Something warm brushed against his nose, pulling him from sleep. Newt forced his eyes open amidst the smell of chocolate, blinking the remnants of sleep away in an effort to see what had woken him. He was greeted with the sight of his older brother sitting on the edge of his bed, holding a plate with a chocolate muffin right under his nose, grinning broadly.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Theseus’ booming voice was merciless in the face of what should have been a peaceful wake up. Newt groaned and pushed the plate out of his face.
“Piss off,” he grumbled, tugging the blanket up and shutting his eyes. He yelped when a slobbery finger was stuffed in his ear and wiggled about, thrashing away from the cold digit. “Really?” he demanded, glaring. Theseus just tousled his hair roughly and stood, leaving the muffin on the bedside table and crossing the room to yank open the curtains.
“It’s a beautiful day, Newton! Time to make the most of it, don’t you think?”
“If by ‘make the most of it’ you mean labouring in an office while I hobble around here, then yes, I suppose so,” Newt said, sitting up, mindful of his casted foot. A steaming cup of tea next to the muffin caught his eye, and he picked it up to have a drink. Then promptly wrinkled his nose and accusingly said, “what, no honey?” He stuck his tongue out at Theseus as he huffed and left the bedroom, then grinned to himself. He enjoyed being the crippled little brother; no demand was too high.
Besides, he had to find some way to amuse himself. Once he had been discharged from the hospital, Theseus had insisted he go home with him, at least for the first week, until he got used to using crutches and for the past five days Theseus had been positively overbearing. Newt suspected it had to do with the residual guilt he felt over not being the one to help him when he had his car accident, and he appreciated his brother’s concern, really he did, but he wasn’t feeling quite so forlorn over Theseus’ absence as it had meant meeting Percival.
Newt sighed happily, settling back against his pillows, nibbling on the muffin thoughtfully. He had wondered if he would have much contact with his hero after the accident; sure, they’d shared a kiss the night he was in the hospital, and Percival had come by in the morning and suffered through another encounter with Theseus, though he had seemed to enjoy Theseus’ efforts to embarrass Newt (“a backless hospital gown is still too modest for someone who sleeps in the bare!” and Newt had chucked his water bottle at his head, face burning) but Newt had had the fear that it was done out of a sense of duty.
His fears had been assuaged, however, when Percival had taken advantage of the opportunity presented when Theseus had gone searching for a doctor to support his claim that adult diapers were therapeutic, to ask Newt for his phone number, which had sent Newt into a pleased flush, and then an embarrassed one when he realized he didn’t know his own number. In his defence, he had explained to Percival, he’d barely had the thing for a week and even then only because Theseus had gifted it to him so he could keep a better tab on Newt (re: send him hourly pictures of himself being an idiot; Newt had figured out how to save one such picture of Theseus with a pen shoved up his nose).
Percival had taken Newt’s cell phone from his pile of personal effects and entered his number in it, and said he looked forward to hearing from Newt. He’d apologized then, saying he had to get to work, and had hesitated only briefly before giving Newt a kiss on the cheek. Newt had lain in bed in a dreamy haze until Theseus came back in with a pot of foul-smelling orange flowers that had had Newt pressing the call button, desperate for an early discharge.
Theseus came back in with a honey bear and presented it with a flourish. He hovered for a minute, looking between Newt and the window. Newt rolled his eyes. “Spit it out, won’t you?”
Theseus sighed heavily and dropped into a chair at the foot of the bed. “Are you certain you want to go home today, Newt? You know I have no problem with you staying here for another few days, or a week, or forever,” he muttered. Newt flicked the top of the honey bear open and close restlessly.
“Thank you, Theseus, but no,” he said firmly. “I’m perfectly capable on my own, and I really am looking forward to being home again. It has been nearly a week now.”
Theseus brightened. “Then how about if I come stay with you? Only for a couple days, or a week, or forever…”
Newt sighed. “Would you come over here, please?” Theseus shuffled over to the side of the bed, and Newt reached for his hand. He looked his older brother in the eye as he spoke. “I will be fine on my own. I’ve gotten the hang of the crutches, and I’ve stopped needing the painkillers with any consistency so you don’t have to worry about me passing out high on them.” Theseus was frowning at his foot. “I don’t blame you for my accident, you know,” Newt said softly. “It was no one’s fault,” except that bloody stag, “and you’ve bent over backwards for me ever since I’ve been here, and I am grateful, truly.”
“I should have driven you home! Or had you spend the night,” Theseus cried. “It was pouring rain all day and your night vision is absolutely dismal, I should have known better. I worry about you, Newt. It comes with the title of elder brother.”
