(no subject)

[thebloodyglue]

The study is probably his favourite room in the house. It's only tiny, but it's got a desk and chair, a bookshelf well on it's way to being overloaded, a couch that Kavinsky dreamed to be both sort of beaten up but also incredibly shucking comfortable. Newt ends up in there to do his homework but, just as often, he sits in there reading, listening to the sound of his boyfriends off somewhere in the little house.

That afternoon, he's come in from the garden to do some homework, installed himself at his desk. There's a cup of tea at his elbow. He tunes tunelessly to himself as he works.

It's a life he never imagined he'd have.
It's bloody amazing.

Comments

[sorriest]

Darrow isn't safe. By now, after finding out what the city itself is capable of and after what people here did to Kavinsky, we know it's not. It's not perfect. Still, on days like today, every good thing about this place outweighs the bad.

The hallway I'm walking down, through the house -- our house -- is real. The floor is solid under my shoes. I hear Newt humming to himself in his study before I see him leaned over his desk, at ease. This is real. Kavinsky's back, Newt isn't worrying himself sick anymore.

And I'm still here with them.

Stopping in the doorway to Newt's study, the wood frame against my shoulder, I watch him work, just to take it all in piece by piece. We've been through a lot, but right here in this house, I'm seeing Darrow's best parts.

[thebloodyglue]

He's so engrossed in what he's reading that it takes him a moment to realise that Al's there at all. When he does, he looks up, smiling sunnily. When Kavinsky came home, the three of them had slept the clock around; the smudged shadows are gone from under Newt's eyes.

"Going to come sit with me, love? I'm due a break."

[sorriest]

I must have wandered here after talking to Kavinsky without thinking about what I was doing, and slipped into standing around and watching the picture inside the room, maybe a little too long. When Newt glances over at me and invites me in, I probably look more startled than he does, before I smile at him and make my way to the desk. The study's on the small side, but it's big enough to fit Newt's books. It's cozy and peaceful, and it's good to see Newt back in his favorite spots, here and out in the garden.

Maybe I'm looking at his smile a little too long, too. Then again, it went missing when Kavinsky did.

I wonder if I should tell him what Kavinsky and I talked about -- if I need to.

For now, I turn my head to check the cup on Newt's desk. "Out of tea?"

[thebloodyglue]

"I don't want more bloody tea," says Newt fondly. He pushes his chair back from the desk and stands up, stepping into Al and wrapping his arms around his waist, resting his face against his chest for a moment.

"Just come sit down with me."

[sorriest]

I have to laugh, hearing that answer. It feels good, like we're lighter, breathing again. Every day since Kavinsky came home, we're all here, waking up under the same roof.

I couldn't do anything for Newt -- it was almost that week after New Year's all over again -- but now I can pull him into my arms and stand close, until I move my hand to his and lead him over to the couch. "Here?" Not that there's anywhere else for both of us to sit down together, unless I sit in Newt's chair and he uses me as his chair.

I don't let go of Newt's hand.

[thebloodyglue]

Newt doesn't dignify that with a response, just puts pressure against his chest with his free hand until Al sits down at one end of the couch and Newt can sprawl beside him, leaning his face against him and breathing in the clean, sharp scent of him.

"God, I shucking love you."

He hadn't been able to stop saying it to either of them for days.

[sorriest]

You'd think I'd have gotten used to hearing Newt say that, but it's like my heart still skips a beat every time, no matter how many times he's said those words. "I love you, too, Newt," I murmur, tangling our fingers together, squeezing Newt's a little. For a moment, we just sit like this, Newt leaning into me. I glance down at our hands and smile.

It's one of those quiet moments that somehow feel huge, bigger than the walls around us. Kavinsky's been home for a couple of days now, but the relief isn't going to wear off.

[thebloodyglue]

Al's so solid, immovable somehow, and Newt curls into him, pulling up his knees and tucking up his feet, pressing as close as he can, keeping that point of contact, holding on to Al's hand.

"And I love this house," he says, quietly. "I love being here with you shanks."

[sorriest]

My insides still do flips, too, whenever Newt and Kavinsky get this close, even though we've done a lot more than just sitting on couches together. My thumb traces random patterns on Newt's palm.

Everything he's saying sums up what I'm thinking, what I can't believe I'm a part of.

"Me too." I use my other hand to reach up and brush my fingers through Newt's hair. "I'm glad you're both okay."

If Kavinsky hadn't come back, if those people--

I don't want to think it.

[thebloodyglue]

"Is he up?" asks Newt, looking back towards the rest of the house, the soft sound of music playing somewhere. "Did he eat something?"

[sorriest]

I sit up to follow Newt's gaze and nod. "Yeah," another light squeeze for Newt's hand, trying to tell him he doesn't have to worry anymore, "we... uh, we were talking."

I'm pretty close to asking Newt to pinch me.

[thebloodyglue]

They talk all the time, but Newt knows Al well enough to know that this? Is that not. He deliberately doesn't move, doesn't pull away from Al's touch. He strokes Al's forearm lightly with his free hand.

"Oh yeah?"