DECEMBER FOURTEENTH: snow angels
THOMAS SIGHED loudly. "Newt, my darling, love of my life, my sunshine, the only reason I wake up in the morning, please for the love of god will you get up out of that snow? You'll catch your death!" Thomas begged as he watched Newt fumble around clumsily in the freshly fallen snow.
"No, Tom c'mon join me!" Newt yells with some kind of childlike glee sparkling in his tone. Thomas shakes his head.
"I'm not looking after you when you catch a cold, love," Thomas promises.
"Tommy, of course I won't get sick don't be stupid,"
All articles of clothing Newt is currently wearing are soggy and damp. His scarf is soppy. Thomas sighs once more.
"You're gonna slip on that ice, Newt," Thomas warns. He realises Newt will either catch a cold or end up breaking his collarbone. "I won't be taking care of that either, sweetheart,"
Newt smirks up from his placement on the frosty, snow coated ground. "You're no fun, Tommy," He extends his hand up to Thomas; whom pulls him up towards him in one swift movement.
"Let's get you inside, babe, get you all warmed up,"
Newt smiles softly as he shivers. "Y'know, I think I feel a cold coming on," He chuckles as he lets out a small sneeze.
Despite his previous words, Thomas would take care of a sickly Newt until the day he died.