Newt smiled fondly at him. “An accident is unpredictable, Theseus. And I hate that you blame yourself. Besides,” he shrugged, “six weeks of convalescence will give me plenty of time for work, and I’m already one week down.” He brightened at a thought. “How about tonight, I cook dinner? A proper meal, nothing done in the microwave. You’ll see how able I am and maybe have some peace of mind about me being home.”
Theseus screwed his eyes up and puffed his cheeks out in thought, then nodded. “It’s a deal. But I will be judging heavily on flavour; if it tastes over seasoned because you staggered against the stovetop and dumped in more salt or spice because you couldn’t catch yourself, you stay awhile yet.” They shook hands on it, and finally Newt was ready for his tea. As he uncapped the honey and overturned it above his mug, neither brother could help snickering at the fart sound when Newt squeezed it.
“I’ll be home by six,” Theseus said, still snickering as he left. Newt waved distractedly as he searched for a spoon.
“Theseus!” he hollered. “I need a spoon!”
“Independence is the word of the day, Newton!” the cheerful voice rang out. The front door shut, a key turned in the lock, and Newt cursed his brother.
.
.
.
By noon, Newt had had two temper tantrums that included batting a measuring cup down the basement stairs with a crutch. He was flopped on the couch in the living room, decidedly not sulking, and trying to keep his mind off how itchy the stitches in his left forearm were. And the stitches in his head. And in the top of his foot that he couldn’t get to even with a fork. Not that he had tried. More than twice.
Theseus’ kitchen was designed to make life a living hell for anyone not six foot five and able-bodied. Every drawer he needed to open was the bottom drawer, and he couldn’t reach the handle while balancing on his crutches, and if he leaned them against the counter he risked falling flat on his face and the last thing he wanted was for Theseus to come home to Newt sprawled on the floor like a senior citizen who would soon be sent to a home. But Newt had a sneaking suspicion that the pots and pans hadn’t been on top of the pantry before Theseus had left this morning, and that his brother had purposely sabotaged the kitchen to make Newt fail so he would have to stay longer.
He was out of breath from hobbling around the kitchen in a bad mood, and his underarms and palms hurt from taking all his weight and the crutches digging into them. He was just trying to figure out how he could order dinner to be delivered from a restaurant and how many dirty dishes and cooking implements he would have to leave out to make it seem like he had in fact made dinner when his mobile chimed from the kitchen counter. He groaned and dropped his head back against the couch, wanting nothing more than to leave it but knowing that it was most likely Theseus and if he didn’t answer post haste he would be flooded with phone calls to his mobile and the landline.
He stumped into the kitchen, wincing at his tender palms, and placed the phone between his teeth to carry it back to the living room. The worst part about his cast was his inability to wear regular pants with pockets because they were all too skinny to tug over the cast; he’d been stuck in shapeless sweatpants since being discharged from the hospital, although Theseus had swiped a few of those dreadful gowns ‘just in case’. Yeah, right. Newt slept with his bedroom door locked and one eye open.
Dropping back onto the couch, he rubbed his underarms with a grimace, then resigned himself to yet another asinine picture from his brother. He had quite the thrill run through him when he read PERCIVAL on the screen instead of ASSFACE. He ran his fingers through his hair to tidy it up before remembering it was simply a text message.
How are you feeling? Having better luck with the crutches?
Newt dallied on answering; although he had texted back and forth with Percival throughout the week, he was still new to texting, and worried endlessly over how colloquially he could speak –write—or how much he was meant to sound like himself.
Much better, thanks, he typed back. Doing fine with them but still using them as firewood in five weeks.
Less than a minute passed before Percival responded, but to Newt it felt like an eternity in which he was doomed to spend it worrying about if he sounded like an idiot or if Percival would ‘lol’ at it. It was an odd word, to be sure, and Newt had only ever seen it written, but it still made him wonder if people actually walked through life and said ‘lol’ to each other. He would have to ask Theseus, a.k.a ASSFACE, about it, then take his answer with a grain of salt.
Glad to hear. Are you free to talk?
Newt frowned. They already were talking, weren’t they?
An actual phone call, I mean. Percival clarified quickly.
Newt stared at his mobile as though it had just screeched out a racial epithet. Talk? On the telephone? With Percival? Oh god, that was too much pressure. He was going to have to keep his head about him and focus on the conversation enough to formulate proper, related answers and questions instead of writing something he could shriek at if he found it too bold.
Naturally, he wrote back, Yes, I have time right now.
And then yelled at himself for saying right now, because Percival hadn’t said when he wanted to talk, and very well could have meant an hour from now—
His mobile began to ring, some horrible tinny version of a teen pop sensation that Theseus had programmed for him and he couldn’t figure out how to change.
The green phone flashed enticingly at him while the red phone looked menacing. Newt’s thumb hovered over the screen, inching forward bit by bit as the ring continued, and he cleared his throat and wiped his brow, flinching when he pulled the stitches tight, and then he was connected. With Percival.
