coach's bark, just the soft clack of wooden pieces shifting on squares. His palms slicked with sweat inside his hoodie pockets. This wasn't his world.

Newt sat at the back table, sunlight catching the gold strands in his messy blonde hair. He was sketching in a leather-bound notebook, pencil moving with soft, deliberate strokes, like Coach Jorge's voice when he told Thomas to fix it. Thomas hesitated, the scent of old paper and dust clogging his throat. Then Newt glanced up, eyes pale blue and startlingly direct. No smirk, no sizing him up, just quiet assessment. "You're Thomas," he said, British accent softening the words, turning them less like a statement, more like a question. "Vince said you'd need a teacher."

Thomas nodded, pulling out the chair across from him, scraping wood against linoleum. "Never played." He gestured at the board between them, pieces carved from dark walnut and pale maple. "Unless you count checkers."

A ghost of a smile touched Newt's lips. "It's not checkers." He nudged the white pawns toward Thomas with a knuckle. "Go on then. First move's always yours." His voice was low, frayed at the edges like worn denim, but steady. Thomas pushed a pawn forward two spaces, mimicking what he'd seen in movies. Newt mirrored him instantly, and the game unfolded like a slow, silent dance. Thomas fumbled knights and bishops, grimacing as Newt captured piece after piece with ruthless efficiency. "You're leaving your king exposed," Newt murmured when Thomas sacrificed his queen in a reckless charge. Three moves later, Newt slid his bishop diagonally. "Checkmate."

Thomas stared at the board, face burning. He braced for mockery, Gally's sneer, Ben's chuckle. But Newt only leaned back, tilting his head. "You play like hockey."

Thomas blinked. "What?"

"All attack, no defense." Newt reset the pieces with gentle taps, his fingers brushing the smooth wood. "You charge the net, in this case the king, without covering your flanks." He slid a knight forward this time, demonstrating. "See? Protect your pieces like they're teammates. Sacrifices should be calculated." Thomas leaned in, studying the board's geometry. The fluorescent buzz faded. He could almost hear Coach Jorge's gravelly voice: Protect the slot, Tommy. Cover the shooter's lane.

Their second game began slower. Thomas mirrored Newt's patience, placing pawns like defensive linesmen blocking shots. He visualized Minho darting down the ice. Protect the carrier. When Newt threatened his rook, Thomas didn't retreat. He countered with a bishop, pinning Newt's knight. "Better," Newt murmured, a flicker of approval warming his eyes. "But you're still telegraphing." He swept Thomas's bishop with a queen's diagonal strike. Thomas cursed under his breath. Yet instead of frustration, a strange thrill sparked. This wasn't humiliation; it was a puzzle. Like cracking a goalie's weak glove side.

Thomas lost again, but the defeat felt softer. Newt hadn't just beaten him, he'd taught him. As Thomas stared at the scattered pieces, he recalled Newt's hands: steady, elegant, nothing like his own bruised knuckles. "You're incredible at this," Thomas blurted, voice rough with awe. "Seriously. It's like... seeing Jorge diagram a power play mid-game." He hesitated, then added, quieter, "Thanks. For not laughing."

Newt's smile unfurled slowly, fond, genuine, crinkling the corners of his pale eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it." He tapped his temple with the head of Thomas's captured bishop. "You've got a quick mind under all that hockey aggression, Tommy." The nickname, usually reserved for Gally's sneers, sounded soft in Newt's accent. Comfortable. Thomas's throat tightened. He'd never heard his name sound like that before: like a promise, not a punchline.

Heat crawled up Thomas's neck as Newt leaned forward to reset the board. Sunlight caught the gold strands of his hair. Thomas stared at the sharp line of Newt's jaw instead of the pieces, then jerked his gaze away to the clock above Vince's desk. 2:50 PM. Ice plunged through his gut. Hockey practice started in ten minutes. Jorge would chew him alive for tardiness, especially after yesterday's loss. He bolted upright, chair screeching.

"Shit! I'm late!" Thomas stammered, already halfway to the door. He glanced back. Newt's brow furrowed, pencil paused mid-sketch. Something in his quiet stillness made Thomas add, "I'll be back Thursday." A pause. "Promise." 

Newt nodded, that faint warmth returning to his eyes. "Don't forget to protect your flanks out there."

⋆˚࿔

Thomas burst into the locker room, the stench of sweat and chlorine hitting him like a physical blow. Minho was already lacing his skates, eyebrows raised as Thomas yanked his hoodie over his head. "Cutting it close, Greenie," Minho smirked, tossing Thomas his jersey. Across the room, Gally leaned against his locker, slowly taping his stick. His eyes tracked Thomas like a hawk circling prey.

"Got held up," Thomas muttered, shoving his legs into padded pants. His fingers trembled slightly, still humming with the quiet intensity of the chessboard, Newt's steady voice echoing in his ears. Protect your flanks.

Minho snorted, elbow-deep in his gear bag. "Extra credit? Or did Vince lecture you about that D-minus?" He pulled out a mangled protein bar wrapper instead of his mouthguard. Thomas hesitated, catching Gally's stare burning into him from three lockers down. Ben snickered, nudging Winston beside him. 

Thomas swallowed hard. "Yeah," he lied, forcing his voice flat. "Just extra credit." The words tasted sour, nothing like Newt's calm honesty.

Gally slammed his locker shut with a metallic clang that echoed off the tiles. "Figures," he drawled, stalking toward Thomas. "Too dumb for hockey and English." He snorted, nostrils flaring. "What'd Vince do? Draw you pictures?" Ben's laugh cut through the humid air, sharp as skates on concrete. Thomas clenched his jaw, focusing on the familiar weight of his shoulder pads. He stayed silent, tightening the straps until they dug into his collarbone.

⋆˚࿔

On the ice, Coach Jorge's whistle pierced the chatter. "Scrimmage! O-line versus D!" Thomas dug his blades in, the cold biting through his sweat-soaked gear. Minho passed him the puck, a crisp, hard slap that Thomas caught mid-stride. He wove between cones, Gally's shadow looming. Thomas feinted left, then sliced right. Just as he angled for the shot, Gally's stick hooked his ankle. Thomas crashed onto the ice, breath knocked out in a white puff. 

Jorge blew the whistle. "Enough!" he barked, skating over. Gally smirked, tapping his stick against the boards. Thomas scrambled up, ribs throbbing. Minho shot Gally a murderous glare. 

"Accident," Gally shrugged, skating away. Jorge's eyes narrowed, but he waved them on. 

⋆˚࿔

After practice, Thomas lingered by Jorge's rusted pickup truck. Thomas didn't have a car of his own. When Coach heard that, he offered to start driving him. 

Jorge tossed Thomas's duffel into the bed. "Hop in." The engine rattled like loose teeth. He drove in silence for blocks, streetlights painting stripes over his weathered face. "Kid," he finally said, voice low. "Gally's a storm cloud looking for lightning. Don't be his rod." 

Thomas stared at his bruised knuckles. "He hates me." 

Jorge snorted. "He hates losing. You score goals, it makes him feel small." He gripped the wheel tighter. "You lead by heart, that scares him too." He paused at Thomas's street corner. "Be patient. Storms pass."

Thomas nodded stiffly. Jorge's calm certainty should've anchored him. Instead, dread coiled hot in Thomas's stomach as he got out of the pickup, watching it drive away.

Rain slicked the cracked sidewalk leading to his house. It was a squat, peeling structure with blinds drawn tight like closed eyes. Inside, the air hung thick with reheated casserole and something sharper... bleach, maybe. His mother stood silhouetted in the kitchen archway, arms crossed. 

Her stillness was worse than shouting.

"Why," His mother's voice sliced through the silence, "did Coach Jorge call me?" She didn't move. Didn't blink. Her polished nails tapped once against her elbow. "He said he was proud of you. For 'fixing' your English grade." The word 'fixing' dripped with venom. Thomas froze mid-step, duffel strap digging into his shoulder. His mind raced with chess pieces, Newt's steady gaze, Jorge's gravelly advice, it all crumbling under her ice-chip stare. "You failed." Her voice dropped low. Dangerous. "Months of lying. What did you do?"

Thomas swallowed bile. "Mr. Vince let me rewrite assignments if—"

"—if you what?" Her polished heel clicked forward as Janson materialized from the hallway shadows. Thomas flinched instinctively. His father's breath reeked of whiskey and stale resentment. "You think failing English doesn't reflect on us?" Janson's hand shot out—fingers digging into Thomas's jaw. "We don't raise fools."

Thomas couldn't breathe. He smelled the chemical burn of Janson's aftershave as his head slammed sideways into the wall. Pain exploded behind his temple. He tasted blood where his teeth cut into his cheek, his head stinging. His mother watched impassively, arms still folded. Thomas slid to the floor, vision blurring. He curled inward, shielding his ribs.

Janson leaned down, his voice a venomous whisper. "Get up." Thomas struggled to his feet, streaks of plaster dust clinging to his hair. "You think hockey matters?" Janson snarled, grabbing Thomas's jersey collar. "You're nothing but a stupid boy wasting time on games while your grades rot." Thomas flinched as Janson shoved him backward toward the stairs. "Go to your room. No food tonight. Think about what you've done." His mother turned away, heels clicking toward the kitchen sink.

Thomas stumbled upstairs, locking his bedroom door behind him. The bruise bloomed beneath his left eye, throbbing in time with his pulse. He spat blood into the sink, rinsing until the coppery taste faded. Outside, twilight painted the sky bruised violet. Distant sounds of Frypan's text messages jingled, begging Thomas to come to his party. Thomas pressed gauze the inside of his mouth, wincing.

Grounded. Locked in.

His parents wouldn't check on him for the rest of the night.

Thomas's window latch slid open silently, hinges oiled from years of escapes. He slipped onto the roof, the cold air sharpening the sting on his cheek. He lowered himself onto the damp grass. His battered bike waited, hidden behind their rotting shed. 

⋆˚࿔

Wind bit at Thomas's face as he sped through the quiet streets. Frypan's house pulsed with bass, spilling yellow light onto the lawn, where Thomas parked his bike.

Once inside, Minho spotted him first, holding out a red solo cup filled with cheap beer. "Rough practice?" Minho asked softly, eyes lingering on Thomas's bruise. Winston nodded from beside him, offering Thomas a grimace of sympathy. Neither pressed further. They knew. Thomas swallowed half the cup in one gulp.

Alcohol burned through Thomas's veins, blurring the sharp edges of pain. As Frypan cranked up the music, Thomas drifted through crowded rooms. Two girls cornered him near the stairs. Teresa, from chemistry, and Brenda, a senior he barely knew. They leaned close, laughing at jokes Thomas didn't hear. Teresa brushed his arm, her smile inviting. Thomas gave polite nods, but his gaze kept darting toward the kitchen, where the booze waited for him. Teresa sighed, exchanging a look with Brenda. "Captain Clueless," Brenda teased lightly before slipping away. 

Relief flooded Thomas. He took several pulls of vodka in the kitchen.

Thomas stumbled onto the porch, craving cold air. There, silhouetted against the streetlight haze, stood Newt. He leaned against the railing, swirling amber liquid in a glass. Thomas's chest tightened. "Newt!" The name came out louder than intended, slurred.

Newt turned, a faint smile touching his lips. "Tommy," he replied softly, British accent smoothing the name. His eyes flickered to the bruise spreading beneath Thomas's eye. "Looks worse than hockey."

Thomas shrugged, leaning heavily against the porch railing. "Practice got rough," he mumbled, swallowing another gulp of beer. The lie tasted sour, but the alcohol numbed the sting.

Newt's gaze sharpened, cutting through Thomas's haze. "Funny," he said dryly, swirling his drink. "Heard Gally's been riding you hard all season."

Thomas blinked, taken aback. This wasn't locker room gossip. How did Newt know? "Who told—?"

"Whisper network," Newt interrupted, tone matter-of-fact. "It's what happens when your star scorer gets benched over English essays." He paused, studying Thomas's bruised knuckles gripping the cup. "Why's he hate you so much? Besides the obvious."

Thomas's throat tightened. Beer sloshed over his fingers as he gestured vaguely. "Captaincy," he blurted, the word thick and clumsy. "Thinks it should've been him 'cause he's senior. Thinks I'm... nothing." The pent-up frustration began to bubble— Gally's sneers, Minho's pity, the wall crashing into his skull. "Like I chose this! Like I don't... don't bleed for this team!" His voice cracked, raw.

Newt watched him steadily, the porch light catching the concern in his eyes. "Whisper network also says you're a damn good leader, Tommy." The warmth in those words seeped through Thomas's drunken haze, loosening the knot in his chest. He almost smiled, until a harsh laugh sliced through the music behind them.

"Look at this cozy scene," Gally slurred from the doorway, beer sloshing over his fingers. His eyes narrowed at Newt, then Thomas. "Captain Crybaby found his little fag friend to whine to?" The word hung in the air like acid smoke.

Thomas's vision tunneled. Every punch he'd swallowed, every insult he'd choked down, erupted in a white-hot roar. Protect him. "Shut your goddamn mouth!" He lunged before thought caught up, fist connecting with Gally's nose in a sickening crunch.

Blood sprayed. Gally staggered back with a choked gasp, clutching his face. "You little—!" He swung wildly, catching Thomas hard below the ribs. Air exploded from Thomas's lungs. Pain bloomed, sharp and suffocating, but Thomas drove forward again. They crashed into a cluster of plastic chairs, scattering cups and splattering beer. 

Minho's shout cut through the bass. "Get off him!" He screamed as he tried wedging between them.

Gally shoved Minho aside, eyes blazing through the blood streaming down his chin. "Defending your boyfriend now?" he spat, swinging at Thomas. Thomas ducked, knuckles burning as he landed another blow to Gally's gut. His hand screamed, but the roar in his ears drowned it out. Someone grabbed Thomas's jersey collar, Frypan, dragging him backward. 

