Without A Single String Attached (Rewrite)

Sweetheart, you look a little tired

Newt fell against the blankets with a huff, tugging at Thomas' hips. The latter sank to him, his fingers lost in blond hair. They moved against one another in sync, tangling themselves among the sheets with each lurch of their hips. Thomas was flowing with praise and gasps, his chest bumping Newt's when his hands fell to cradle the thinner man's face. His stomach clenched, his face grew taut, and he paused. Newt groaned. Hands roamed his pale frame with dragging nails and soft kisses. The smell of Thomas was everywhere: clinging to the sheets, laced along his neck and thighs, tangled with his hair, wandering the dip of his hips, entwined with his curled fingers. He shuddered, his spine arching. Thomas began to move, and he was gone. Lost in the way they drowned their sorrows. Lost in the way Thomas felt against him—around him—and the noises that fell from his lips. The noises Newt could hear falling from his mouth were vulgar, greedy, pleading, and overwhelming in the best of ways. He went over the edge, taking Thomas with him.

Newt awoke to silence. He shifted, his hands dragging along the warm arm draped across his chest. He tugged a limp hand to his lips, pressing kisses to each digit. His chest clenched. He pushed himself to his feet, gathered new clothes, and headed off to take a shower. The stars shone brightly through the cracks in the curtains as he passed, watching the shadow he cast upon the tile floor. His legs trembled with the effort of holding himself up, and he stood beneath the scalding spray to ease the soreness in his limbs.

Thomas was awake when he returned. His dark eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, glazed with his exhaustion. He reached for the blond, squinting in the gloom. Newt took his hand, lacing their fingers together, and hummed softly.

"'S alright, Tommy. Go back to sleep, yeah?"

"I want to shower," he croaked. His hand squeezed Newt's.

"Let's go then."

Newt helped Thomas to his feet, clutching at him. Thomas let out an uncomfortable hiss as he stretched his legs, taking tentative steps with Newt's assistance. He took a seat on the counter while Newt adjusted the shower water. Thomas slid in and out of a restless sleep all the while. He allowed himself to be led to the shower, using Newt to steady himself and let out a breathy moan when the hot water struck his skin. Newt had already stripped himself of his clothes, and he followed Thomas into the shower without hesitation. He lathered soap on his hands while Thomas basked in the spray, a tender smile plastered on his face. His slender fingers slid through the tangled brown hair, eyes roaming Thomas' splotchy collarbones. Purple bruises had already formed, marking Thomas as his own for as long as they clung to his skin. Newt ran his lips across the blemishes while his hands kneaded soap onto Thomas' scalp. Thomas turned, catching a stray hand and brushing his chapped lips over the soapy knuckles. Newt's hand rose to cup Thomas' face, and the latter pulled their foreheads together. They stood, encased in one another's being, their breaths mingling. Who moved first was unbeknownst to either of them, but their lips met. The kiss was chaste, curious, and patient, searching for answers. Thomas' hands grasped at Newt, latching onto him as an anchor. Panic was setting in the longer they stood pressed together like this. Like they had done this a thousand times. Like they were lovers rather than fuck-buddies. Like the feeling in his chest meant something—something other than the doubt he'd associated with it.

Thomas did not like what he uncovered. He despised the emotion that was beginning to overtake him. What had overtaken him far too long ago. No amount of lying to himself could bury what he knew to be true. He hadn't realized that Newt had pulled away until hands began to massage soap onto his taut skin. His hands worked wonders with gentle nudges and pushing fingers that found the tensed muscles knowingly. He needn't guess, and he never had to. Newt always knew without having to ask.

Newt was on his knees with his face pressed firmly to Thomas' hips. He laved at the indents there, tracing the lines of his 'v' with his fingers. He dug his nails in, marveling at the crescents they left on Thomas' thighs. Newt tugged Thomas forward—whining when fingers tangled in his waterlogged hair—and pulled Thomas' cock to his lips. The man above him keened, long and low in his throat. Thomas tasted of soap and smelled of him. He smelled of himself, that cologne he refused to give up, but he also smelled of Newt. The scent of his body wash was sticking to Thomas; was embedded beneath his ivory skin. He drank him in, taking whatever Thomas would allow. Newt was drowning in him. He absorbed Thomas like a sponge, soaking in the feeling that set his heart alight.