“Hello Peter how are you!” he fairly shouted into the phone. He pulled it away from his ear and screamed silently at himself.
“Fine, Ned, how are you?” Percival’s amused voice floated back to him.
“I’m sorry,” Newt managed to keep his voice at a more acceptable level this time, “I, er, just…took my medicine! It wreaks havoc with me, I’m afraid. I know this is Percival, not Peter.” His inner voice was loudly suggesting he shut up now, so he did.
“Is that your painkillers? Are you hurting?”
Only from my own stupidity, Newt thought glumly. “No, it’s all right. Just a precaution, really.”
“I’m glad. Listen, Newt,” Percival began, and his heart dropped. This was where he would tell him sorry but we won’t be seeing each other again, because he was married to a Nigerian prince and had to stay true to his first love, and oh, could Newt just wire him five hundred dollars so he could access millions? And about that social security number…
“Your brother sent me a message about an hour ago, inviting me to dinner tonight. He said you were cooking for the sake of your manhood and I didn’t want to miss it.”
Newt choked on his own spit, face heating up as he tried to crush Theseus’ skull from here. “He, uh…what?”
“Well, he’s invited me over, only I wanted to make sure you knew and were fine with it because knowing him, he extended the invitation without telling you,” Percival explained, and damn, he was perceptive, because of course Theseus had been a conniving snake.
“Newt?” Percival sounded uncertain. “Is that all right? If I were to be there tonight?”
Newt finished his excited flailing on the couch, and calmed his breathing before saying, “of course, Percival. I would enjoy seeing you tonight.”
“Good,” he answered, and Newt could hear the smile in his voice. “What sort of culinary delight can I expect? Shall I bring anything?”
And just like that, Newt’s excitement came crashing down around him and he groaned loudly.
“Newt? Are you all right?”
Newt huffed and gritted his teeth. “The whole point of me making dinner tonight is to prove to Theseus that I am capable on my own and can therefore finally go home, but the bastard went and sabotaged his kitchen before he left so I can’t reach anything unless I were to use a crutch to pull it all down from the highest cupboards. And I can’t hobble around searching endlessly because these stupid crutches dig into my armpits and palms and they’re tender. He’s even hidden all the meat that was in the freezer!” he finished indignantly.
There was a pause, and then Percival was slowly suggesting, “if you like, I can come give you a hand.”
Newt was a certified mouth breather for about ten seconds, in which time Percival hurriedly added, “just to help you reach what you need, I mean. I wouldn’t interfere in your…challenge.”
“No! I mean, of course. Uh, right.” His heart was pounding at the idea of being alone with Percival; aside from their short time in his wrecked car together, Theseus or the hospital staff had always been a second away. Newt nodded decisively. “That would be a great help, Percival. Honestly.”
“All right then,” and when had Newt gotten so perceptive that he could hear a smile in Percival’s voice every time?
“What time?” Percival asked at the same time as Newt asking, “when are you free?”
“I’ve got the day, actually.”
“Then…would one o’clock work for you?” Newt asked after a quick glance at the clock on the mantle.
“That’s perfect,” Percival promised. “I already have the address thanks to Theseus, as well as a list of approved beverages that won’t react with your painkillers, and I think something vaguely resembling a threat but I can’t be sure.”
“Oh, good lord,” Newt sighed, embarrassed. “Listen, you know what Theseus is like, he’s hot air in a sail, a fart trapped in jeans, he doesn’t actually mean anything by it—“
“Don’t worry, Newt,” Percival laughed. “It’ll take a lot more than that to scare me off. I’ll see you at one.”
Newt managed to stammer out a farewell and dropped the mobile, the screen gone cloudy from his damp ear. He allowed himself a blissful moment of replaying Percival’s words, then upon seeing it was twenty past twelve leaped into action, as in struggled to pull himself up onto his crutches. He had forty minutes to wash his hair and find a pair of pants that weren’t Theseus’ college sweats with the holes in the knee, and he had a feeling that Percival Graves was the type of man to arrive five minutes early.
.
.
.
Newt was in deep trouble.
He sat at the opposite end of the couch to Percival, blowing on his cup of tea in an effort to distract himself. His heart was pounding in his chest, which admittedly was the best place for it, but it was making him nervous.
Because he was really, pretty sure that he liked Percival. A lot. A whole lot. Even now, watching him out of the corner of his eye as Percival flipped through Theseus’ yearbook, he was thinking all sorts of ridiculously fond things, like how nice Percival’s hair looked, and how his black short sleeved button up shirt was tight enough to hint at a well defined body, and oh crap he had just caught Newt staring.
Newt hurriedly turned his eyes back to his tea, feigning interest in the mug. He tensed when Percival shifted closer to him on the couch.
“Is that Theseus?”