Minho had Gally pinned against the wall, forearm against his throat. "Enough!" Minho snarled. 

Gally glared past him, teeth crimson. "Freak," he hissed, aimed at Newt standing frozen near the railing.

Frypan shoved Thomas toward Newt, voice sharp over the panicked crowd. "Get him out of here, now." Newt nodded, gripping Thomas's elbow as Thomas swayed, ribs throbbing. They stumbled past staring faces, down the porch steps, into the lawn. Thomas's knuckles pulsed violet-black, already swelling.

Newt's car unlocked, the headlights flaring like a beacon guiding Thomas through the dark.

Inside Newt's beat-up sedan, the engine coughed to life. "Where to?" Newt asked quietly, eyes scanning Thomas's battered face. 

Thomas slumped against the passenger window, breath hitching. "Can't go home," he slurred, tasting blood again. "Parents... they'll kill me." Literally.

Newt drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Right. Showing up drunk and bloody at mine won't fly either. Mum'd have questions." He paused, brow furrowed. "Alby's got his own place. Graduated last year. He won't mind." Thomas nodded vaguely as Newt pulled away from the curb.

The streets blurred past, dim streetlights smearing into streaks like wet paint. Thomas pressed his forehead against the cool glass, trying to focus. Each bump sent jolts through his bruised ribs. The silence stretched, thick with the metallic scent of blood from Thomas's split knuckles. 

Then, softly, Newt spoke. "Thanks. For... that back there." His voice was low, rough around the edges. "Never had someone swing a fist over me before. Bit mad, really." He glanced sideways, his expression unreadable in the dashboard glow. "But Tommy... don't do that again. Gally's a shithead, yeah? But violence just... feeds it. Makes you both smaller." Thomas swallowed hard, staring at his swollen fist. The anger felt distant now, replaced by a hollow ache. Newt was right; he hadn't protected anything.

He'd just made it worse.

Chapter Text

Alby's apartment complex loomed. It was a plain brick building with peeling blue trim. Newt guided Thomas through the lobby, his arm a steady pressure. Thomas stumbled on the stairs, catching himself against the wall. "Careful," Newt murmured, tightening his grip. Thomas flinched, not from pain, but from how gentle it felt. Nobody touched him like that, unless they wanted him bruised.

Alby opened the door before they knocked, eyes widening at the sight. "Hell, Newt? What's—?" His gaze landed on Thomas's battered face, the dried blood crusting his knuckles. He didn't finish the question.

Newt nudged Thomas inside. "Long night. Gally got bored."

The apartment smelled faintly of stale coffee and old laundry. Soft guitar music drifted from unseen speakers. Thomas swayed, ribs screaming as Newt guided him toward a worn couch.

"Hands?" Alby asked, already moving toward a bathroom cabinet.

"And stomach," Newt said quietly. "Got him good below the ribs."

Alby returned with antiseptic and gauze, glancing at the jersey Thomas wore, kneeling before him. "Still playing hockey?" he asked, dabbing at the split skin on his knuckles. Thomas hissed.

"Captain," Newt supplied. Alby's eyes snapped up, recognition flaring.

"Shit—you're Thomas Paige? Saw you play last season against Ridgewood. You scored that overtime goal off a rebound." He shook his head, almost smiling. "Kid's got hands." The praise eased something tight in Thomas's chest. He stayed silent as Alby cleaned the wounds, fingers steady and precise.

Alby taped gauze over Thomas's knuckles, then reached for the hem of his sweat-soaked hockey jersey. "Okay, lift up," he ordered, already tugging the fabric.

Thomas flinched, jerking backward against the couch cushions. "No—it's fine. Just... bruises. Nothing serious." Panic tightened his throat, sharpening the alcohol haze. Images flashed of his father's belt buckle gleaming in lamplight.

Alby paused, his eyes narrowing with concern, not suspicion, but the steady focus of someone used to seeing wounds hidden under bravado. "Bruises swell," he said quietly. "And if ribs are cracked, booze won't fix it." His grip remained firm on the jersey hem. "Been patching up dumbasses since seventh grade. Lift up."

Thomas hesitated, the sour tang of panic rising in his throat. But Alby's gaze held no cruelty, only weary practicality, so Thomas slowly raised his arms, wincing as the fabric peeled away from his skin. Cold air hit his torso like a slap. Fresh purple splotches bloomed starkly beneath his ribs where Gally's fist had landed, but Alby's sharp intake of breath wasn't for those. His eyes traced the roadmap of older scars across Thomas's abdomen and back, thin white lines, faded yellows, the faint imprint of a belt buckle shadowing one hip bone. Thomas froze, muscles coiled tight.

Alby's fingers hovered over a thick, puckered ridge near Thomas's ribs. "Been collecting those long?" he murmured, voice low enough not to carry. Thomas shook his head violently, gaze darting toward the kitchen doorway where Newt clattered cups. Don't see. Please don't see.

"Fell," Thomas choked out. "Skate sharpening accident."

Alby's eyes narrowed with calculating, quiet intensity, but he didn't press. Instead, he gently palpated Thomas's bruised ribs. "Nothing cracked. Cold shower'll help the inflammation." His tone shifted back to brisk practicality. "Twenty minutes. Cold as you can stand. Then get dry." Relief washed over Thomas like a tide.

⋆˚࿔

Under the frigid spray, Thomas gasped as water needled his skin, sobering him enough to notice every ache, the throbbing knuckles, the stiffness in his neck from his father's shove, and Gally's venom echoing: Freak. His hands trembled. The bruises on his chest bloomed dark against pale skin. Older ones, such as the thin silvery lines where Janson's belt had bitten, stood stark under fluorescent light. He closed his eyes.

Thomas emerged shivering from the bathroom, borrowed sweatpants worn loosely on his legs, goosebumps prickling on his bare chest. The apartment's warmth prickled his damp skin, his hair wet and messy.

Newt had laid out an inflatable mattress beside the worn couch, its surface draped thickly with blankets. Steam curled from a chipped mug on the coffee table. Chamomile, Thomas guessed, smelling its honey-sweet tinge.

"You look like a drowned cat in winter," Newt murmured, tossing him a soft bundle. Thomas caught it clumsily. In his hands, a dark gray wool sweater, still warm from Newt's body heat. He slid it over his head, the fabric instantly soothing against his damp skin, smelling faintly of pine needles and something earthy Newt must wear. The thick knit muffled his trembling.

"Here." Newt pressed two white pills into his palm. "Paracetamol. Won't fix stupid, but it'll dull the ache." Thomas swallowed them dry before taking the steaming mug from the table. The chamomile tea scalded his tongue, sweetened heavily with honey, too sweet, really, but the warmth bloomed deep in his chest, loosening the knots in his shoulders. He sank onto the couch cushions, exhaustion hitting him like a sack of stones. The adrenaline seeped away, leaving his limbs leaden. The wool scratch against his cheek felt like heaven.

Thomas stared into the murky amber liquid. "Newt?" His voice cracked, raw-edged from shouting and swallowed rage. Newt paused midway through fluffing the pillow beside him. "I... thanks. For—" He gestured vaguely at the tea and the sweater, his bruised knuckles tightening around the mug. "Nobody's... done this before." The confession scraped out, jagged and quiet. Not patched me up. Not covered my shaking. Not looked at me like I wasn't broken glass. His throat closed. The tea's steam blurred in his vision.

Newt sank onto the inflatable mattress, elbows resting on his knees. "Don't thank me," he murmured, gaze fixed on the worn rug beneath their feet. "This isn't charity. It's..." He trailed off, jaw tightening. "You threw punches for me tonight. Didn't have to. Nobody has." He glanced up, eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. "But Tommy—you're bloody terrifying when you go off like that. Like watching a bomb detonate."

Thomas flinched. The wool sweater suddenly felt suffocating. He ducked his head, tracing a chip on the mug's rim. "Gally deserved it. What he called you—"

"Doesn't matter." Newt's voice sliced through, cold and sharp as shattered glass. "Slurs are ugly noise. Doesn't mean you trade your soul to silence them." He rubbed his temples, weary shadows deepening under his eyes. "You won your captaincy on skill, Tom. Not brutality. Don't let assholes like Gally drag you down into the filth."

Thomas's knuckles throbbed beneath the gauze; it was a visceral reminder. Newt was wrong. Sometimes brutality was the only language people like Gally understood. But the conviction withered beneath Newt's steady, exhausted gaze. Defending Newt felt essential; wrecking himself felt reckless. The contradiction lodged like a stone in his throat.

Thomas set the tea down blindly. The mug wobbled, thudding softly on the wood. The alcohol lulled on his eyelids. The scent of honey faded as exhaustion crashed over him, a thick, black wave pulling him under. He slumped sideways into the cushions, limbs heavy as wet sand. The wool sweater scratched gently against his jaw. Through slitted eyes, he saw Newt reach over, pulling the blanket up to Thomas's shoulders with careful fingers. The weight settled like an anchor. Thomas mumbled something, drowned, meaningless syllables, as sleep clamped down. The apartment lights blurred into warm halos. The dull ache in his ribs softened to a distant hum. He floated, untethered, drifting deeper.

⋆˚࿔

Thomas's breaths evened softly, a slow rhythm beneath the wool folds. Newt remained seated on the edge of the inflatable mattress, elbows resting on his knees. He watched Thomas's slack features, shadows pooling in the hollows beneath his bruised cheekbone. The raw knuckles resting limp on the blanket knotted Newt's stomach.

Alby leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. His gaze slid from Thomas's sleeping form to Newt's tense shoulders. "That's Thomas Paige?" Alby kept his voice low, gravelly with disbelief. "Hypermasculine poster boy? Captain of the hockey team?" He shook his head slowly. "Looks like someone kicked a stray pup."

Newt didn't turn. His fingers tightened around his own mug of tea. "He's not what you think."

Alby shifted forward, lowering his voice further. "I saw scars older than the bruises, Newt. That kind of damage doesn't come from hockey." He gestured at Thomas's motionless form. "You brought him here. Why? You don't owe him anything."

Newt inhaled sharply. Outside, rain drummed against the window. "He defended me tonight," he whispered. "Against Gally."

"So?" Alby pressed, stepping closer. His tone wasn't unkind, but probing, like peeling back layers. "Lots of jocks throw fists. Doesn't make them saints."

Newt finally looked up, eyes flashing. "He didn't just throw fists. He tore into Gally after Gally called me a—" His voice hitched, the unspoken slur hanging sharp in the air. Rain lashed the windowpane, casting watery shadows across the room. "He was drunk, terrified, covered in bruises from God-knows-where, and he still planted himself between me and that asshole." He glanced at Thomas's sleeping face, the tension easing from his own shoulders. "He's... different."

"Different?" Alby's voice dropped to a skeptical murmur. He moved silently into the living room, sinking onto the armchair opposite the couch. "He exists entirely at the other end of the spectrum from you. Hypermasculine hockey captain, roughneck, walking cliche. You're the boy who thinks three moves ahead on a chessboard and reads poetry for fun." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, gaze piercing. "Don't confuse gratitude for... well, for the dangerous kind of attachment."

Newt stared at Thomas's slack face, illuminated by the amber glow of a cheap lamp. The wool sweater swallowed Thomas's frame, making him look younger, softer, vulnerable in a way the hockey rink never showed.

⋆˚࿔

Thomas blinked awake to a symphony of pain, his skull throbbing, knuckles screaming, ribs aching with every shallow breath. The unfamiliar ceiling swam into focus, stained with watermarks like abstract ghosts. Panic seized him—where?—until memory crashed back: the fight, Gally's sneer, Newt's quiet hands, the honey-bitter tea. He pushed himself up, wincing as his bruised stomach protested. The wool sweater still smelled faintly of Newt, wool, and chamomile. Sunlight sliced through half-drawn blinds, dust motes dancing in the beams. Outside, birds chirped obliviously. My parents... The thought was ice down his spine. They'd be furious. Waiting. He wasn't planning on being gone this long.

Alby was gone, only a scribbled note on the coffee table: Lock up. Help yourself to toast. Newt was deflating the mattress, sparing Thomas a glance. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy. Thomas shuffled to the kitchen, gulping tap water straight from the faucet, trying to wash the sour taste of hangover and dread from his mouth. The bruise on his cheek pulsed purple in the reflection of the microwave door. He couldn't go home. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The realization was a stone in his gut.

He looked to Newt, voice rasping. "Need a lift back to Fry's. Left my bike." Newt nodded, walking them both to his car, eyes wary but quiet. They didn't speak during the short drive, only the rumble of Newt's battered Volvo and the drumming of Thomas's pulse in his ears. Outside Frypan's house, Thomas mumbled thanks, not meeting Newt's gaze.

As Newt drove away, Thomas straddled his bike. Home loomed in his mind: his mother's icy interrogation, Janson's fists. He pedaled hard, not toward home, but toward the manicured lawns of Crestwood Heights. Toward Gally's. 

Thomas had to make things right with him before practice on Monday.

Gally's massive Tudor-style house always felt like a fortress. Thomas cycled around back where the pool glimmered, turquoise and sterile under the morning sun. Behind it stood the Man Cave, a converted garage turned bachelor pad, complete with a neon beer sign flickering behind foggy windows even at this hour. Inside, stale pizza and sweat thickened the air. Winston, Ben, and Minho were glued to a bloody shooter game shouting curses at the giant screen while Gally poured whiskey into Coke cans at the bar. Thomas's entrance halted the game.

Gally slammed his glass down. "The fuck are you doing here?" He didn't turn, but the anger hung like smoke. Thomas's knuckles throbbed under their bandages, bruises from last night's punch mirrored on Gally's jawline.

Thomas swallowed dryly. "Had something to say." He stepped deeper into the haze of cheap pizza grease and electronic gunfire drifting from the couch.

