Chapter Text
The warm September sun shines off of Lola's fur as she trots down the sidewalk. It's the beginning of the month, but the world is still transitioning; finding that balance between summer and winter called autumn. It's hard to strike it in the middle. So on these days, the ones where the sun kisses Newt's skin but the cool air lets him wear his favorite hoodie, he decides to try and enjoy it and takes Lola out for a walk.
Lola's relatively young for a therapy dog; usually they're about a year old, already trained with how to handle identifying their owners' depressive signals and how to help them. Lola is just short of being a puppy, per Newt's request. She's a small golden retriever, always bouncing along with a smile on her face and a spruce in her paws.
Naturally, Lola attracts a lot of attention. Newt is constantly interrupted by people asking him if they could pet her, what's her name, how old is she, blah blah blah. Newt deals with it with a forced smile and tries to be as polite as possible, but whoever it is usually gets the message and continues on.
Newt doesn't mean to come across as rude. He really doesn't. But it's bloody exhausting to answer the same damn questions to people every five minutes. He just wanted to enjoy the fresh air with Lola, not fight his way through small talk. He can't be bothered with that kind of stuff.
But on days like today, the in-between days, Newt can't help himself. So he goes out anyway, and deals with whoever comes along.
He's already counted five people to come up to him before he hits the park, Lola's favorite spot. It's only a few minutes' walk from his neighborhood, and it's a nice, quiet space. There's vendors here and there that sell ice cream and smoothies, a playground for the kids, and an area for dogs to play in, with toys spread galore. It's all very spacious, spreading out much longer than the usual park, and it's healthy and green. Newt usually tosses a frisbee around with Lola or sits and watches her play with the other dogs while reading a book.
It's a nice way for him to escape. To be outside, but not be with others. To be there, and not. The in-between.
He's waiting on line at the ice cream vendor when he hears a boy's voice from behind him.
"Oh, hi there, girl!"
Sighing to himself, Newt turns around, ready for the usual schpeel of questions.
What he finds surprises him. It's a boy, about a year younger than him, with shaggy brown hair and square glasses. He's bending down to pet Lola, who is, quite literally, jumping on his legs. She has her paws propped on his knees and is enthusiastically licking his face. The boy laughs with a wide, genuine smile as he rubs her fur.
Newt is struck silent. Lola never, ever, comes up to strangers like this. Sure, she’ll sniff them or lick their hands and be friendly, but she usually isn’t this excited right out of the gate.
But he doesn’t have to wonder why this boy seems so special; his smile is glowing, positively radiating warmth that is sweeter than Newt’s favorite September sun. He’s unapologetically happy to be petting this dog. Newt can’t help but smile.
“Her name’s Lola,” Newt finds himself saying. “She’s almost a year old. Golden retriever, if you couldn’t tell.” Newt usually doesn’t tell them everything right away; he waits for them to ask.
“She’s adorable,” the boy says, finally tearing his eyes away from Lola to glance up at Newt. They’re deep and brown, glinting with tints of gold in the sun. “I’m usually more of a cat person, but this sweet little thing has won my heart, yes she has!” He says that last part in a cooing voice, ruffling the sides of Lola’s face.
Newt gives a quick laugh at that. “A cat person? I wouldn’t have guessed, seeing the way you’re petting her.” Newt bends down himself and starts petting Lola, too, in a small attempt at reminding her that she’s his therapy dog, not this boy’s.
The boy looks back up at Newt, his brow furrowed in slight confusion. His eyes lock with Newt’s for a silent moment, and a spark of nervousness flows through Newt.
“Hey, do you go to Evans High?” he finally asks. “I think I’ve seen you in the halls.”
Newt gives a small smile; he never really paid attention in the hallways, and definitely didn’t think anyone could have recognized him. He was certain he had never seen this guy before.
“I do, actually,” he answers. “The name’s Newt. Newt Edison.” He holds out his hand.
The boy immediately takes it, giving a firm handshake. Newt can’t help but notice how surprisingly soft his hands are. “Thomas Isaacs.” They go back to petting Lola.
“I think I’ve seen your art up in the lobby,” Thomas adds. “You’re like, wicked talented.”