Newt turned to look at the picture Percival was pointing at, and burst out laughing. It was Theseus in his senior year of high school, dressed to the nines in drag, hair teased and thick makeup painted on his face, next to two friends similarly attired. “That was the costume contest. They called themselves ‘The Weird Sisters’ and they won first prize,” Newt said, grinning at the memory.
“It’s…mesmerizing,” Percival murmured. “I feel as if I can’t look away.”
“The picture doesn’t do his legs justice,” Newt promised. “He wore fishnets.”
Percival laughed and set the book down on the coffee table. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me he still has every bit of this costume.”
Newt snorted. “Of course he does. He wouldn’t get rid of a sequined dress that actually fits him. I bet one day you’ll even see him in it. He’s always loved being the centre of attention.”
“And you?” Percival asked, settling back against the couch, looking at home. “Do you prefer to…stick to the shadows?”
“The spotlight suits him, not me,” Newt shrugged. “And I would never have worn a dress out in public, considering…”
Percival cocked his head. “Considering what?”
“Well,” Newt struggled with how to express himself. It was ridiculous; surely Percival would be able to relate. “Being gay in high school is hard enough without throwing a dress on and adding fuel to the fire.” He looked to Percival. “You know, I’m sure.”
Percival regarded him silently for a moment, then shook his head. “I actually never came out as gay until well after high school. I had a girlfriend for most of it, so no one would think I was gay. You were braver than I was, that’s for sure.”
Newt felt his face heat up. “I wouldn’t say brave; it wasn’t really my choice to come out, but I tried to make the best of it. Had to, to get through school.”
“What do you mean it wasn’t your choice?” Percival asked, frowning. Newt shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I tried the same thing as you; hide behind a girlfriend. We were friends first, then it evolved, and then I made the mistake of trusting her enough to tell her the truth and she…” Newt paused, fighting back the swell of emotion that threatened to overtake him, anger and hurt and remembered fear. He shrugged woodenly. “It was my own fault, I shouldn’t have used her as I did.”
“Pardon my language,” Percival said, “but what a cunt.”
Newt was relieved when the timer on the coffee table started to beep. He leaned forward and shut it off. “I’d better turn the oven off,” he muttered, grabbing for his crutches. Percival swiftly stood.
“I’ll get it.” He moved into the kitchen, and Newt heard the oven beep off. He inhaled the scent of lemon tarts, mouth watering. He may only be able to make one dessert but he made those tarts well. His eyes fell to his crutches, and he felt bubbled up with happiness. When Percival had first arrived, he had presented Newt with foam squares and duct tape, “padding for your crutches,” he’d explained, and that was when Newt started to realize he was In Deep.
“Does your brother have oven mitts anywhere?” Percival called from the kitchen.
“If anywhere they’d be in the drawer to the left of the stove, with the tea towels,” Newt answered, grabbing his crutches and standing slowly. He stumped into the kitchen, relishing the softness under his hands and armpits, and hovered behind Percival who was rifling through the open drawer. There was a sudden knock at the front door. Percival dropped the found oven mitts on the stovetop.
“I’ll see who it is. If that’s all right?” he added, casting a sidelong glance at Newt.
“Of course,” Newt nodded, realizing belatedly how close he had been standing behind Percival when the other man brushed past him on his way to the door. Newt leaned his crutches against the counter, keeping light weight on his right foot for the purpose of balancing, and tugged on a mitt, pulling open the oven door and getting hit with a blast of hot air scented with lemon. The tarts were golden under the oven light, and he inhaled deeply the rich scent.
He slid the rack out of the oven to better grab the tarts and placed them on the stove, dropping the oven mitt next to them, and then he proceeded to royally screw up.
First: his leaning crutch (the traitorous left one) slipped suddenly from the edge of the counter it had been leaning against.
Second: Newt rushed to grab it before it clattered to the ground and Percival came running to see what the dozy and infirm dolt had done this time.
Third: like a genius, he hadn’t shut the oven door yet, so the crutch landed on it, and he had the irrational fear of starting a four alarm fire, and all reason went out the window.
Fourth: the end result was Newt shaking hands with a 350 degree oven rack.
He snatched his hand away quickly, his fingers aching, the tender skin in the centre of his palm withering in anger at the abuse it had gone through recently; first, being mashed against unforgiving hand supports for six days, and now having the blisters steamed like clams. He had properly earned the ire.
The stupid crutch was still laying on the open oven door, and he swiped it off with his not-idiotically-burned hand and swung the door shut, and grabbed his remaining crutch. He sagged against it and grimaced at his stinging hand and fingers. He started to stump over to the sink, telling himself lukewarm over and over so he wouldn’t do something so stupid as blast ice cold water on his burn and make it look that much worse.