Minho's thumbs hovered over his controller, eyes flicking between them. Winston muttered, "Dude, pause it."

Thomas ignored the game, his gaze locked on Gally's stiff shoulders. "I'm sorry," he started, voice scraping raw. "For punching you. That wasn't—"

Gally whirled, eyes blazing. "Sorry?" He barked a bitter laugh that echoed off the stained pool-table felt. "You show up here reeking of Newt's charity sweater, looking like roadkill, and think 'sorry' cuts it?" His knuckles whitened around the whiskey bottle. Shadows deepened the purple bruise Thomas had left on Gally's jaw, a twisted mirror to Thomas's own battered cheek. The scent of spilled beer and frustration thickened between them.

Thomas flinched but held his ground. He gestured vaguely at his own bruised face, the movement stiff with pain. "Wasn't in my right head, Gally. Last night... my parents..." He trailed off, throat tightening. He couldn't say it, not with Minho listening intently, Winston frozen mid-raid, Ben's eyes wide. Humiliation burned hotter than the hangover.

Gally's glare faltered. His gaze lingered on Thomas's swollen cheekbone, the purple-black bloom stark against pale skin. The fist around the whiskey bottle relaxed a fraction. For a heartbeat, Thomas saw it: The flicker of the old friend who'd smuggled him into this very Man Cave after his father's drunken rages years ago. Back when Gally wasn't simmering with envy over the captain's 'C' on Thomas's jersey.

Minho snapped the game off. The sudden silence amplified the hum of the refrigerator. "Listen to him, Gally," Minho urged, low and steady. Ben shifted uneasily on the couch. Winston stared at his sneakers.

Gally sighed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw where Thomas's knuckles had landed. "You look like shit, Paige." Frustration still coiled in his voice, but beneath the anger, Thomas caught the ghost of concern, the shared memory of younger nights hiding Thomas here when his father's temper flared. Gally's eyes dropped to Thomas's trembling hands. "Where'd you sleep last night?"

Thomas hesitated, shame tightening his throat. "Newt's friend's place." The admission scraped raw. He watched Gally's shoulders stiffen again at the name. Silence stretched, thick with decades of friendship unraveled by envy. The neon beer sign buzzed overhead, casting shadows across discarded pizza boxes. Minho shifted, sensing the storm brewing.

Gally's jaw worked. He poured another shot, amber liquid sloshing dangerously. "You gonna go running back to him? To your knight in shining sweater?" He didn't look up, knuckles white on the glass. The scent of whiskey burned Thomas's nostrils, mingling with stale regret. Across the room, Ben coughed uncomfortably. Winston chewed his lip, eyes darting between them.

Thomas shook his head, the movement sharp. "He drove me to Fry's. That's it." The lie tasted bitter. He remembered Newt's nurturing stare, the warmth of the borrowed sweater still clinging to his skin. But Gally's anger was a familiar minefield. One wrong step and everything exploded.

Gally snorted. "Right." He slammed the shot glass down. Splinters of amber sprayed onto the polished oak bar. Silence stretched like barbed wire. Then, abruptly, Gally's shoulders slumped. "Your old man?" he asked gruffly, eyes darting toward Thomas's bruised cheekbone.

Thomas stiffened. He nodded once, sharp. No details. He couldn't bear them staring. Humiliation pooled cold in his gut.

Gally's knuckles relaxed. His gaze lingered on Thomas's face, on the purple-black bruise blooming under his eye, and the raw scrape along his jaw. A muscle twitched in his own cheek, mirroring Thomas's pain. He exhaled sharply, the sound grating in the sudden quiet. "Shit." He ran a hand through his messy hair. "Fine. Whatever happened—it's messed up." His voice lost its edge, replaced by something weary, almost resigned. He shoved the whiskey bottle away like it offended him. "Look. You need a place? Or you gonna crawl back to that..." He trailed off, jaw tightening again. The unspoken name hung heavy: Newt.

Thomas's throat closed. The thought of returning to the Paige house, his mother's icy scrutiny, his father's looming shadow, it all twisted his stomach. The cold certainty settled: home wasn't an option. He swallowed hard, tasting bile. "Can't go back home," he mumbled, eyes fixed on a stain on the carpet. The admission scraped him raw. Vulnerability wasn't something he wore well, especially not in front of Gally. He braced for mockery.

Gally stared at him, the neon Budweiser sign flickering green across his face. For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the mini-fridge. Thomas remembered endless sleepovers here, the middle school weekends spent gaming, Gally smuggling extra blankets while his parents pretended not to notice. Back when trust wasn't fractured by a captain's armband. Gally's expression shifted: annoyance warring with reluctant recognition. He jerked his chin toward a battered door beside the pool table. "Couch in the back room's yours," he grunted, the words clipped. "Got blankets somewhere."

Thomas's shoulders slumped in relief.

Chapter Text

The next morning, sunlight sliced through the blinds, painting stripes on Thomas's aching face. He found the Man Cave empty except for Gally, hunched over the bar nursing black coffee. Gally slid him a steaming mug without looking up. 

"I've gotta go get some stuff today," Thomas muttered. "School bag, clothes, and especially my hockey duffel. Coach'll have my ass if I show up Monday without gear." Thomas gripped the mug, warmth seeping into his bruised knuckles. 

Gally nodded curtly, tapping the bar counter with a restless rhythm. His eyes flickered to Thomas's split lip. "I'll drive you. Not wasting gas watching you freeze on that rust-bucket bike."

Thomas blinked, unsure he'd heard right. Gally offering a ride? The change sat wrong in Thomas's chest, like a puzzle piece jammed where it didn't belong. He studied Gally's profile, his jaw tight, brows drawn, pretending this was nothing. Thomas tried to swallow the sudden rush of confusion.

"One more thing." Gally pushed off his stool, disappearing behind the glittering bottles lining the bar shelves. Thomas heard the muffled scrape of metal against wood. When Gally straightened, he held a matte-black pistol, its grip worn smooth. He thumbed the magazine release, checked it with practiced efficiency, then slammed it home with a sharp click. The sound echoed like a slammed door.

Thomas froze, coffee halfway to his lips. "What the hell, Gally? Why do you need that?"

Gally slid the pistol into his jacket's inner pocket with unnerving calm. "Feel safer," he shrugged, gaze steady on Thomas's paling face. "Knowing I can put a hole in your fuck-face dad if he tries dragging you back into that shithole today." There was no anger now, just cold certainty. Thomas tasted bile. He swallowed.

Is it the hatred that's fueling him?

Outside, frost clung to the chrome finish of Gally's rust-red Firebird convertible. Thomas slid into the faded leather passenger seat, the vinyl groaning against his stiff movements. Gally flipped the glove box open, tucked the gun inside, and slammed it shut. The metallic thump settled like lead in Thomas's gut.

The engine roared to life, sputtering smoke into the frigid air. Thomas stared at his hands, tracing the scabs on his knuckles. The silence between them felt brittle, charged with every punch thrown at Frypan's party and every bruise Thomas still hid. Gally drove with sharp-jerky movements, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He didn't speak, didn't glance over. Just drummed his fingers against the wheel as they passed familiar streets. Thomas smelled stale fries and gasoline mixing with his own sour adrenaline sweat.

They pulled into the Paige driveway too quickly, gravel crunching beneath the tires like breaking bones. Thomas's chest tightened. The house loomed unnervingly still, curtains drawn, porch light shattered. Gally cut the engine. The sudden quiet was suffocating. 

"Go," Gally muttered, gaze fixed ahead. "Fast."

Thomas shoved the car door open, icy air biting his bruises. For a moment he just stood there, breath fogging, staring at the house that gave him nightmares every night. Every step up the walkway felt heavier, the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. By the time he reached the front door, his fingers were already trembling. He fumbled with his key, metal scraping in the quiet like a blade being sharpened.

The door creaked open and the familiar stench hit him in a wave: stale whiskey soaked into the carpet, disinfectant failing miserably to mask it. Then came the low, uneven rumble of his father's snoring. His father was sprawled across the couch, an empty bottle dangling from slack fingers, chest rising in rough, drunken hitches.

Keeping close to the wall, Thomas crept down the hallway, each footstep a prayer. His bedroom door gave its usual soft groan, but tonight it roared in his ears. He packed fast, jeans, hoodies, underwear stuffed into his hockey duffel, the zipper tearing through the silence. His school backpack swallowed notebooks and textbooks in quick, frantic scoops. Almost there. Almost out. He slung both bags over his shoulders, lungs tight, heart clawing at his ribs.

One step into the hallway. Two.

Then—clang.

His sneaker knocked an empty beer can hidden near the door. It rattled and rolled, bouncing off the walls like a dropped grenade.

His father's snoring cut off instantly.

A shift of weight. Couch springs groaning in the dark.

Then his father's voice, slurred, sharp, and far too awake:

"Boy?"

Thomas bolted. The duffel strap carved into his shoulder, his backpack slamming against his spine with every frantic stride. He crashed through the front door so hard it ricocheted off the wall. Cold air knifed into his lungs, too sharp and too fast. For a split second the world narrowed into a blur of frozen grass and sunlight.

Behind him—

Footsteps. Heavy. Furious.

Getting closer.

Too close.

Thomas' feet hit the frost-crusted lawn and skidded, his shoes scraping for traction. His breath came in high, ragged gasps; his pulse roared in his ears like a siren. He didn't dare look back.

His father slammed into him from behind.

Thomas hit the ground hard, the cold earth knocking the breath out of him in a violent rush. His vision sparked white.

Rough hands seized Thomas and flipped him onto his back before he could even inhale. The world lurched. Then his father's face loomed over him, whiskey breath hitting him like a punch, sour and suffocating.

"Think you can run?" Janson snarled, eyes bloodshot and wild.

His thumbs drove into Thomas's throat.

Pressure. A brutal, crushing burn.

Thomas's body reacted before his mind did, legs kicking uselessly, fingers clawing at his father's wrists hard enough to draw blood. His nails scraped skin, caught, slipped. Nothing loosened the grip.

His pulse hammered against the block in his throat, trapped. Spots burst across his vision like exploding stars. His chest heaved but no air came, just a thin, wheezing whimper swallowed instantly by his father's hands.

The duffel beneath his spine dug into him, pinning him, trapping him, making it impossible to twist away.

I can't breathe.

A metallic clunk cut through the wheezing choke. Thomas blinked, tear-blurred. Gally stood ten feet away, feet planted wide, both hands wrapped around the pistol, barrel leveled at Janson's temple. His voice sliced the freezing air, louder than Thomas had ever heard him yell: "Get off him! Now!"

Janson froze. His grip loosened, thumbs slackening against Thomas's windpipe. Slowly, slowly, he lifted his head. His bloodshot eyes locked onto the gun, widening in genuine terror. The raw, primal fear on his father's face struck Thomas harder than any punch. Janson shoved himself backward off Thomas, scrambling crablike over the frost-scorched grass.

Thomas rolled onto his side, gasping, each ragged inhale scraping his aching throat like sandpaper. He coughed, spitting bile onto the frosted blades beneath him. His vision swam, the world tilting sideways. Through the haze, he saw Gally's silhouette, unnaturally still. The pistol didn't waver, its muzzle fixed steady on Janson's chest. Gally's knuckles gleamed bone-white against the matte-black grip.

His father scrambled backward, palms scraping raw on the gravel-strewn lawn. "You crazy son of a—" he rasped, voice thick with whiskey and fear.

"Shut it!" Gally barked, the pistol unwavering. His eyes never left Janson's as he sidestepped toward Thomas. Frost crunched under his boots, deliberate, measured steps. "Thomas," Gally growled without looking down. "Grab your shit." 

The command sliced through Thomas's panic. He gulped frigid air, pushing himself up on trembling arms. His backpack lay tangled nearby; he clawed it free, the strap biting into his bruised shoulder. Gally kicked Thomas's hockey duffel toward him with a sharp nudge of his boot.

Thomas scrambled for the duffel, fingers numb. He risked one glance at his father, crouched like a cornered animal, eyes locked on the pistol's black eye. The raw terror there felt foreign, unnerving. Janson Paige, who'd made kitchens and hallways feel like chokeholds, reduced to trembling silence by the boy Thomas once taught to skate.

"Move!" Gally snapped, jerking his head toward the Firebird. Thomas lurched forward, duffel banging against his thigh, backpack straps biting his collarbones. Every frantic step crunched frost. Behind them, his father didn't dare rise; he just watched, hunched and frozen.

Gally backed toward the car pistol-first, keeping Janson pinned with that unblinking stare. Only when Thomas fumbled the passenger door open did Gally whirl, slide behind the wheel, and slam his door shut. He tossed the handgun onto Thomas's lap before wrenching the ignition. The engine roared, drowning out Thomas's ragged gasps.

Thomas clutched the gun like it would ignite, fingers trembling. He shoved it back into the glovebox. His throat burned where his father had throttled him; each swallow ached. Frost-glazed lawns blurred as Gally peeled out, tires spitting gravel. Silence coiled thick and suffocating between them, broken only by Thomas's shuddering breaths.

Gally drove grim-faced, knuckles tight on the wheel. Five blocks passed beneath the Firebird's roaring engine before Thomas rasped, "You pointed a gun at him." The words scraped raw. "What if he hadn't stopped?"

"Then he'd have a breathing problem," Gally shot back, eyes fixed on the road. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Shut up about it."

Gally drove like the devil chased them, knuckles locked white on the wheel. Ten minutes passed in silence thicker than the frost-layered streets. Finally, Gally cut the engine in Frypan's driveway. "Stay here," Gally ordered, voice rough. He scooped Thomas's hockey bag from the backseat, shouldered it, and stalked toward Fry's door. Thomas watched him pound twice, hard.

Frypan emerged, hair wild, clutching a spatula. Their voices were low murmurs swallowed by the wind: Dad trouble. Needs gear washed. Tell Minho. Frypan's eyes widened, flicking toward the Firebird. 

