Re: [ER: Newt & Patrick]
"I'm going to be honest with you. I've never considered the fact that men and women have different hair." This was said with astoundingly understated wryness, and Newt smiled. It was warm and teasing, and he might've said the same thing anywhere. Patrick's grin, on the other hand, was contained, and quite, by circumstance.—The rest, about Adrian, as mentioned, it was hardly worth discussing at this moment. Newt could only offer a shrug, which wasn't anything like clarity. He didn't know why Adrian had done what he'd done. He only knew that the man wasn't here now, which meant he was holed up somewhere, more than likely feeling entirely sorry for himself, as if this was all rather about him than the much younger man on the bed beside Newt. It wasn't that the concern for Patrick wasn't valid. Obviously, it was. It was that it was done, seemingly, on a whim, it was done without Adrian mentioning anything to anyone else, until badgered to do so, and it was done, Newt was sure of it, because of how Adrian felt, rather than Patrick.
But, it was obvious to Newt that Patrick was feeling badly, even before all this. He wasn't blind and he wasn't deaf, and he'd been concerned enough during his conversation with his friend. Perhaps this was inevitable, the younger man being here, but it'd been gone about the wrong way. He knew that for a fact.—"You seem to think I've not been in as many fights as I have." Newt wasn't unagile, nor was he as fragile as perhaps he looked to be. He'd been in a good number of scraps in his life. Not all of them with people, but some of them. But, if the dissonance brought a laugh to Patrick's lips, it was worth it all the same.
And actually, the bit about witnesses, when it came to the touching—that was rather the point. If and when Patrick started worrying about what others might think, it seemed to Newt a line'd been crossed, and he was trying terribly hard not to cross it. It was why he didn't realize the hand on the bed was anything like an offer. He knew what he wanted to do, but what he wanted and what ought be done were often two different things. So, he'd not taken it, and it was only when Patrick seemed to redden that Newt realized he'd missed the mark. "Oh," he said. He went red much more fully than Patrick. "May I?" Perhaps he should've let it slide. Instead, he placed his hand over Patrick's, where it sat on the younger man's stomach. His touch was light and warm, rough-palmed, but soft, and any flinch would shake him loose, and Newt thought a moment about how to answer what was uglier. "Well. Do you know, there're these creatures called thestrals. You can only see them, if you seen someone die. Otherwise, they're invisible." Which wasn't the point, but Newt couldn't quite cut to the chase. After a moment, he left it. He didn't even know why he'd mentioned it, other than to let Patrick know, he wasn't totally alone.
"I know." Utterly heartfelt, and he was sure, Newt was, that Patrick saw no way out, no way forward, nothing beyond the wall of what he felt. If his hand was still on his friend's, he gave it a squeeze as he shifted slightly on the mattress. "You can, though. I know that you can." Newt couldn't keep unbreaking eye contact, even if he wanted to, and for a moment, his gaze snapped sideways. "Are you... worried, about talking to the people here, the doctors, where you're going? Even in spite of the confidentiality? Is it enough that they'll know, to make you feel that shame about what people'll think of you?"