“Hey, Newt, if Theseus ever feels like changing religions I just got some pamphlets that will help him ‘on the path to soul clarity,’” Percival quoted from a powder blue booklet. He came to stand next to Newt at the sink, paging through the book before tapping a corner of it thoughtfully against his chin. “I wonder if they know what they’re getting into, trying to recruit Theseus. I would predict a complete overhaul of…” Percival trailed off and leaned into Newt. “Are you all right? Your face is all red.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Newt lied brightly. A minor burn like this hurt like the dickens on top of his screwed up foot and stitched arm and head. “Just a little—”
“Wait, where’s your other crutch?” Percival suddenly leaned around Newt, and spotted the bastard crutch smirking up at him from where it lay on the floor. He looked from Newt to the crutch and back again. “Newt, what happened? Did you hurt yourself?” He slid past Newt and snatched the crutch up, and Newt glared at it, imagining it twirling its villainous mustache around splintered finger.
“Just singed my finger,” Newt answered. He kept his hand under a steady stream of water that was so soothing he didn’t think he would ever shut the tap off.
“Let me see,” Percival demanded. He looked immediately ashamed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…can I see?” He leaned the godforsaken crutch against the counter and, oh look, it stayed put for him. He stood close to Newt’s unsupported side. “Here, you can lean on me if you like.” Newt’s senses had all but stuttered to a stop at their proximity, and that was the only reason he allowed his hand to be gingerly pulled from the water. Percival gave a gasp as he examined Newt’s hand. “This is more than a singed finger,” Percival chided. He looked up at Newt. “Does your brother have a first aid kit?”
Newt was struck dumb as he looked into Percival’s deep brown eyes, mere inches from his own. For one blissful moment they stood still, Newt’s shoulder pressed into Percival’s chest, his waist warm from the arm resting on it, ostensibly holding him up but really doing nothing more than fill him with a tingling feeling. Percival’s eyes seemed to shimmer, glittering dark irises a steady focal point…that was slowly moving closer, and then Newt was captivated by a pair of lips that seemed intent on a path, and his hand didn’t hurt, and the arm around his waist tightened, and he managed to turn himself with the help of one crutch, and his heart was galloping in his chest, and he was going to mount that unstable crutch on the wall in five weeks’ time in a place of honour, and just as Newt was preparing to close his eyes, his knee gave out and he stumbled.
“Son of a…” the rest of his not very nice words were drowned out in the cotton front of Percival’s shirt of which he had just got a mouthful. The benefit to this was Percival wrapping both arms fully around him and steadying him.
Percival was trying not to laugh; Newt could feel the halted reverberations in his broad chest. “Newt, I’m so sorry,” Percival wheezed. “I should have—here, let me get you to the couch.” They made their way into the living room, and if Newt was hamming it up so he was using Percival more than the crutch, well, that was just peaches.
Percival helped get him situated, then leaned back with his hands on his hips. “Now, a first aid kit,” he looked at Newt questioningly.
Newt groaned and dropped his head back against the couch. “I have no idea if Theseus even has one, because that’s an item of his mortal enemy, common sense.” He winced at the twinges in his fingers and palm. “I would check the bathroom upstairs and down here, but honestly, even if you find it, it has as much chance of being filled with Skittles as it does medical supplies.”
“I’ll check,” Percival promised, starting to back away, “and if I can’t find it I can call Theseus and—”
“No!” Newt blurted. “No, he can’t know about this or he’ll sew us in an outfit together and I’ll never be free to go home. This is the sort of thing he was worried about.” He sighed.
Percival kneeled in front of him, and Newt dug his fingernail into his blistered palm to keep his mind focused. “I’m sorry Newt, but this takes precedence over your, uh, ‘trial,’” Percival said with a small grin. He stood again. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
Newt sighed to himself as Percival walked from the room, and he turned to see his mobile on the coffee table. It would be so easy to call for a taxi and be whisked away, far from the inevitable shitstorm that was guaranteed to pop up from all this.
It wouldn’t be fair to the cabbie, Newt reflected mournfully. Theseus would kill them.
He settled on muffling his cry of frustration in the throw cushion at the end of the couch.
.
.
.
“Newt, I am disappointed in you,” Theseus told him sternly from across the dining room table. Newt exchanged a quick look with Percival.
“Why is that?”
Theseus frowned at him. “Because this tastes delicious,” he said, indicating his raised spoon full of the hearty stew Newt had made. He gestured at Percival. “And Perce, I must say that was a rather brilliant idea on your part, having Newt use his non-dominant hand all night.” He nodded approvingly at Newt’s holding of his own spoon in his left hand, with his (unbeknownst to Theseus) burned hand tucked neatly on his lap, underneath the tablecloth.