Thomas slumped lower to avoid Frypan's gaze. 

When Gally returned, he tossed Thomas a grease-stained paper bag, still warm. "Fry's leftover bacon." The scent curled into the cold air. Thomas didn't move. Gally jammed the key back in the ignition. "Eat it," he snapped. The engine snarled back to life.

Why is he doing this?

The Firebird lurched down backroads Thomas didn't recognize, away from town. They pulled into an abandoned quarry lot overlooking skeletal birches clawing a leaden sky. Gravel crunched as Gally killed the engine. Silence roared. Thomas clutched the greasy bag until the paper softened under his fingers. He peeled it open. The bacon was lukewarm, salty-fat coating his tongue. He chewed mechanically, staring at the dashboard's cracked plastic. 

Gally hadn't touched his own food. He leaned back, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror like he expected Janson's truck to barrel in. His jaw worked, tendons standing out. 

Thomas swallowed past the raw ache in his throat. "Why here?" he rasped.

Gally's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Because if your dad calls the cops, this is the last place they'll look." He shot Thomas a sideways glance. It was sharp, assessing. "You gonna puke?"

Thomas shook his head, the motion making his throat pulse. The bacon sat like lead in his stomach. Silence stretched between them. Gally's fingers drummed against the gearshift, a restless, staccato rhythm. 

"He won't call," Thomas finally muttered. "Too proud. Cops mean questions." He traced a crack in the dashboard vinyl. "He'll come for me instead."

"Let him try." Gally's voice was low, dangerous. He shifted in his seat, angling to face Thomas fully. The harsh morning light carved shadows under his cheekbones. "Listen up. You stay at mine. You don't wander. You don't bike anywhere alone. If that bastard shows his face near the rink, school, or my place? You tell me." His gaze locked onto Thomas's, stripping away any protest. "Not Fry. Not Minho. Me. Understand?" 

And there it was. There was that glint in Gally's eyes, that hunger for power breaking through the surface. Thomas had always known Gally to be protective, loyal, willing to do whatever it took for the group. But beneath it all, Gally's deepest need was always the same: to be the one in control.

Control. It's always been control.

It was the reason Gally started resenting Thomas in the first place.

Thomas nodded, averting his gaze. Gally's instructions were a lifeline thrown into churning water. They were strict, uncompromising, yet somehow anchoring. He tore another strip of bacon. The grease tasted faintly of smoke and desperation.

⋆˚࿔

Back at Gally's place, Thomas retreated to the Man Cave. The air smelled of stale pizza and damp concrete, a stark contrast to the quarry's biting wind. Alone, he sank onto the worn couch. Thoughts of his father and Gally's gun swirled his brain. He traced along his neck, fingers trembling. He would've killed me. The certainty hit him like a puck to the ribs.

Outside, muffled voices drifted. It was Frypan and Minho arguing with Gally. "—lost his damn mind, bringing a piece to that psycho's house!" Frypan hissed. 

Thomas froze. 

Gally's reply came low, harsh: "You weren't there. I saw his eyes. He was like a rabid dog." A pause. Then Gally's voice, stripped bare: "He'd have crushed Tommy's windpipe." Silence followed, thick with unspoken fear.

Thomas sank into the couch's worn cushions, its rough fabric scratching his bruised forearms. He stared blankly at the paused hockey game glowing on the TV, the pixels frozen mid-fight. The digital players' blurred fists mirrored the phantom sting on his face.

⋆˚࿔

Thomas rotted on the couch for the rest of the day, flipping between TV and video games. Outside, the sun set, the stars gleaming. Distant splashes erupted in Gally's pool. Laughter sliced through the air, pearls of sound, carefree and sharp. Ben's crowing mingled with feminine giggles. Thomas's gut tightened. He grabbed the controller, thumb jamming buttons. On-screen, characters brawled violently, a satisfying thud with every hit.

The door to the Man Cave creaked open. Light spilled out, silhouetting Minho. Water dripped from his swim trunks onto the concrete floor. "Brooding again?" Minho tossed him a towel. "Get your ass outside. Hot tub's perfect."

Thomas didn't glance up from the screen. "Not feeling it."

Minho snatched the controller, killing the game. Shadows deepened the bruises beneath Thomas's eyes under the sudden darkness. "Socializing," Minho insisted, softer now. "Distraction beats drowning in your own head."

Thomas hesitated, staring at the blade-scarred woodgrain of the coffee table. Brenda's honeyed voice drifted through the open door. Gally barked laughter. Thomas's throat tightened.

"Hot tub's therapy, man," Minho pressed. "Ben's flirting with Sonya, Brenda keeps asking where you are. Just—" He gestured vaguely at Thomas's slumped shoulders. "Be human for an hour."

Thomas rubbed the skin beneath his collar bone, sore from Janson's hands. Outside, Brenda's laugh pierced the darkness again. 

A flicker of reluctant curiosity stirred beneath Thomas's exhaustion. "Fine," he muttered, peeling himself off the couch. The damp air clung to his skin as he changed into swim trunks. 

In the backyard, steam curled off the hot tub like breath. Ben and Gally lounged against the jets, flanked by Sonya and Brenda. Brenda's dark eyes locked onto Thomas immediately, a coy smile playing across her lips. Sonya giggled, whispering something that made Ben smirk. Thomas eased into the searing water beside Minho, trying to ignore Brenda sliding closer, her bare thigh pressed against his beneath the churning surface.

"You poor thing," Brenda murmured, reaching out. Her fingertips brushed the swollen bruise on Thomas's cheek. He flinched back sharply, bumping Minho's shoulder. Brenda only giggled, her breath warm and cloying with peach-flavored vodka. "Relax," she teased, leaning in until her damp hair brushed his collarbone. Her floral perfume clashed with chlorine. "I don't bite."

Across the tub, Gally snorted. "Be gentle, Bren. Tommy here has never gotten his dick wet—ow!" Minho elbowed him hard in the ribs.

Brenda laughed softly, tracing idle circles on Thomas's thigh underwater. She tilted her chin up, dark eyes half-lidded. "Do you need help with that?"

Thomas stiffened. "Not really," he mumbled, sinking deeper beneath the foam. Steam fogged his vision. Minho shot him a what-the-hell? look.

Gally grinned wickedly, splashing water. "See? Needs more booze!" He grabbed the half-empty bottle of rum from the ledge. "It's shot O'clock!" Brenda's fingers slid higher on Thomas's leg as he reluctantly accepted the plastic cup Minho passed him. The rum burned like kerosene down his throat, scalding the ache in his windpipe. Brenda pressed against his side, her skin slick and unnervingly warm.

An hour blurred into a haze of cheap alcohol and forced laughter. Thomas's limbs grew heavy, his thoughts pleasantly fuzzy at the edges. Brenda's murmured flirtations blurred into the tub's bubbling drone. When everyone finally staggered out, their towels snatched, and dripping footsteps fading toward the house, Thomas hauled himself onto the concrete edge. He wobbled, vision swimming as he snatched a discarded towel. Droplets slid cold from his hair down his spine. Just get to the couch, he told himself, fumbling with the latch on the Man Cave door.

Inside, the dim basement smelled of mildew and stale pizza crusts. Thomas stumbled toward the couch, clumsily rubbing the rough towel over his aching ribs and bruised neck. Water pooled at his feet.

"You are the hottest guy I've ever met."

Thomas jerked, towel slipping from his grip. Brenda leaned against the doorframe, silhouetted by moonlight bleeding through the high basement windows. Her damp bikini clung to her skin, droplets tracing paths down her stomach. He hadn't heard her follow him, hadn't heard anything over the alcohol fogging his brain, thick as swamp water.

"Wh—?" Thomas stammered, scrambling for balance. The rum churned sourly in his gut. Brenda pushed off the frame with a swaying step, closing the distance. 

"Seriously," she breathed, fingertips brushing his bare chest. "Those bruises? Kinda sexy. Shows you're strong."

Thomas flushed, the compliment landing awkwardly amidst his panic-laced confusion. "You're... you're really pretty, Brenda," he blurted, his voice thick. The words tasted cheap, an automatic spouted response. Her smile widened triumphantly. Before he could react, she surged forward, her lips claiming his like a brand. The kiss tasted like chlorine and vodka, sloppy and demanding. Thomas froze, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides as her tongue shoved past his teeth.

She shoved him backward, hard. Thomas stumbled onto the couch, sinking into the worn cushions. Brenda followed instantly, straddling his lap, her wet bikini soaking his trunks. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling his head back as her lips rained kisses along his jaw. Each touch felt invasive, triggering phantom pressure around his throat. Thomas fought a wave of nausea as her mouth traveled down his neck, her hips grinding forcefully against his thigh. He waited, waited desperately, for heat or hunger to ignite, some spark of physical response to match her urgency, but only cold, detached revulsion pooled in his gut.

Her hand slid down his stomach, fingers hooking under the waistband of his swim trunks. Panic flooded Thomas's veins. He grabbed her wrist before she dipped lower. "Stop." The word rasped out, hoarse but unyielding. 

Brenda froze, pulling back slightly, moonlight highlighting the confusion twisting her features. "You serious?" she whispered, breath hot and sour against his bruised cheek. 

Thomas braced himself against the leftover vodka haze, pushing her off him gently. "Yeah. Just... stop."

Disappointment flashed across her face before hardening into cold contempt. She scrambled off the couch. "Christ," she spat, snatching her towel off the floor. "You're messed up, Thomas." She stormed toward the door, her footsteps echoing sharply in the damp silence. The latch clicked shut, a sound that echoed inside Thomas's aching skull.

For several minutes, Thomas remained slumped on the couch, staring at the water stains blooming across the ceiling tiles. The rum's false warmth faded, leaving him hollowed out and chilled to the bone. Why? She was gorgeous, confident, and flirty, everything he was supposed to want. Yet her touch sent phantom wires tightening around his throat, echoing his father's hands. He scrubbed a hand over his aching jaw, pressing hard until pain flared, grounding him. Shame coiled thick in his chest. I'm broken.

Thomas dragged himself toward the Man Cave's small bathroom. Fluorescent light hummed, revealing hollowed eyes and bruises darkening like storm clouds. He splashed icy water on his face. The sting cleared nothing. Only sharpened Brenda's whispered accusation: You're messed up. He gripped the sink's edge until his knuckles whitened. Below the soreness on his collarbone lay older scars: thin, precise lines tracing his ribs. He traced them with numb fingertips. Broken, fractured, unwanted.

Unlovable.

Chapter Text

The next couple of days dragged like thick fog across the rink and hallways, each hour sluggish and oppressive. On Monday, Gally stayed out of Thomas's way at practice, but the weight of other players' eyes pressed down in his absence. Every glance seemed to linger a moment too long, tracing the dark bruise blooming across his cheek and the stubborn purple along his jaw. Thomas kept his helmet strapped tight, letting the cage hide what he didn't want seen, while Coach Jorge's sharp whistle cut across the ice like a blade.

Brenda's furious tweets scrolled through Thomas's mind like an accusation. He hadn't intended to glance at his phone during practice breaks, but each notification buzzed against his thigh like a live wire until he'd finally blocked her.

By Tuesday, the bruising had softened enough that he could lift his head without wincing, and he finally turned in the first rewrite of his essay to Mr. Vince. He handed it over with a careful, measured gesture, trying to ignore the residual tremor in his fingers and the tight coil of exhaustion pressing behind his eyes. The words on the page felt like a small victory, fragile but real, in the fog that still clung to every corner of his day.

In the afternoon, Thomas pushed open the door to the chess club room. Relief washed over him like cool water, immediate and undeniable, at the sight of Newt bent over a chessboard already set up near the window. Waning afternoon light spilled across the neat squares, catching the edges of Newt's folded sleeves, crisp white cotton against the dark wood. 

Newt glanced up before Thomas had even reached the table, green eyes softening above a small, knowing smile. "You made it," he murmured, voice low and instantly soothing, underscored by that familiar British lilt. 

Thomas slid into the chair opposite him, dropping his bag heavily onto the floor beside him. The room smelled faintly of lemon polish and freshly sharpened pencils; quiet footsteps echoed softly from the sideboard where Mr. Vince sorted papers without glancing their way.

Thomas stretched his aching fingers, shifting his stiff shoulders. Newt pushed the white king forward slightly, an unspoken invitation to play. Thomas moved his pawn mechanically, his gaze locked on the board. Newt countered Thomas's move smoothly. Then, quietly, as he placed his bishop with precise deliberation: "Saw Brenda's... outbursts online." The words hung gently between them.

Thomas's throat tightened. He hesitated, knuckle brushing the cold marble surface of his knight, before forcing it forward two squares. "Yeah," Thomas rasped, gaze flickering upward. 

Newt's expression remained steady, open. 

"I rejected her at Gally's Man Cave. I wasn't fair to her." He paused, swallowing hard. "I appreciate Gally letting me stay there... just—can't handle the noise. All of it." His teammate's grins, Gally's commentary sharpening Brenda's humiliation, it all echoed endlessly around him now. "I need space."

Newt's bishop slid diagonally, carving an elegant arc toward Thomas's center. "Understandable." The simplicity grounded Thomas, no assumptions, no judgment. Silence settled as Thomas deliberated his knight's path; Newt's fingers rested lightly beside his queen. Then, softly: "Was it just the team?"

Thomas's pulse tripped. Brenda's breath hot against bruised skin flashed vividly. "Wasn't... ready," he whispered hoarsely.

Silence stretched taut until Newt nudged a captured pawn aside. "Want company after practice?" Thomas's gaze flicked up. Newt leaned close, the faint scent of Earl Grey lingering, and dropped his voice further: "Quieter than the Man Cave."

