MEMORY ? newtmas au

01 | predementia

"Aren't we a little too old for innuendo?"

"Oh, come on, our entire relationship is based on innuendo, Newt. Now are you with me or not?"

He purses his lips. "I'm with you."

Thomas smiles as he grabs his hand. "Just don't spill any hot water on me," he chortles, and drags him to the bedroom.

And then Newt discovers that Thomas' idea of hearing more of those joints is him waving his arms wildly to Doctor Who reruns and dancing around to the theme song.

He finds that he doesn't mind at all.

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"Are you planning on sleeping anytime soon?" Thomas mumbles from next to him, eyes half-closed.

"I just want to finish outlining the main ideas of this next chapter first," he answers, drumming his pencil against his notepad.

"God, Newt, you're such a nerd."

Newt snorts. "A nerd? I would complement myself as merely being knowledgeable."

"But writing books on theater..."

"Is something I enjoy doing," he finishes. "I'm not letting all that bloody time I spent in Europe go to waste."

Thomas flips over in bed and faces him. "Good," he says, grinning. "Because whenever you were in Europe, you weren't with me, so something had better damn well come out of it."

"I called you every day."

"It's not quite the same as actually being next to me, if you know what I mean," the other says with a knowing smile as one hand grazes over Newt's thigh.

"Tommy!" he gasps.

"Oops, sorry, better let the master work. Meanwhile, I'll just be lying here. Alone."

Newt glares at him, though there's no force behind it, and returns to his notes. To his surprise, he realizes that he can't read a word of what he's written-it looks like chicken scratch.

Well, how the hell am I supposed to concentrate, with Tommy right here next to me, he thinks, glancing down at the other man, who's still grinning like an idiot. "All right, you win," he mutters, placing the pencil and notepad down on the table next to the bed.

"Excellent," Thomas says emphatically.

His notes are quickly forgotten.

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There's an empty carton of orange juice in the refrigerator.

"Tommy," he says, "when you're finished, you should really throw the bloody box away."

"Finished with what?"

"The apple." He pauses. That doesn't sound quite right.

"We have a box of apples?"

"I... apple," he says again, brow furrowing.

"Newt, are you okay?"

"Fine," he snaps. Ridiculous. Why isn't the word coming to him?

"I'll go buy some apples, if that's what you really want," Thomas says, looking concerned.

Newt doesn't reply; he's still staring into the fridge. He can see it right there. Why can't he name it?

But he knows Thomas is not to blame for his own memory failures. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, shutting the door. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you."

"It's alright," the other replies, his eyes wide and alert. "I-I'm the one who should've... thrown the box away." He gives him a weak smile.