“All about proving my independence to you,” Newt said loudly. He caught a warning look from Percival, that said too chipper, and he schooled his features accordingly. His burned hand was damp in the mitten he had donned, but it was suffer through that or let Theseus see the bandage wrapped around his fingers and palm, soaked in the burn cream that, much to Newt’s surprise, had actually been burn cream and not, say, a tube of mayonnaise.
“It’s very good, Newt,” Percival promised him with a wink. Newt nodded at him and kept a beaming grin under wraps. He felt like a teenager, giddy with getting away with something right under his parents’ noses. After he had assembled the meal, with limited input from Percival (mostly in the form of taste testing and reaching the soup pot), and then the slight setback of the first installment of the Saga of the Traitorous Pine Fiend, they had sat together on the couch, Newt’s hand tingling from Percival’s gentle tending of it, and also from the burn.
Newt had, truth be told, spent most of that time trying to convince himself he wasn’t falling in love with someone he had barely known a week. His mind was on the fence about it, but it was staring wistfully after his heart that had gone careening through the grassy field on the far side, heedless of his common sense hollering at it from its perch on the lifeguard tower.
So maybe Percival had a quiet way of thinking, his face clouded with an intent look, and when he was really considering he pulled at his lower lip. He looked straight at Newt when he was talking, and listening, but it wasn’t such a look that Newt felt intimidated by it; rather it was like pulling a warm blanket around his shoulders. And yes, Percival had a clever way of speaking, voicing his thoughts on a wide variety of topics, putting his own twist on them and giving Newt reason to find humour in things he usually found boring.
And if Percival’s voice sounded like steaming mulled wine soaking a bed of flower petals, well, Newt hadn’t noticed. At all.
About half an hour before Theseus was due home, Percival had been leaving, telling Newt he would keep himself occupied nearby so as to keep their ruse alive, but just as he had pulled his shoes back on and was lingering near the door while Newt wobbled next to him, Theseus had burst through the door early, and assumed Percival himself had just got there, and that was that.
Theseus dropped his spoon in his empty bowl with a clatter, and sighed happily. “Well done, Newt,” he smiled at his brother. Newt slurped the last of his stew and after some wrangling of limbs and crutches (Theseus had taken in the foam pads on them with an interested gleam in his eye) stood.
“Coffee or tea with the tarts?” he asked brightly. Theseus gave him a look.
“Don’t offer something you yourself can’t provide,” he warned. Newt grinned at him.
“Have some faith, knucklehead!” Percival snorted into his water glass and quickly coughed behind his hand in an attempt to hide it. Theseus stuck his tongue out at Newt.
After taking their drink orders (coffee for both of them), Newt set himself up in the corner, settling with ease into using just the one crutch. He had found it surprisingly smooth, more like his proper walking gait than swinging around with two wooden legs. As he set to turning on the one cup coffee machine Theseus had, his brother started needling Percival.
“So, Perce,” Theseus began, and Newt inwardly groaned at that tone he knew so well, “how do you make your living? Honourably?”
Newt glanced back at the table while he shoved the first coffee pod in the maker. Percival caught his eye and gave him a reassuring grin. “I’m an architect for hire. I take contract jobs. Some big, some small.”
“And is that a steady line of work?” Theseus challenged.
“Well, each job lasts a minimum of three months, and I’ve got a good reputation,” Percival said matter-of-factly, “so, yes, for me it is.”
Newt pulled the first full coffee mug out from under the slowing drip of coffee and shoved the next under it, switching the spent pod for a new one. He had never before realized how many tasks he did two handed that could easily be done with one.
“He designed the Pearson Building,” Newt called over his shoulder as he pulled the lid off of the travel coffee mug he had had Percival dig out of the cupboards earlier. He half turned to see Theseus, who looked caught between being impressed and skeptical.
“You don’t say.”
Percival waved off Theseus’ reaction. “I was one of many architects on that project,” he said dismissively.
“Yes, but there was only one chief architect,” Newt said, giving him a pointed look.
“Listen to the two of you, bickering like an old married couple,” Theseus mused. He was giving Newt a shrewd look, the one that said ‘as your older brother I know when you are trying to pull something.’
Newt hurriedly turned back to the coffee maker. If he flubbed this evening he was going to be Rapunzel and Theseus the witch; except Newt couldn’t fathom growing his hair long enough to toss it out the window for Percival to pull himself up on. Though perhaps he could twine it with his back hair…
Newt shook himself out of his reverie as the second coffee finished. He dumped it from the short mug it had filled into the tall, insulated travel mug, and screwed the cap on. Perfect. He was free to stump and hobble his way back to the table without risking spilling a single drop. And the handle was wide enough for his mittened fingers to slide through. Snugly, yes, but they fit all the same.
Newt placed the mug on the table and grinned at his brother’s expression. “Help yourself.” The tarts were already on the corner of the table, and Newt slid them over to the centre of the table.