Thomas hesitated, Gally's disdainful glare sharp in his memory. I shouldn't. But Newt's hands hovered over the pieces, knuckles scraped, fingers steady, moving them with unhurried grace. That focus, the safe warmth of his presence... Thomas exhaled, shoulders easing fractionally. "Yeah. Sounds good." Gally doesn't have to know.

The game flowed differently today. Thomas blocked Newt's bishop's advance with a coordinated pawn shield, forcing him to reset. Newt's eyebrow arched, a flicker of approval in his eyes as he circled Thomas's defenses instead of battering through. For twenty moves, Thomas held his ground, until Newt slid his rook sideways, pinning Thomas's queen against a knight. Thomas groaned softly. "How do you see that?"

Newt only chuckled. "You're improving, Tommy. Slowly."

Lightning-fast movement across the board, Thomas watched Newt's fingers tap his queen precisely three squares forward, a soft click echoing. He leaned forward instinctively, tension coiling behind his ribs, scanning for the trap. It wasn't obvious, not like Newt's earlier traps. Pressure built as Thomas traced invisible lines connecting Newt's knight to his king's flank.

He moved his bishop hastily, deflecting Newt's knight instead of protecting his king. Cold realization hit instantly. Too late.

Newt's queen slid diagonally, severing escape with brutal elegance. "Checkmate," he murmured, soft, almost apologetic.

A ragged breath escaped Thomas. He stared at the board, the inevitability of defeat settling cold and heavy in his chest. Not disappointment, though. Pride flickered faintly beneath the fatigue. He'd lasted forty-three moves this time. A record. A ghost of a smile touched his lips before vanishing.

Thomas glanced at the clock. Time to go. "Practice ends at six," Thomas muttered, gathering his scattered knights and bishops, the cool marble pieces clicking softly against his calloused fingers. The scent of Newt's Earl Grey lingered, a calming counterpoint to the phantom sting of disinfectant clinging to his hockey gear. He needed to move. 

His gaze met Newt's, those steady green eyes holding a silent understanding. "Don't wait if I'm late," Thomas added hastily.

⋆˚࿔

Practice seemed to slip through Thomas's fingers like ice melting in a glove. Each drill, each line change, built a rhythm he could almost trust, the team moving with a kind of quiet, hard-won chemistry that had been missing for weeks. 

Gally, once a thorn under his skin, finally found a groove alongside him, his movements sharper, more predictable, less volatile. 

Minho had taken to reading Thomas's shifts before they happened, anticipating passes with that uncanny timing that made Thomas almost grin beneath his helmet.

The Friday game loomed on the horizon, only three days away, its presence a low hum in the back of Thomas's mind. For the first time in a while, he felt a spark of confidence, and not just in himself, but in the people he skated beside. Each slap of the puck against the boards, each glide across the ice, reminded him that, bruises or not, he still had control over this corner of his world.

⋆˚࿔

Thomas stood silently by Newt's modest car after practice. The sharp scent of pine trees cut through the lingering locker room smell clinging to his bag. Thomas climbed into the passenger seat, dropping his hockey bag at his feet with a thud. Newt slid behind the wheel, turning the key. The engine sputtered to life, and instantly, the soft strains of Hozier's "Work Song" filled the small space. Thomas watched him for a moment, silently taking in the way Newt's fingers tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel, the lean line of his jaw softened by the dashboard glow. Thomas chuckled softly, shaking his head.

"Of course you listen to Hozier," Thomas murmured, leaning back against the worn fabric of the seat. He closed his eyes for a beat, letting the raw ache in the singer's voice wash over him, strangely soothing against the dull throb in his head. "It's... nicer than Gally's music," he admitted quietly, almost surprised at himself. Newt glanced over, a wry smile touching his lips before his focus returned to the winding road.

They pulled onto a side street lined with mismatched houses. Newt parked behind a battered pickup truck, its bed overflowing with gardening tools. "Here we are," Newt announced softly, killing the engine. As Thomas stepped out, the aroma of cinnamon and sugar enveloped him, warm and thick, drifting from the home's open kitchen window. He breathed it in deeply, tension leaching from his shoulders.

Inside, the small hallway glowed under a stained-glass lamp. Framed photos crowded the walls, Newt as a gap-toothed kid, landscapes blurred with mist, unfamiliar faces laughing. "Mum?" Newt called out, toeing off his converse.

A woman's voice floated back, muffled but cheerful: "Chocolate chip cooling, love!" Thomas hesitated near a crocheted rug, suddenly aware of his own scuffed sneakers.

Newt gestured toward a narrow staircase. "My room's upstairs." Thomas followed, the wooden steps groaning softly underfoot. The door opened onto a space bathed in late golden light filtering through gauzy curtains. Posters lined the walls, some abstract art, others indie bands that Thomas vaguely recognized, and a stark Calvin Klein ad featuring a male model's perfectly carved torso. Thomas's gaze drifted, lingered half a heartbeat too long on the defined abs, then jerked away, heat prickling his neck. He cleared his throat softly.

"Cozy," Thomas managed, taking in the neatly stacked bookshelves, fairy lights strung above the bed, and a lone violin case propped in a corner. Nothing screamed "boy" or "girl," just soft textures and muted colors that felt inexplicably like Newt. He dropped his gear near the door.

Newt leaned against his desk, arms folded loosely. "So, video games, yeah? Besides hockey sims, what do you actually play?"

Newt read Thomas's game of choice like a book. Thomas chuckled as he sank onto the edge of the plush gray duvet, the mattress yielding softly beneath him. The scent of lavender detergent mingled faintly with the cinnamon drifting from downstairs. "Call of Duty, mostly. Sometimes FIFA with Minho." He hesitated, fingers tracing a seam on the comforter. "Why?"

"Ever tried something slower?" Newt rummaged through a stack beneath his desk, pulling out a sleek game case. "Here." He tossed Stardew Valley onto Thomas's lap, bright cartoon chickens gazing cheerfully up from the cover. 

Thomas frowned at the pixelated farm scene, skepticism creasing his brow. "Looks like... a kid's game?"

Newt snorted, plugging controllers into his monitor. His shoulder bumped Thomas's arm as he leaned past to boot the console. Thomas tensed instinctively, then forced himself to relax. Don't overthink it. Newt tossed him a controller. "Trust me. Just try it for like five minutes."

Thomas navigated the menus clumsily, creating a character with blocky brown hair and tired eyes, an uncanny echo of his own reflection. The screen bloomed into pixelated sunshine depicting an overgrown farm. Birds chirped through tinny speakers. He groaned inwardly. This is boring. But Newt guided him patiently: "Press X to clear weeds... now chop that log..."

Thomas hacked at virtual timber mechanically. Slowly, rhythmically, whack—whack—whack. The repetitive thud was hypnotic. The urgent thrumming behind his ribs softened. He dug parsnip seeds into pixel-dirt, watered them meticulously. Hours dissolved like sugar in tea. Golden light shifted to dusk-blue twilight outside the real window as his farm sprouted orderly green rows. Thomas breathed deeply as his character's fatigue bar emptied peacefully. "Okay," Thomas murmured, surprised. "This... helps."

Later, controllers abandoned beside tangled headphone cords, Thomas stretched stiffly. His elbow brushed Newt's forearm again, a silent static spark. He ignored it. "Thank you," Thomas said suddenly. "For helping me last weekend." I was probably a drunk mess, He thought to himself.

Newt studied him, really studied him, the quiet settling thickly between them. "Alby told me," Newt began softly, his voice stripped of its usual dry humor. "Your stomach. Your chest. Your back." Thomas froze. Shame burned through him hotter than any bruise his father had left. He stared hard at the pixelated sunset glowing on the monitor screen, anything but Newt's piercing green gaze. His fingers dug into his own thigh. 

"My parents..." Thomas swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. "...They've never liked me." The confession scraped raw against his skin, his gaze still anywhere but Newt.

Sadness flickered across Newt's face, not pity, but genuine sorrow. A muscle tightened briefly in his jaw. Unexpectedly tender, Newt reached out, not quite touching Thomas's arm. "Can I see?" Newt asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Thomas's breath hitched. The buzzing tension returned, thick and electric, crackling louder than the cheap speakers. He stared at Newt, his mind racing, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. Slowly, hesitantly, Thomas pulled his worn practice jersey over his head, letting it crumple onto the duvet.

Thomas sat there motionless, goosebumps prickling his skin. The fading evening light filtered softly across his toned torso, angling over lean muscle while casting shadows across the map of darkening bruises and faded scars trailing his abdomen. Newt's gaze lingered, not shocked or repulsed, just quiet, contemplative. Suddenly, Thomas felt exposed, not physically, but emotionally. He clenched his fists against the shame coiling low in his stomach.

Then came the touch, feather-light, deliberate, like snow settling on bare skin. Thomas jerked at first, instinctively recoiling, but Newt's hand stayed, tracing the jagged ridge spanning his ribs, an old wound left by his father's belt. Thomas's breath lodged somewhere between his throat and his chest. He could feel the pulse of Newt's fingers, gentle yet insistent, as though mapping the terrain of his pain.

His eyes flicked up, catching Newt's face framed by the messy gold of his hair, eyes narrowed in concentration, lips parted slightly. Every nerve ending screamed as Newt's thumb ghosted over the ridge of muscle, brushing against scars and bruises alike. The air between them thickened, charged, suffocating, and Thomas wanted to move, to push away, but something heavier than fear rooted him in place. His skin burned where Newt's fingers lingered; it was unbearable and impossible to look away.

Newt's palm paused, hovering over the fresh bruise left yesterday, dark and tender against Thomas's sternum.

Newt's eyes lifted, piercing Thomas with their green intensity, holding his gaze with a weight Thomas could not measure. There was no judgment, only a sorrow so fierce it clawed at Thomas's chest, and something else, something intimate and frightening. "Thomas," Newt murmured, soft as the twilight outside, threaded with heartache. The name echoed through him, reverberating against every scar, every hidden ache. Thomas's pulse thundered in his ears, wild and uncontained.

Thomas didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure if he could say anything at all. His stomach knotted, his limbs taut with tension, he had no idea how long he'd been holding his breath. It was as though the world had narrowed to the space between them: Newt's hand, the quiet scrape of his breath against Thomas's collarbone, the heat of his gaze pressing insistently against Thomas's defenses. 

Newt's fingers moved again, deliberately, gently, a touch that both demanded and gave permission. Thomas's chest rose and fell rapidly, each inhale tasting like fire and rain, each exhale a surrender. And somewhere deep inside, buried beneath shame, fear, and confusion, a single, undeniable truth began to pulse: he craved this.

The moment shattered as Thomas's phone erupted, Gally's ringtone blaring Kendrick Lamar through the stillness. Thomas flinched violently. He snatched the phone off the duvet, nearly dropping it before tapping 'accept.'

"Where the hell are you?" Gally's voice crackled, sharp, impatient, already halfway to angry. "Minho's warming up the Jeep for the Man Cave. Get your ass over here."

Thomas swallowed, throat tight. "Yeah. Okay." He hung up without another word, clutching the phone like a shield. Newt hadn't moved. His fingers still hovered near Thomas's bruised skin, close enough Thomas could feel the ghost of warmth against his ribs. The air crackled, thick and charged. Thomas scrambled blindly for his shirt. The fabric rasped against raw nerves as he tugged it down, covering what felt like an exposed nerve.

Newt shifted, elbow brushing Thomas's thigh as he stood. "Right." His voice held a careful neutrality Thomas had never heard before, like fractured porcelain held together by sheer will. But Thomas could see Newt's jaw clenching tight. "I'll drive you." He snatched the car keys off his cluttered desk without looking back.

⋆˚࿔

The ride to Gally's mansion was thick with unsaid things. Thomas traced flecks of peeling paint on the dashboard, hyperaware of Newt's knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Hozier's "Unknown/Nth" whispered through the speakers, a haunting blend of piano and longing that scraped Thomas's nerves raw. Every red light stretched into eternity; every sideways glance made Thomas's heart sink. Newt's thumb tapped rhythmlessly against leather. 

Thomas knew he should say something, but his mouth stayed locked shut.

Newt pulled into Gally's driveway just as the last violet streaks of sunset vanished. Gravel crunched under tires. Thomas unbuckled hurriedly. "Thanks," he muttered, already shoving the door open. "For... everything."

The air tasted crisp, but Thomas barely noticed. He slipped away without looking back, jogging through sculpted hedges toward the Man Cave's entrance. Behind him, the car lingered, engine idling softly, headlights slicing twin beams through twilight. Thomas didn't turn. He couldn't.

Gally leaned against the heavy oak door, arms crossed. Water dripped from the stone fountain beside him, echoing in the strained silence. "Took you long enough," he grunted, pushing off the wood. "Minho's already inside. And Brenda's pissed." Thomas flinched at her name.

"I told you not to go anywhere alone," Gally continued, voice sharpening like flint. He scanned Thomas's face, lingering on the faint yellow bruise near his temple. Thomas dropped his gaze to the damp cobblestones.

"I wasn't alone. I was with Newt." The name tasted thick, metallic on his tongue, flooding him with phantom warmth where Newt's fingers had traced his skin minutes earlier. Thomas buried his hands into his hoodie pockets, knuckles pressing hard against the seam.

Gally snorted, pushing past Thomas toward the oversized brass knocker. "Of course you were. Practically glued to that fairy now." The slur sliced like Janson's belt buckle, painful, familiar. Thomas clenched his jaw, tasting bile. Where was his usual fury? Why wasn't he shoving Gally against the oak? Instead, his mind replayed Newt's quiet breath against his collarbone. That feather-light touch, gentler than anything Thomas had ever felt, burned hotter than the bruises beneath his shirt. And then came the shame, the sharp, sinking weight twisting in his gut. Disgust followed, sour and bitter, like a taste he couldn't spit out, and Thomas realized with a jolt that it was him, himself, he hated for wanting it.