Newt looks away from Thomas and blushes, heat pooling in his cheeks. He always felt a weird sense of embarrassment when people complimented his artwork. He had been active in art for the last three years, winning several awards and scholarships. But lately, he hadn’t been feeling the inspiration to draw, paint, sculpt, photograph, anything. He’d just been handing things in for a grade, things he didn’t care about. His teachers noticed, but he didn’t care.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” Newt stammers out.
“I mean it,” Thomas continues, completely removed, for a moment, from Lola. He’s staring into Newt with such strange intensity for someone he just met that Newt is startled. Thomas is, seemingly, kind to everyone he meets, and genuinely. “I’ve seen your drawings. Your portraits, still lifes. They’re amazing.”
Newt smiles. He can’t help but feel touched at what Thomas just said. He’s never cared about what others have said about his art. This time feels different.
“Thanks, Thomas,” Newt almost murmurs, a feeling like happiness filling his chest. “Means a lot.”
Thomas smiles at him, shining and bright even in the middle of the day. They look at each other for a few moments, longer then they should be, longer than Newt should be allowing them to. But he doesn’t care.
Newt is just realizing that their fingers are brushing in Lola’s fur, a small stroke between the fingers, when a voice breaks them out of their trance.
“Hey, are you gonna buy something, or what?” The ice cream vendor exclaims. “You’re holding up the line.”
Thomas and Newt simultaneously look behind them. A small line of people has formed, folding their arms and tapping their feet impatiently. They smile at each other; Newt notices that Thomas is slightly blushing, just like he is. It sends a flutter through his chest.
They stand up, moving towards the vendor.
“I’ll take a chocolate chip sandwich, please,” Newt asks, fishing out his wallet. As he hands the crumpled bills to the vendor, he stops. The vendor is laughing. “What?”
“Aw, nothing,” the vendor shrugs, getting the sandwich from the truck. As he’s getting the change, he decides to add, “It’s just, you know, you never care when people pet your dog there. I’ve seen it.”
Newt scowls, flustered; he’s sure Thomas can hear everything this guy’s saying. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Look, can I have my change?”
The vendor chuckles again, handing Newt his change and ice cream. “Here ya go, lovebird. Enjoy.”
Newt angrily snatches them, turning to leave before the vendor can say something else to ridiculously embarrass him.
He’s only walked a few feet when Thomas calls to him. “Hey, Newt!”
Newt turns around. “What is it?”
“I’ll see you around, yeah?”
Newt hesitates; he’s not sure what he means. Will he see him in school? At the park? Either way, Newt wants the answer to be yes.
So he nods confidently. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”
Thomas nods, too, then turns to the vendor. As Newt walks away, he hears Thomas go “I’ll have the same thing.”
Newt smiles to himself as he leads Lola down towards the dog park.
“Good girl.”
***
The image of Thomas petting Lola stays in Newt’s head the rest of the day. He barely talked to him for five minutes, and yet his silly, shaggy hair and nerdy glasses are all that Newt can think about. It leaves him jittery, anxious, and a little bit happy. So he decides to do something he hasn’t done in who knows how long; he picks up his drawing kit, some paper, and gets to work.
At first, he’s not sure where to start; he feels rusty. He hasn’t had to do any serious projects in school yet, and God knows he didn’t try anything over the summer. But soon, he’s moving across the paper like clockwork, forming the ruffles in Thomas’ hair, the reflection of the sun in Lola’s fur. It’s so vivid in his mind that he doesn’t need a photograph. Just the memory.
He stays up until 3 AM to finish it, only taking breaks to go to the bathroom or quickly wolf down a snack. He doesn’t bother to eat dinner, or shower, or do his homework. He’s so focused on this drawing, motivated in a way that he hasn’t been in a long time. Lola faithfully sits by and watches, stopping only to bring Newt his bottle of pills (a neat little trick, Newt learned, that therapy dogs can do) and sleep.
Once he decides he’s done (or as done as he can be without fidgeting over every insecurity about it) he sits back and admires it. It’s not his best work, especially considering his absence from serious drawing, but it’s not bad by a long shot. Thomas’ smile is there, radiating and warm. Lola’s paws are resting on Thomas’ thighs, and she’s licking his cheek. Newt sits there, in the dim light from his desk lamp, smiling like an idiot at the paper.
He’s starting to think that Lola knows more tricks other than fetching pill bottles.