Theseus raised an eyebrow. “No offerings for the coffee? Milk, sugar? How ever will you manage at home?”
“I don’t always drink coffee, but when I do, it’s black,” Newt replied, perhaps a tad smugly. He held up a hand to forestall Theseus’ next argument. “Tea is just as easy for me to make and carry, so don’t even try.”
Theseus chewed a lemon tart, frowning at Newt as he did so. Newt could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he looked for another issue. To Newt’s relief, Percival jumped in.
“Theseus, I have to ask about a picture of yours in your yearbook.” Newt snorted while Theseus sat a little taller. He loved talking about himself.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I was wondering,” Percival said, exchanging a glance with Newt, “are the rest of The Weird Sisters still around?”
Five minutes later, Theseus was yelling from the bathroom, these fishnets don’t fit the way they used to but I’ll have them yet!, and Newt was holding his head in his good hand.
“I warned you,” he told Percival, who was looking far too eager. “He’s going to be absolutely unbearable now. You’re fanning his ego.”
Percival grinned at him. “Shall I find out if he’s kept the other two costumes too? You’d just have to pull the dress over your head, no fear about your cast.”
Before Newt could finish flushing and answer, the bathroom door banged open and Theseus’ footsteps sounded down the hall. He rounded the corner and posed in the doorway. “Well?”
Percival whistled and applauded. Newt sunk into his chair. “I never thought I would miss being stuck in that bloody car,” he sighed to himself.
.
.
.
Theseus was on the phone with Ned Hawkins, one of the other two Weird Sisters, drunkenly reminiscing about their high school days. Newt and Percival were cleaning the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and wiping the table down respectively. Newt was quite pleased with how the evening had turned out; he had gotten Theseus’ rather clumsy blessing to go back to his own house (Theseus had cracked open a bottle of scotch while he had been squeezing himself back into the high school dress), and he felt more like himself than he had in a week. And, of course, there was the added benefit of having spent nearly eight hours with Percival.
He stole a glance at Percival, who was leaned in close to the table and scrubbing at a spot, and relished in the warm fuzzy feeling that before today he would have credited to his painkillers. Today had solidified for Newt the last six days of wondering and hoping. But he thought back to that missed kiss earlier, when he had slipped and faceplanted in Percival’s chest, and squirmed with a mix of embarrassment and longing. He wanted a proper kiss from Percival, one where he wasn’t hindered by hospital equipment or Theseus, and he wanted it tonight.
Newt had never been very good at asking for what he wanted, though, and usually, if he got it, he was bewildered and checked several times that it was
- in fact for him, and
- not about to be ripped away.
That was a by-product of a childhood spent as a target for the bullies. And some of his teenage years. And maybe carrying on a bit into his adulthood. Newt knew he needed to defend himself, but he loathed confrontation. He’d always had Theseus to stand up for him, to fight his battles for him. Even when he was wrapped in a sequined dress, Theseus was intimidating.
But maybe now, someone else will fill that role, Newt mused, portioning the soap into the dishwasher and closing the door. Percival, apparently satisfied with the state of the table, caught Newt watching him, and winked. Newt quickly turned back to the dishwasher, turning the dial. His mind was piping in, that hated thing, still whispering he could just be hanging around to be nice.
Piss off, Newt answered. He wouldn’t have tried to kiss me earlier if he was simply ‘being nice.’
Or would he?
Newt hated the indecision, the uncertainty. He could have a wagon-load of evidence on his side, and still his brain would insist things were too good to be true.
Besides, it added, he hasn’t tried to kiss you since.
Newt huffed irritably, and hobbled to the kitchen garbage to tug the bag from the metal can. He heard Percival come up behind him. “Need a hand?”
“No,” Newt snapped, then immediately winced. He slowly spun to face Percival. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be short. I think I’m getting tired.”
Percival watched him with a slight furrow in his brow. Newt gestured to the bag in the awkward silence. “I’m just going to put this out back,” he jerked his head at the back door off the kitchen. Feeling tense, he manoeuvered his way to the door, the garbage bag held in his right hand, his left swinging the single crutch and bringing him out in the cool night air. The motion sensor lights mounted on the shed flicked on. Theseus’ garbage cans were tucked neatly under his garden shed, a shed that was full of started projects; gardening, woodworking, and, oddly enough, pottery. His brother had a hard time sticking with the same thing for very long.
Newt started to stump across the concrete walkway, feeling sorry for himself, feeling foolish that he couldn’t even read the signs from Percival, feeling annoyed that his own mind could cast such heavy doubts on something he thought he had been so sure of, when he heard footsteps behind him. He paused and looked behind him.
Percival stood just outside the kitchen door, backlit dramatically. He approached Newt hesitantly. “Newt? Is everything all right?”