Gally waited, like he was expecting a retort, before shoving the heavy door open without looking back. Inside, Minho's laughter echoed off the stone walls, mingling with Brenda's sharp retort. Thomas lingered on the threshold, the warmth of Newt's passenger seat still clinging to his skin. The scent of cinnamon lingered too, phantom and sweet beneath the Man Cave's usual stench of stale beer and leather.

Thomas's stomach churned with revulsion. 

Chapter Text

Wednesday passed in quiet monotony. After school, Thomas stayed in the Man Cave most of the day, gaming alone while Gally and the others hung out by the pool, drinking beer and laughing. The house buzzed faintly around him, but he didn't notice. The hours blurred into one another: button presses, flashing screens, and the steady thrum of music from the other room. By night, he collapsed onto the couch, muscles sore, bruises throbbing, but content in the solitude.

Thursday morning was just as uneventful. Classes dragged on, each one a gray rhythm of lectures, pens scratching paper, and the occasional glance at the clock. Lunch came and went. Thomas stayed mostly to himself, avoiding the team's usual rowdy energy. By the time the final bell rang, his focus had already shifted to chess club, an hour of quiet strategy and Newt's steady presence waiting just beyond Mr. Vince's doors.

The walk to the chess club room felt slower than usual. Thomas's pulse thumped unevenly beneath his worn hockey jersey. Outside the classroom, he hesitated, hand hovering on the cool metal handle. He breathed deep. Inside, soft voices murmured.

He pushed inside. Newt sat near the window, fingers drumming lightly on the chessboard's edge. Thin autumn light slanted over his blond hair, catching gold strands. Thomas's stomach clenched. One breath, then another. He slid into the chair opposite, its legs scraping the linoleum loud enough to make him wince.

"You okay?" Newt asked, voice low. Thomas studied the pawns, black and white, innocent wood against dark squares. Safer than meeting Newt's eyes. The silence stretched, thick as the tension still humming deep in Thomas's bones from that touch, that look. Words jammed in his throat.

Thomas blurted, "I got a hockey game tomorrow. I won't make chess club." Too abrupt. Too loud.

Newt nudged a pawn forward. "Shame." His eyes remained fixed on the board, impossible to read. "You're getting better at this."

Thomas swallowed. "Yeah?" He moved a knight mechanically, knuckles white on the piece. Outside, wind scraped dry leaves against the windowpane. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Silence settled between them except for the clicking of chess pieces. Each move Thomas made felt clumsy, off-rhythm, like skating on fractured ice. His mind was fractured too, split between Gally's cruel words echoing in his skull and the impossible tenderness of Newt's fingers against his ribs.

"You should come over again," Newt said softly, advancing a bishop. The offer hung there, gentle. Too gentle. Thomas flinched internally. Want it, whispered a traitorous voice. Need it. The sudden craving flooded him, followed instantly by a wave of visceral disgust. He imagined his teammates' faces if they knew: Gally's sneer, Minho's confusion, Ben's quiet disappointment. Hockey captain. His father's hissed warnings. His mother's cold detachment. The labels choked him. Freak. Broken.

"Can't," Thomas muttered, staring hard at the knight trembling in his hand. "I'm... confused." The admission scraped his throat raw. Confused was safe. Small. It didn't touch the burning shame. It didn't name the ache.

"About?" Newt's bishop slid silently into position, threatening Thomas's exposed queen. His tone stayed level, but his knuckles whitened on the edge of the board.

Thomas shifted, the chair creaking under him. "Stuff," he mumbled. Everything. Wanting to curl up in Newt's quiet bedroom, the safety. Craving the brush of his fingertips again. And hating himself for it. Burning. Scared of losing hockey, the team, the only stability left. Terrified of what simmered inside him. He shoved a pawn forward blindly. Pointless. Defensive. Weak. "Just... not good for me to come over."

Newt's sigh was soft, almost lost under the fluorescent buzz. "You need to let go, Tommy." His bishop took Thomas's queen with surgical precision. Check. The sound echoed.

Thomas recoiled as if struck. "Let go?" he hissed, voice cracking. "Like it's that easy?" Fury flared deep, it was hot, familiar. He slammed his remaining knight down, rattling the board. Newt's gaze snapped up, sharp and unflinching. "You don't get it. I'm hockey captain. My idiot friends, my parents..." The words tangled in his throat. He pictured Gally's sneer, his father's belt, his mother's icy silence. All of it knotted inside him, strangling the warmth Newt offered. "I can't just—"

Newt leaned forward, palms flat on the table. "So you'd rather choke?" His tone wasn't cruel, just weary. Raw. Honest. "Holding all that in... it's killing you, Tommy." He gestured subtly toward Thomas's ribs, hidden beneath layers. Thomas froze, shame flooding him. He was exposed, even here.

Thomas shoved his chair back, legs shrieking against the floor. Weak. Pathetic. He knocked over his king, the hollow clatter echoed through the suddenly silent room. 

Game over. 

Mr. Vince glanced up from his desk, brows knit. Thomas didn't care. He grabbed his backpack, fingers shaking. "Don't tell me what I need," he snarled, low and venomous. "You don't know anything."

Newt flinched, just a fraction, a tightening around his eyes. The hurt Thomas saw there twisted his guts deeper. "I'm trying to—"

"Don't," Thomas cut him off, voice thick. He shoved past an empty chair, knocking it sideways. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder, drilling into his skull. Stupid. Pathetic. He couldn't breathe, the room was shrinking around him. Newt's quiet presence, the scent of old books and Newt's cinnamon gum, Mr. Vince's steady gaze from the corner, all of it suffocated him.

Thomas burst into the hallway, the cold air hitting him like a physical blow. His fists clenched against the tremor in his hands. He leaned against the cold metal lockers, breathing hard. The echo of his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor chased him, amplifying his isolation. Behind him, the chess club door remained shut. No footsteps followed.

The silence screamed louder than any accusation. 

⋆˚࿔

Thomas dragged himself into practice feeling like someone had taken sandpaper to his nerves. The fight with Newt stuck under his skin like glass splinters, every word replaying sharp, cruel, echoing in places he couldn't barricade fast enough. His chest felt tight, breath shallow, throat raw from holding too much in. He kept his head down when his skates touched the ice, praying no one clocked the redness around his eyes or the faint tremor still haunting his fingers.

Coach Jorge didn't bother pretending he hadn't noticed. "Captain," he snapped, voice cutting through the cold air, "you're skating like you crawled out of a ditch. Again."

Thomas tried to straighten, tried to inhale steady and strong, but it snagged in his chest like his lungs were refusing the order. Across the rink, Gally's stare found him instantly, sharp, dissecting, too perceptive for Thomas's frayed self-control. Not mocking. Not pissed. Just watching him with that unnerving, unblinking focus, like he was trying to measure how much Thomas was unraveling and how fast.

Thomas tightened his grip on his stick until his knuckles ached. Not today. He couldn't fall apart here.

The whistle shrieked, slicing through his thoughts. Rush drills. Fast. Brutal. Normally the kind of pace his body worshipped. But today it felt like skating through molasses. His passes drifted off by inches, timing a half-beat late, instincts scrambled. And he felt it, every pair of eyes tracking his slippage.

And Gally's. Especially Gally's.

When Thomas hesitated, barely a breath, a stutter, and Gally hit the opening with sniper precision.

Thomas never saw it coming.

One second he was skating the boards, the next his shoulder slammed into cold metal, the impact detonating white-hot pain through his ribs. Legal. Clean. But hard enough to rattle the breath out of him and send him sprawling onto the ice.

"Dude! The hell was that?" Minho shouted, skidding to a stop.

Gally didn't even glance at him. His stare stayed locked on Thomas, flat, unreadable, unsettling.

"Captain's slow today," Gally said, voice like a brick wall. "Figured he needed waking up."

Heat burned up Thomas's neck. Humiliation lodged thick in his throat, Newt's words whispering cruelly through the cracks: So you'd rather choke?

Thomas lurched to his feet too fast. The rink wobbled. His stomach twisted, his pulse a violent thrum under his skin. Before he could stop himself, the anger ripped out of him, sharp and reckless: 

"Try waking yourself up first."

Silence punched the rink hollow.

Minho froze mid-glide. Frypan fumbled his stick. Even Coach Jorge's pen paused mid-scratch.

Gally stared at Thomas for a beat that stretched too long, and then he smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Like someone lighting a fuse and daring Thomas to stand still.

Coach's whistle cracked the tension. "Again! Full speed! Paige, get your damn head on straight!"

Thomas swallowed hard, adrenaline burning through the tight ache in his ribs. Anger surged, at Newt, at himself, at Gally, at whatever part of him kept splintering under pressure.

Fine. If Gally wants a captain, I'll give him one.

He launched himself into position, skating so hard his blades shrieked against the ice.

I'm not choking. Not here.

The whistle ripped through the cold air, and Thomas exploded forward. Puck on his stick, he charged straight down center ice, head-on toward Gally.

"Thomas!" Minho's warning blared from the blue line, but Thomas ignored it. Stupid. Reckless. This was Gally's territory, his patch of ice where no one dared go toe-to-toe.

Gally's eyes locked onto Thomas's charge, wildfire-hot, predatory. He didn't brace. Didn't yield. Just leaned into the collision like Thomas was nothing but a loose puck needing discipline.

Their bodies slammed together at center ice, pads crunching, helmets clashing. Pain ricocheted through Thomas's shoulder, a deep shockwave, but he didn't buckle. He drove forward, skates digging grooves in the ice as leverage. The force hurled them both backward. Gally's legs tangled beneath him, sending him sprawling onto the frigid surface. Thomas felt the impact vibrate through his own ribs as he stumbled sideways, knees jarring hard.

Somehow, Thomas found his balance first. He caught sight of Minho's gaping mouth, Frypan leaning forward in the net, Ben gripping his stick like it was the only stable thing left. Breath ragged, Thomas stared down at Gally's prone form. The words clawed their way out, raw-edged: "Too slow, senior."

Silence choked the rink. Even Coach Jorge's whistle hung slack in his mouth. Gally didn't move immediately, just laid there, chest heaving, his breath frosting clouds in the frigid air. Then he pushed himself upright with deliberate slowness, ice chips clinging to his pads. When he rose, his eyes weren't just angry. They were volcanic, dark, searing, locked solely on Thomas. The distance between them vanished as Gally skated forward, stopping so close Thomas smelled sweat and wintergreen chew beneath his helmet cage.

Gally's voice dropped low, a rasping gravel Thomas felt more than heard. "You wanna prove somethin'? Fine." Each syllable punched through the quiet. "Then skate like a captain. Not like you're hidin' from whatever shit crawled inside your head." It wasn't a shout. It was colder. Deeper. Thomas's breath hitched, Gally knew. Not specifics, not Newt's name, but the jagged edges of whatever Thomas was running from burrowed under Gally's skin like shrapnel. And Gally couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand Thomas pulling away, shutting down, collapsing inward.

Thomas recoiled as if physically struck. The sting wasn't just in the words, it was in the raw, unwelcome intimacy of being seen. "Mind your own damn business!" he snapped, voice cracking under the pressure. His knuckles ached where he gripped his stick.

Gally didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned closer until their helmet cages scraped, breath mingling in sharp, visible puffs. The scent of sweat and aggression filled Thomas's nostrils. "You're living under my roof now," Gally hissed, low and venomous. "Everything you do is my damn business." The truth of it slammed into Thomas's chest, possessive, terrifying, yet threaded with something that felt dangerously like protection.

Thomas shoved him hard, a clumsy, desperate push fueled by panic. Gally rocked back but didn't stumble, counter-shoving Thomas squarely in the pads. The force sent Thomas skidding backward, blades screeching against the ice. Pain radiated from his collarbone where Gally's fist had landed, sharp and familiar. 

Above them, Coach Jorge's whistle cut through the tension like a knife. "HEY! Save it for the game, ladies!" The team scattered, mutters rising like steam, Minho's worried glance, Frypan's nervous cough, but Thomas barely registered them. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything but Gally's ragged breaths and the raw, exposed fury in his eyes.

Gally held Thomas's gaze for three more heartbeats, jaw clenched so tight Thomas saw the muscle twitch. Then, without warning, he turned sharply and skated away toward the bench. His stride was stiff, controlled violence. Just as he reached the boards, Gally paused, helmet tilted back. His voice dropped to a low, graveled mutter meant for Thomas alone: "Got no clue what's eating you, Paige..." Ice chips sprayed as he kicked off again. "But you're not dragging my team down with you." The words sliced deeper than any hit. My team. My captain. My responsibility. Thomas froze, breath catching. The possessive edge burned, terrifying and stabilizing all at once.

For a fractured second, the chaos inside him stilled.

⋆˚࿔

Gally's words echoed hollowly in Thomas's skull as he pushed through the locker room door. The humid, stinging scent of sweat, damp rubber, and cheap disinfectant hit him like a physical barrier. He stumbled slightly, skates dragging on the concrete floor, the disorientation deliberate. Focus was dangerous. Focus meant replaying Gally's possessive fury, the bruised ache in his collarbone, the phantom warmth of Newt's fingers tracing scars he couldn't bear to remember.

He ripped off his helmet first, fingers trembling against the cage latch. The clatter echoed too loud in the sudden quiet. Minho and Ben were already peeling off layers near their stalls, faces carefully blank. Winston winced sympathetically, pretending to fuss with a skate blade. Thomas avoided their eyes. His jersey clung damply to his chest, the fabric scratching where Gally's shove had ground pads into bruises. He yanked it over his head with sharp, jerky motions, fabric catching on his ears, the cold air hitting his bare skin. The movement pulled harshly at the fresh pain radiating from his shoulder, a blunt reminder of the hit on the ice. Distantly, he registered Frypan's low whistle from the goalie stall, but it sounded muffled, underwater. Thomas wasn't hiding. 

He was drowning.