Newt was on his knees with his face pressed firmly to Thomas' hips, and every fiber of his being was ablaze with Tommy. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. As if there was nothing else that mattered.

Thomas was listening to the steady thrum of Newt's heart when it finally struck. The knowledge sank in like a bite, digging its teeth in with every thrash of panic. He sucked a breath in through his teeth and caressed Newt's chest. Thomas kissed the trail of barely-visible hair that disappeared under the band of Newt's sweatpants. He got to his feet, snatching their discarded clothes from the floor as he went.

The dawn light was filtering through the curtains when his eyes fluttered open. Thomas was there, across the room, buckling his jeans, and he smiled despite himself, crooked and toothy. He watched as Thomas, unaware that Newt had woken up, pulled on his shirt and tidied up the furniture they'd knocked askew the evening prior. Upon spotting Newt's dark eyes, he made his way over with a nervous grin. Thomas extended a questioning hand, which Newt took, and sat on the edge of the mattress.

"I have to work in a few hours. I'll text you later?"

"You better bloody kiss me before you go, shank," Newt huffed a tender laugh.

Thomas rolled his eyes, scoffing mockingly. He cradled Newt's face in his warm hands but hovered just above his lips. "You are a sight for sore eyes," he breathed.

Newt let out an exasperated sigh and dragged Thomas down by his shirt. He ran his fingers through the dark hair, slid his hands along the broad shoulders, and released a pleased murmur against his lips. Thomas was chuckling as he eased Newt back onto the cool sheets.

"Take care of yourself, Tommy."

"I will," he chimed.

"I mean it, Thomas. Don't bullshit me." His brows lowered with distress, but he smiled nonetheless.

"I do, promise. Now get some more rest." His fingers slid through unkempt hair.

Newt let his hands fall away from Thomas. He blew him a mock kiss when he turned in the doorway to glance at Newt, and Thomas returned it without hesitation. With a small wave, he was gone. With him went the light, and Newt was back in that suffocating blackness. Sleep drew at his hazy eyes until he was lost.

It wasn't long after Thomas' departure that Newt arose. He sat, lanky legs still tangled in the sheets, as his hand found the spot his lover had occupied mere hours before. He smoothed the covers with a grimace.

Newt wandered about the house to right the wrongs Thomas had made before he had left. Reorganizing was hardly a chore at this point. Instead, it was a task he could enact on autopilot, his thoughts more consuming. He walked on the steps he'd taken a thousand times before. The steps he would wind up taking a thousand times more. Fingers sought the imperfectly placed objects and adjusted them to his liking, a pattern he'd memorized eons ago. It didn't matter that Thomas had never gotten it right, for the whole gesture was simply too endearing to end. He'd never considered bringing it up to the man, nor would he ever. Opting to correct the incorrect brought him more pleasure than it should have.

The sofa sighed beneath his weight. He drew his knees to his chest and curled his arms about them. Life had returned to the outside world if the sounds that drifted through the open window were any indication. Trembling fingers threaded through his ruffled blonde hair. His phone rang once, twice, and thrice before it fell silent. Tommy flashed across the screen in bold white as his hand hovered above the green option. His hand fell away, and he let it ring. What was the point in wanting—in loving—someone he could never have? There wasn't one.

"Like a force to be reckoned with

A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss

I will love you with every single thing I have

Like a tidal wave, I'll make a mess

Or calm waters if that serves you best

I will love you without any strings attached

I will love you without a single string attached."

His phone went off again, and he answered. Thomas crackled over the speakers, panting.

"Newton Isaacs, if you do not open this door and kiss me, you shank, I will raise hell."