“Course,” Newt managed to smile at him. Oh god, just look at him, how handsome he is; he wouldn’t waste his time on a fish belly like you. Newt recognized those words, that spiteful tone. It was his schoolyard bully talking, but even after all these years, it made him feel weak.
Percival stopped in front of him. He studied Newt’s face, then reached out. Newt pulled back, startled, heart pounding. Percival stopped, his hand still outstretched. He frowned. “Newt. What is it? Did I do or say something?”
“No,” Newt said quickly, shaking his head. “I just—garbage,” he hoisted the bag up for emphasis, then turned back towards the shed, sure that when he dumped the bag and turned back around, Percival would be gone. How did it go so wrong, so fast?
Newt was busy mentally berating himself as he pulled the top off the garbage can and dropped the bag in. Before he could close it, something darted from between the two cans and lunged straight at him. Startled, he jerked back with a gasp, and lost his grip on his crutch, and started to fall back, his casted leg waving uselessly in the air, when he landed against something solid and warm.
“Easy,” Percival murmured, holding Newt in the circle of his arms. Newt gulped, his heart set to racing again, and he allowed himself a brief moment resting against Percival, leaning into him, feeling the faint thump of his heart through his back. All too soon, Percival pulled away, and Newt bit down on his disappointment, until Percival moved in front of him, keeping his hands steady on Newt’s shoulders.
“Tell me something, Newt,” he said, his eyes earnest in the light of the moon, “do you like being close to me?” Newt was struck dumb, words fleeing. Percival continued. “Do you like how it feels when I hold you, when I have my arms around you? Do you like it, when I…” he trailed off, and ducked his head, moving slowly, placing a gentle hand on Newt’s chin and tipping it back.
Their lips met, and Newt’s eyes slid shut of their own accord, and the crisp breeze fell away, and the world fell silent and stopped. Too soon for his liking, Percival pulled back. He was watching Newt intently.
“Because I enjoy all of that, very much Newt,” Percival finished.
Newt was at a loss. “Er, I, well, I mean, y-yes, I do,” he stuttered. “But I thought—”
Percival pressed a finger to his lips, cutting Newt off. “You don’t think about this, Newt. You feel it.” He smiled. “That’s all you need. Well,” he amended, “that, and foam pads.”
“And burn cream,” Newt said faintly, head still spinning. Percival chuckled.
“Are we on the same page now, Newt?” He had started rubbing circles on Newt’s shoulders.
“Yes, I think—” he stopped at a look from Percival. “Yes,” Newt said firmly. “We are.” The garbage cans rattled sharply, and Newt jumped again. Percival’s grip tightened.
“What is that?” he mused, shielding his eyes from the lights mounted on the shed, peering at the garbage cans. Newt couldn’t hold back his happy gasp.
“A red fox!” He shuffled closer with Percival’s help. Peering at Newt from the cover of the garbage cans was a wide-eyed, bushy-tailed— “Kit! Oh, it’s just a baby,” Newt sighed. He grinned at the little bundle of paranoia. “Where’s your mum, Vulpes?”
“Vulpes?” Percival asked, sounding amused. “Have you named it already?”
Newt laughed. “Their scientific name, Vulpes Vulpes,” he explained. “Oh, I hope her mother is nearby.”
“If she is, shouldn’t we be not so nearby? They’re protective, aren’t they?” Percival was surveying the garden suspiciously, as though expecting to be set upon by a rabid mother fox.
Newt shrugged, still giddy from the kiss, from Percival’s hands still holding him steady. “If she is, she won’t be too—” he was cut off by a high-pitched bark. Very close by. The kit bunched herself up, still watching the two of them warily, before answering with a quick, high-pitched yip of her own. “Inside, quickly,” Newt urged Percival. He did not want to be around for the mother answering her kit’s distress call. He could only hobble so fast, and he didn’t trust his one crutch to be suitable in keeping her at bay if she decided they were a threat.
They were quickly back in the kitchen, Percival shutting the door firmly behind them. The lights remained lit, and they watched from the back window as a long, sleek red fox pushed its way through the gap in the wooden fence that lined the garden. Newt grinned to watch the reunion between mother and kit, the mother giving her child a quick washing about the ears before turning and leading the way back out of the garden. The lights went out, and the garden was in darkness once more.
Newt turned to Percival, about to comment on it all, but faltered when he saw Percival watching him, a gleam in his eye. “Percival--?” Newt was pulled forward, and a strong arm was wrapped around his waist and his shoulders, and he was being kissed deeply, a broad hand holding the back of his neck, and Newt didn’t know what to do with his mittened hand, so he let it hover, his good hand pressed flat against Percival’s chest, feeling how the other man’s heart raced, and he wondered giddily, is that because of me?
For once, he was glad of his answering mind.
Yes, it is.
.
.
.