Across the narrow aisle, Gally methodically stripped his pads. His movements were precise, deliberate, each piece hitting the wooden bench with a solid thump. No wasted motion. No glance thrown Thomas's way. Yet Thomas felt the weight of Gally's attention like a physical pressure, a silent, seething vigilance that prickled the back of his neck. 

Minho cleared his throat, breaking the suffocating stillness. "Busy weekend, guys?" he ventured, aiming for lightness. 

Ben mumbled something about homework. Winston just shook his head, gathering his gear quickly. 

Frypan slammed his locker shut, the sound jerking Thomas upright. "Later," the goalie muttered, clapping Minho's shoulder. 

They moved as one herd towards the exit, Minho hesitating near the door, looking back at Thomas with a flicker of concern before Ben tugged him firmly away. The heavy steel door groaned shut behind them, sealing Thomas in the humid, echoing silence. Alone. With Gally.

Thomas's eyes were glassy, his jaw locked as he ripped the tape off his shin pads, the sticky residue clinging stubbornly. He needed out. Now. Before— 

He fumbled with his skate lace, fingers clumsy. A sharp scrape of metal on wood cut the air. Gally slammed his locker shut, the sound cracking like a gunshot against the tile walls. Thomas flinched, head jerking up just as Gally stepped forward. Thomas stood up, preparing, but Gally started boxing him hard against his own half-open locker door. The cold steel bit into Thomas's bare shoulder blades. Gally planted one hand flat against the locker beside Thomas's head, forearm rigid, knuckles white. Not touching, but trapping. His eyes, dark and stripped of any hockey-game aggression, bored directly into Thomas's. Close. Too close. Thomas smelled the sharp tang of sweat mixing with cheap pine soap clinging to Gally's skin.

"Get off," Thomas choked out, voice thin, eyes shimmering. He shoved weakly against Gally's chest pad still strapped to his torso. It felt like pushing concrete. The effort scraped his bruised collarbone raw.

Gally didn't budge. His gaze stayed locked, intense, stripped bare, sweeping Thomas's face like he was dissecting a map. "You gonna tell me what crawled up your ass?" The question was jagged gravel, no anger now. Just focused demand. He leaned closer, his breath warming Thomas's damp forehead. "You show up looking like death. You froze up like a spooked rabbit on the ice. Then you charged me." His free hand jabbed Thomas's chest lightly. Tap. Tap. "That ain't Thomas Paige. That's some fucked-up ghost." Gally's nostrils flared, catching the sour tang of fear sweat Thomas couldn't hide. "Talk."

Thomas's throat tightened. He tasted copper, old blood or panic. "Drop it." The words wedged out, low and frayed. He twisted sideways, bare skin scraping against cold locker metal, trying to duck under Gally's arm. Escape. He couldn't breathe here, trapped between Gally's fierceness and the ghost of Newt's gentle fingers tracing scars. His pulse drummed behind his eyes.

Gally shifted, blocking him effortlessly. His palm slammed flat against the locker beside Thomas's head again, making Thomas flinch. The sound echoed. "No." One syllable. Final. Gally's eyes narrowed, scanning Thomas's face, the tremor in his jaw, the dampness clinging to his lashes.

Thomas averted his gaze. He felt Newt's soft fingertips tracing the thick ridge of scar tissue near his ribs, gentle, questioning, then heard Brenda's mocking laugh echoing with Gally's snarled Shut up, fairy. The phantom warmth and the icy disdain collided inside him like fists. His breath hitched. A choked sound escaped him, half gasp, half sob, raw and sudden. He didn't sob. Not really. It was the sound of something vital cracking open.

Gally froze. Utterly still. Thomas felt the shift like a shockwave, the aggressive tension leaching from Gally's posture, replaced by a rigid stillness. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, still trembling, the locker's cold metal biting into his sweat-slicked back. He couldn't stop the tremor shaking his shoulders.

Then, a rough sound, low and strained, from Gally's throat. Not anger. Something unfamiliar. Almost disbelief. His knuckles eased away from the locker edge. The air between them shifted from sharp hostility to something thick and charged. Thomas dared to crack open his eyes, tears spilling over. Gally was still close, too close, but the predatory glare had vanished. His gaze flicked over Thomas's face, tracing the damp tracks. His brow furrowed, confusion warring with something uncomfortably close to panic.

He didn't speak. Instead, Gally's hand moved, not to strike or shove, but downward. Thick fingers hooked beneath the stiff tongue of Thomas's left skate. He jerked it sharply. The lace snapped taut, biting into Thomas's numb ankle. Thomas hissed, pulling back instinctively. Gally didn't stop. He crouched, sudden and ungainly, shedding his own chest pad with a grunt. The vinyl slapped the damp floor. Now eye-level with Thomas's knees, his focus narrowed entirely to the knotted skate laces. 

Gally's fingers worked, calloused pads scraping against wet nylon, methodically loosening knots Thomas's trembling hands couldn't manage. Silence stretched, broken only by the ragged hitch of Thomas's breathing, his wet sniffles, and the slide of laces through eyelets. Gally's knuckles brushed Thomas's socked foot; Thomas flinched. Gally paused, shoulders tightening, then resumed, more deliberate.

Thomas stared down at the crown of Gally's buzzed head. The vulnerability felt worse than the cornering. This was Gally, the guy who mocked his scars, who snarled insults that sounded too much like his father's, now kneeling. The contrast was dizzying. Thomas swallowed, tasting salt and sweat. What did Gally see? A mess. A liability. Pathetic. The thought coiled cold in his gut. He wanted to pull away, to bolt barefoot across the grimy tiles. But Gally's grip on his heel stayed firm, grounding him like an anchor against the rising tide of shame.

The second skate came off easier. Gally tugged it free with a rough jerk, tossing it aside where it clattered against the bench leg. He didn't look up. Just braced a palm on Thomas's knee, not gentle, but steadying, and started peeling away Thomas's sweat-soaked socks. Thomas flinched again at the contact. Gally's thumb scraped over a fresh bruise above Thomas's anklebone, purple and angry. Thomas hissed. Gally paused. For a heartbeat, his gaze lifted, a flash of something sharp, almost protective, before he grunted and ripped the sock off entirely. He flung it toward his discarded chest pad.

Silence pressed in, thick with disinfectant and the metallic tang of blood Thomas had bitten through his lip. He watched Gally's knuckles whiten as he gripped Thomas's discarded shin guard. The pads lay scattered like discarded armor, leaving Thomas exposed in his damp underlayer. Goosebumps prickled his skin.

Gally stood abruptly, tossing the guard onto the bench. He didn't step back. His eyes, dark, unreadable, scanned Thomas's hunched shoulders, the raw scrape on his collarbone where the locker had bitten deep. "Can't even wipe your own snot," Gally muttered, voice low and rasping. Not mocking. Honest. Raw. He snatched a clean towel from the top of Thomas's locker pile, white, folded, and thrust it roughly against Thomas's cheek. The terrycloth scraped over tear tracks and sweat. Thomas flinched but didn't pull away. The pressure was firm, almost grounding. Gally's hand lingered, pressing the towel harder for a second before jerking back as if burned. He tossed it aside. "Get dressed," he ordered, turning his back. But he didn't walk away. He braced a hand against the locker bank, head bowed, waiting.

Thomas fumbled with his hoodie, fingers numb and clumsy. The fabric smelled like cheap detergent and ice rink, cold, artificial. He yanked it over his head, the hood catching on his ear. Across the aisle, Gally's reflection watched him in the foggy mirror: tense shoulders, jaw clenched tight as a vise. Thomas looked away, pulling on jeans. The denim scraped against bruised thighs. He bit back a groan.

Outside, the wind sliced through the parking lot like shaved ice. Gally's Firebird idled, engine rumbling low and impatient. Thomas slid into the passenger seat, the cracked leather freezing through his thin sweatshirt. Gally didn't speak. Just shoved the gearshift into drive, tires spitting gravel. 

Silence thickened, broken only by the heater's dry rattle and the drumming of Thomas's pulse in his ears.

Chapter Text

Thomas hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, Newt's disappointment pressed into his chest like a weight. And then there was Gally. Hard-headed. Stubborn. Cold. But yesterday... he'd helped. Not with words. Not gentle, not soft. Just... there. Watching. His gaze had been predatory but tethered. It was dangerous yet grounding in a way Thomas couldn't explain. Thomas didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know what it meant. Gratitude twisted with unease, with guilt, with the faintest spark of something he wasn't ready to name.

Now Gally was driving them to the game. The engine hummed beneath them. Tires spat gravel into the crisp morning air. Thomas's hands curled in his lap, awkward, unused to this quiet with him. Gally's presence pressed in. It wasn't mocking, not aggressive. Just... him. Solid. Unpredictable. A weight Thomas didn't know how to carry.

Every glance in the rearview made Thomas flinch. Every pause, every exhale, made his chest tighten. Yesterday had changed something. Or maybe it had only reminded him how little he understood Gally, and how much he hated that he couldn't stop thinking about it.

⋆˚࿔

The rink lights blasted to full brightness with a harsh electrical snap, flooding the ice in white glare. Shadows stretched long and skeletal across the boards as Thomas leaned into them, breath fogging in short, ragged bursts. His ribs throbbed beneath the padding, deep, ugly pulses where Gally had driven him into the boards yesterday. Every inhale felt like a knife dragged between bone.

Around him, the team was a blur of noise and motion: Minho chirping at an opponent with rapid-fire venom, Frypan tugging at his goalie straps like he was trying to hold his bones together, Gally pacing in tight circles, murmuring drills under his breath like incantations. But it all melted into background static. Thomas didn't hear any of it. His gloves felt wrong, too stiff, too tight. His skates felt glued to the ice, anchors instead of blades.

The whistle shrieked. Thomas snapped upright as if yanked by a rope.

His first shift was a slow-motion disaster. He telegraphed a pass to Winston so badly the opposing winger picked it off like it was nothing. He fumbled a routine receive; the puck jumped over his stick as if repelled. When he botched a simple drop pass and Minho hissed, "What the hell, man?", shame spiked through his bloodstream like acid.

He was out of sync with his own body. Playing like his muscles had forgotten everything they ever learned.

The scoreboard read 3–0. A humiliation in neon.

The student section was roaring, he could see it in the way they jumped, hands thrown up, but the sound reached him muffled, distant, like he was trapped underwater. Under it all, Gally's voice had coiled through his skull like a hook:

Pathetic.

His stomach twisted. He missed an interception so easy it made Jorge bark his name like a threat: "Paige! Wake up!"

But Thomas couldn't. He was stuck inside yesterday, Gally's shove, the humiliation, Newt's face when the chess pieces slammed beneath Thomas's palms.

Then—

Something shifted in the corner of his vision.

A flicker of movement. A glint of blond.

His gaze yanked upward mid-stride. His skates almost tangled as he stumbled. Newt was there in the stands, leaning casually against the railing as if he belonged in this universe of metal and cold. A gray beanie pulled low over his ears, coat swallowed around him, breath misting in quiet puffs. He wasn't cheering, just watching, eyes steady, soft.

Their gazes collided.

Half a second.

A blow to the chest.

Thomas's heart lurched so hard his vision flickered.

He came.

After the fight, after the sharp words, after Thomas's temper broke, Newt still came.

Something in Thomas's chest unclenched. A knot he didn't know he'd tied loosened with a painful snap.

His next shift was different.

He dug in hard, skates slicing the ice with purpose, and stepped into the passing lane, picking the puck clean off an opponent's stick. The shock of it, clean, perfect control, lit him up. He snapped the puck to Winston with crisp precision. Winston slung it at the goalie, blocked. But Minho swarmed the rebound, fired, post. The crowd groaned like a wounded animal.

Thomas barely heard it.

He was breathing again.

His body was remembering.

By the third period, he was everywhere, darting in, breaking plays, threading impossible lines between defenders. The opposing captain shoved him after a whistle; Thomas only grinned, feral and breathless, steam rising from his shoulders like smoke. Every time he glanced up, Newt was still there, watching, clapping now, laughing at something Frypan yelled from the crease. It hit Thomas like sunlight blooming under his ribs.

The scoreboard glowed 3–3. Redemption.

Then the play broke open.

Minho dumped the puck deep. Thomas accelerated, legs burning. Gally retrieved it along the boards, shoulders squared, jaw tight. Thomas cut into the slot, one heartbeat, two, and Gally's head snapped up. Their eyes locked.

For the first time in years, Gally trusted him.

The pass sliced through two defenders, tape-to-tape, perfect.

Thomas didn't think.

He ripped it top shelf, glove-side, a clean kill shot that detonated behind the goalie.

Buzzer.

Eruption.

Minho crashed into him, yelling in his ear. Winston thumped his helmet so hard his vision sparked. Frypan was pounding the boards, howling. The arena vibrated with noise, heat, adrenaline, light.

And Gally—

Gally gave him a single sharp nod. Approval.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

But real.

And for Thomas, that was more than enough.

⋆˚࿔

The locker room afterward was chaos, whooping, gear clattering, Winston flicking sweat-soaked towels at Frypan's head, but Thomas barely registered it. He sat slumped against the bench, catching his breath, staring at the floor where his skates had left damp prints on the concrete. His thoughts were still on the ice, on that last split-second pass, Gally's eyes locking onto his like he was someone worth trusting again.

A hot shower didn't wash away the static in his brain.

Thomas pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the water scald his shoulders raw. The steam thickened in his lungs, too much like the fog that had swallowed him whole for weeks. But now, beneath the exhaustion, something else hummed. A current. A live wire.

The laughter outside the shower stall cut off abruptly. A hush fell over the locker room, broken only by the drip of wet gear and the sharp clatter of someone's stick hitting the floor. Thomas frowned, tilting his head. Then, shouting. Outside the locker room, in the stands. Not the usual post-game mess. Jagged. Angry.

