Re: adrian's room: adrian m/newt p
[Newt didn't often crave touch. As a child, he'd avoided it even, when it was possible. Sometimes, when skin touched his, it felt as if he was burning. A searing, flaring pain would erupt. Flailing about and yelling, however, didn't often endear one to others, let alone angry fathers or sick mothers. Fortunately, that (likely psychosomatic) pain stopped. One day, it simply wasn't there. Or perhaps it had been for months, but he hadn't touched anyone in the interim. Whatever it was that happened, it happened, and Newt wouldn't have been able to explain it even now.—But, of course he was human, and humans did require a degree of contact, social animals that they were. Even with that, however, he didn't often crave touch. He was, even still, happy to provide Adrian with it. The other man slumped somewhat against Newt's side. He stroked his friend's shoulder soothingly.
It was warmer with the weight of the comforter, and warmth was succor against fear. The older man was settled comfortably and he was aware of the steadier, more even breaths of Adrian beside him. Until he was visited upon by the second memory. And, even after that, he wasn't uncomfortable, only somewhat disoriented.] Oh. [He blinked again.] Yes. [If he didn't sound altogether reassuring, it wasn't for lack of trying. Newt licked dry lips. His skin felt tight over his bones, but, his own weariness, such as it was, was gone for the moment, replaced by the refreshment felt by the man in the memory. He wondered who the other was. What he was.
Adrian's weight called the redhead back to the moment. He stroked the man's cheek with long, idle fingers.] It was beautiful. [He thought of the man seen in the memory, with the eyes of fire, like rubies dripping outward. His mind churned as well, and Newt attempted to recall what species—what being the man was. Beside him, Adrian wondered aloud and the older man smiled. He knew that tone in his friend's voice. It was the scientist engaging.] It's almost like a Pensieve. [But, of course, in several ways, it wasn't. The darkness of the room allowed Newt's gaze to rove unseen. His tone was thoughtful.] But, it was experienced. I don't think the real time matters, so much as the time perceived. The stories of white light, of little green men, seconds passing here, but hours, days, years, to the mind or the person. I think that's all that matters. [The question about beauty earned a smile, small.] Yes. I must have been as well. Or he. The owner of the memory. He was propositioned quite a bit. But, he only had a meal and slept.