He shut off the water, grabbing his towel just as Gally's voice sliced through the noise: "Get Jorge. Now."

Thomas yanked on his sweats, still dripping, and shoved through the locker room door. The blast of rink air hit him like a slap, sharp, freezing, stealing the breath from his chest. His skin pebbled instantly, a shiver rippling through him as his damp hair clung to his neck. He stepped out into the stands just in time to see his father, Janson Paige, staggering into the arena, his suit jacket wrinkled, his tie loose, eyes wild with liquor and fury. The stench of whiskey hit Thomas like a punch.

Janson was already halfway down the steps, shouting something incoherent, pointing at Jorge, who stood motionless near the bench, arms crossed, watching with narrowed eyes.

"You think you can take him?" Janson slurred, stumbling as his dress shoes slid on the ice-slick concrete. His voice cracked, too loud, too raw. "You think you can—steal him—"

Thomas lunged forward instinctively, planting himself between Janson and Jorge. His bare chest tightened against the cold, muscles twitching, but he barely registered Minho cursing behind him or the way Frypan's breath hitched.

Janson's bloodshot eyes locked onto Thomas, and for a sickening second, Thomas saw it—the exact moment recognition twisted into something uglier.

"You." Janson's voice dropped, venomous. His fingers dug into the dip of Thomas's collarbone, thumb pressing hard just above his sternum, the grip bruising, possessive, familiar, jerking him close enough to smell the sour whiskey on his breath. "Pathetic little—" The insult was lost in a growl, but Thomas knew it by heart. Worthless. Disappointment.

Thomas's vision tunneled. The locker room's laughter, the echoes of victory, all of it shattered under the familiar acid drip of his father's voice. The cold bit deeper now, needling his wet skin, making his trembling impossible to hide. He heard Gally shout his name, distant, like someone calling from the end of a hallway. His fists clenched, knuckles white. He could feel it, the exact moment his restraint snapped.

Then Gally's shoulder slammed into his peripheral vision. A blur of rage and muscle. He wrenched Janson backward with a snarl, sending him staggering against the bleachers. "Get your hands off him," Gally barked, voice rough with something deeper than anger, something like betrayal. His chest heaved, his stance wide, daring Janson to step closer. The fluorescent lights caught the sweat still gleaming on his neck, the wild edge in his eyes.

Thomas was breathing too fast. The air tasted metallic, like he'd bitten his tongue. Every muscle coiled tight enough to snap. The cold made his exhales plume in front of him, shaky and uneven. He could still feel his father's grip burning at his collarbone, phantom fingers pressing bruises into old ones. New bruises. Always new bruises. His pulse hammered against his ribs, erratic, untamed.

Then a hand, warm, steady, closed around his wrist.

Newt.

Thomas didn't turn, didn't need to. He knew the touch, the callus on his thumb from chess pieces, the quiet pressure that never demanded, only anchored. Newt's fingers tightened slightly, not pulling, just there, a tether against the storm in Thomas's chest. The warmth of his hand was jarring against Thomas's bare, chilled skin; cold still clung to him from the rink, his breath fogging faintly in the frigid air.

"Move," Newt murmured, low enough that only Thomas could hear. His voice was frayed at the edges, but steady, like he'd already mapped the exit before the explosion.

Thomas blinked. The world rushed back in: Gally's snarling confrontation, Jorge's sharp command to someone, call security, Minho swearing vividly behind them. His father's ragged breathing, the stink of booze and fury. But Newt's grip on his wrist was insistent, unyielding, warm in a way that made Thomas's skin ache. Thomas let himself be tugged backward, one step, then two. His pulse still hammered, but something in Newt's posture, the tilt of his shoulders, the way his free hand hovered near Thomas's elbow, made the ground feel less like it was tilting.

Newt guided him sideways toward the rink's exit doors, his steps deliberate but not hurried. Like he knew Thomas needed the illusion of control. The late-afternoon light slanted through the glass doors ahead, painting the linoleum in gold and shadow. Thomas's breathing hitched, halfway between a gasp and a sob, but he swallowed it down. His damp skin prickled painfully as the colder air leaked through the doorway, goosebumps breaking across his arms. He could still hear his father's voice ringing in his skull, but Newt's presence was a counterweight, steadying him.

The parking lot air was sharp with the bite of early winter, and Thomas inhaled it like a lifeline. A shiver racked through him, a full-body tremor he couldn't hide. The cold clung viciously to his wet skin, tightening his muscles, making his teeth clench.

Without a word, Newt shrugged off his coat, thick, wool-lined, and swung it around Thomas's shoulders. The motion was fluid, practiced, like he'd made the decision long before they reached the door. The coat wrapped around Thomas's frame instantly, swallowing the shaking in softness and borrowed heat. Newt's hands lingered for half a second at Thomas's upper arms, steady and sure, as if anchoring him back into his body.

Newt's car, the beat-up sedan with a chess club sticker peeling off the bumper, sat a few rows away. The sight of it grounded Thomas in a way he couldn't explain. Normalcy. Something his father couldn't touch. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the passenger door handle, the adrenaline crash hitting him in waves.

Newt didn't speak. He didn't need to. The silence between them was thick but not heavy, a buffer against the storm still raging inside Thomas's skull. The engine sputtered to life, the heater groaning as it fought the cold. Thomas pressed his forehead to the window, watching his breath fog the glass. He wanted to scream. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to disappear into the hum of the tires on asphalt.

The car smelled like Newt, like coffee grounds and the faint citrus of his laundry detergent. Thomas curled his fingers into his palms, nails biting crescent moons into his skin. He could still feel his father's grip, phantom and searing. Every muscle ached with the effort of not shaking apart. Newt's fingers drummed once, twice, against the steering wheel, a staccato rhythm that matched the static in Thomas's veins.

"You alright?" Newt asked, finally. Not pushing. Just simply opening a door.

Thomas exhaled sharply through his nose, watching streetlights smear gold across the windshield. "Still breathing," he muttered. It wasn't an answer, and they both knew it.

Newt flicked the turn signal, too early, just to fill the silence with its mechanical click, and glanced over. "Right. And the sky's still blue." His voice was dry, but his knuckles had gone pale around the steering wheel.

Thomas snorted, a half-formed sound that cracked halfway through. He slumped deeper into the seat, pressing his temple against the cold window. The streets blurred, neon signs bleeding into streetlamps, shadows stretching long across the pavement, but his reflection stayed sharp in the glass. Eyes too wide. Jaw clenched tight enough to hurt.

"You're a shit liar," Newt said, blunt as a hammer. But his fingers flexed on the wheel, restless. A tell. Thomas was learning them all, the way Newt chewed his lip when he was holding back, the hitch in his breath before sarcasm kicked in.

The car slowed at a red light. Thomas watched a neon diner sign flicker, painting Newt's profile in garish pink. His throat tightened. "Sorry," he blurted, rough. "For chess club. For—snapping." The words tasted like gravel. He hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't planned to acknowledge the wreckage between them.

Newt's fingers twitched on the gearshift. "Fucking hell, Thomas." A sigh. "You think I care about that?" The light turned green; the car lurched forward. "You could've set the board on fire." His voice dropped. "I'd still be here."

Thomas blinked. The streetlights streaked past, smearing Newt's face in gold and shadow. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on words too sharp to spit out.

Newt turned onto his street, gravel crunching under the tires. The silence in the car was thick, but not the suffocating kind. More like the pause between chess moves, charged, waiting. Thomas exhaled, slow, flexing his fingers where they'd gone numb from clenching. The weight of Newt's words settled deep in his ribs, warm and terrifying. I'd still be here.

Newt's house loomed ahead, porch light flickering like a beacon. He killed the engine but didn't move. Just sat there, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel. Thomas watched the pulse in his wrist jump under his skin.

"You coming in?" Newt asked, finally. Casual, like he wasn't asking Thomas to step over another fault line.

Thomas swallowed, his throat clicking dry. His body still thrummed with leftover adrenaline, jittery, unspent, but Newt's porch light flickered warm against the dark. He nodded, wordless.

He followed Newt out of the car, to the house, and up the steps. The front door creaked open, releasing the scent of overly sweet tea. Home, but not his own.

Inside, Newt kicked off his shoes, toes flexing against the worn hardwood. Thomas hesitated in the foyer, suddenly aware of how his own skin felt too tight, how his pulse still jumped under his jaw. "You good?" Newt asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Thomas flexed his hands, bruised knuckles, bitten-down nails, and nodded. The lie tasted stale. He slipped Newt's coat from his shoulders, the heavy fabric sliding down his arms in a soft whisper, hanging it on the coat rack. Cold air rushed over his bare skin, tightening the lines of muscle across his chest and abdomen, the definition stark under the hallway light.

Newt paused, just half a second, his gaze catching on Thomas's torso before he dragged it upward, jaw tightening like he hadn't meant to look at all. He didn't say anything. Didn't have to. He just turned and led the way upstairs, the creak of each step a metronome counting down to something Thomas couldn't name.

Newt's bedroom smelled like old books and the peppermint balm he used for headaches. Thomas hovered in the doorway, shoulder pressed to the frame like he might bolt, except his legs had turned to lead, exhaustion finally catching up with him. Newt tossed his jacket onto the desk chair, the fabric rustling softly as he turned to face Thomas.

"You gonna stand there all night?" Newt asked, voice dry but his eyes scanning Thomas's face with quiet precision.

Thomas exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing off the doorframe. His legs felt unsteady, like the ground kept tilting under him. The adrenaline crash left him hollowed out, raw nerves and shaky hands. He dragged his fingers through his hair, tugging just to feel something solid. "I can't fucking believe he shows up now of all times!" he bursts angrily, his breathing picking up with his frustration.

Newt didn't reply immediately. He just leaned back against his desk, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching Thomas with that unnerving patience of his.

Thomas paced the length of the room, three sharp strides before pivoting, the worn carpet fibers catching under his sneakers. "Nine fucking months. Nine months since he shows up to a single hockey game. Nine months since he's given a shit about me." His pulse throbbed in his temples, the words scraping his throat raw. "And now he shows up drunk? At my school?"

Newt's fingers curled against the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. "He's a bastard," he said simply, voice flat. Not placating. Just factual.

Thomas barked a laugh that cracked halfway through. "Yeah, no shit." His ribs ached with every breath, like his father's words had left bruises under his skin. He dragged his hands over his face, fingers pressing into his eyelids until colors burst behind them. "I just—" His voice wavered, throat closing around the admission. "Fuck."

The anger crumpled as fast as it had flared. Thomas's knees hit the edge of Newt's bed with a soft thud, his shoulders slumping forward. His fingers twisted in the comforter, gripping the fabric like it might steady him. "I just want to feel loved unconditionally," he whispered, the words escaping in a fractured exhale.

The silence that followed wasn't empty, it was thick with the weight of everything unspoken. Newt moved then, crossing the space between them in two strides. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Thomas, pulling him into a hug so tight it knocked the breath from his lungs. Thomas stiffened for half a second, startled by the sudden contact, before melting into it with a shudder. His forehead pressed against Newt's collarbone, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Newt's hand slid up to cradle the back of Thomas's head, fingers tangling in his hair, not restraining, just anchoring.

Thomas inhaled sharply, nostrils filling with the scent of Newt's detergent and something faintly herbal underneath. His pulse hammered against his ribs where their chests pressed together, Newt's heartbeat steady enough to time a metronome by. The contrast made Thomas's breath hitch, how could anyone be this calm while his own body felt like a live wire? But then Newt shifted, just slightly, his thumb brushing the nape of Thomas's neck in a slow, deliberate stroke, and something in Thomas's spine unraveled.

He sagged forward, his weight dragging them both down onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Newt didn't protest, just adjusted his grip to accommodate the sudden shift, one hand splayed between Thomas's shoulder blades, the other still cradling his head. Thomas buried his face deeper against Newt's collarbone, his exhale shuddering against warm skin. He could feel Newt's breath stir his hair, could count each rib pressed against his own with the rise and fall of Newt's chest. The intimacy of it sent a jolt through him, too close, too much, but the thought of pulling away made his throat ache worse than the tears he was swallowing back.

Newt's fingers twitched against his spine, tracing idle patterns on his bare skin. "You're shaking," he murmured, voice low enough that Thomas felt the vibration more than heard it.

Thomas clenched his teeth, willing his body to still, but the tremor lingered, a leftover current from the storm inside him. "Can't help it," he muttered, hating how small his voice sounded against Newt's collarbone.

Newt's thumb pressed gently behind Thomas's ear, grounding. "Yeah, well. You're allowed to fall apart sometimes, you know."

Thomas let out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against Newt's shoulder. "Says the guy who stitches himself back together with sarcasm and tea."

Newt's fingers stilled against his back, just for a second, before resuming their slow circles. "Takes one to know one," he countered drily, but his breath hitched when Thomas shifted, their legs tangling further in the process.

Thomas swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact, Newt's knee pressing into his thigh, the heat of his palm on his exposed back, the way their heartbeats seemed to sync where their chests met. His throat tightened with something that wasn't quite panic, wasn't quite anything he could name. He should pull away. He should.

Instead, his fingers curled into the back of Newt's shirt, twisting the fabric like a lifeline.

Newt exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, and Thomas felt it ghost across his temple. The silence stretched, but it wasn't heavy anymore. It was the quiet hum of a car idling, the pause between tracks on an album, the kind of stillness that didn't demand filling.

Thomas's eyelids grew leaden, exhaustion seeping into his bones like ink in water. The warmth of Newt's body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of his skin, it all wove a lullaby Thomas hadn't realized he needed. His grip on Newt's shirt loosened, fingers slackening as the tension leaked out of him one slow drip at a time.

The last thing he registered was Newt's hand slipping from his hair to rest lightly against his shoulder, not pushing him away, just adjusting, anchoring. Then darkness swallowed him whole.