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It's something Thomas did with his friends as a kid, when everything was simpler, before college flung them apart. It started when they were twelve, or something like that, when they were still elementary aged but just barely. They all wrote down a resolution and put it in a beer bottle Minho had nicked from his parents recycle bin and promised to smash it the next year and see if anyone had been successful. None of them were, and they had too much fun laughing about all of their failed attempts to be better. Newt was closest, but it was pure luck he grew six inches that summer instead of the foot he was hoping for, so that didn't really count, but it was still fun.
They did it all through high school, even when the big, childhood core group dissolved to he, Minho, and Newt. That last New Year's Eve was sort of somber, like they knew it might be their last together just them no matter how many times they swore it wasn't, that this tradition was too important to forget about. Thomas kept the bottle that year, a coke bottle because Minho's parents became wine drinkers during sophomore year and the big bottles looked sad with only three slips of paper inside, but New Year's fell through and it stayed lonely and intact in the corner of Thomas's childhood bedroom.
They saw each other through the year, of course, during summers and fall breaks, but it never seemed to line up with all three of them at once. The trio had been reduced by distance to an ever re-organizing set of duos. The New Years of their Sophomore year of college was a bust too, Newt ended up stuck in England by some insane blizzard on the East Coast that cancelled his flight, and Minho and Thomas rang in the New Year at a party with a surprising number of their old group. Alby asked if they had a bottle to break and Thomas thought about it, but it didn't feel like tradition without Newt, so they put it off further.
Junior year, it was Thomas stuck at school, some hellish seasonal job keeping him away with the promise of double overtime that would cover an unfortunate car repair. Minho and Newt sent him pictures of their childhood treehouse in ruin and if Thomas hadn't left the bottle at home he might have broken it just to feel less left out.
Things were a little weird after that, a little tense, Thomas got the sense Newt and Minho had fought about something without him, something they didn't want to tell him about. Minho was too peppy, texted too often. Newt came to visit Thomas at school over fall break and seemed decidedly off the whole time, like he was keeping something secret. Thomas was forced to realize that it probably wouldn't ever be like it used to be, they'd never stand around and laugh at the fact Minho still hadn't gotten a date with Teresa Agnes and joke that he should probably find a new resolution next year.
Senior Year, it's Minho's turn to break tradition, his cousin is throwing some massive New Years' bash and he got roped into playing host. He invited Thomas and Newt, and they're going, but Thomas can't help but feel a little peeved about it. He brings the bottle, the glass neck of it hanging out of his deepest jacket pocket as he walks alone past parked cars lined up on both sides of the street. He wonders if they'll have a chance to sneak away at any point, but as soon as he steps inside, he realizes that's an entirely empty wish.
He leaves his coat on a pile of them in what looks like a small office right off of the entry way, checking that the bottle is secure in the pocket one last time before walking out into the crowded living room. Minho spots him, and waves him over to a bar top counter between the kitchen and living room, handing him a slightly sticky cup of punch.
"You made it! Newt had five bucks on you staying home to mope."
"Newt's here?"
"Yeah," Minho looks around the room, a manic sort of light in his eyes, like he'd like to be in the middle of the party but someone obviously put him on punch duty. He shoves a cup into someone's hand without looking up at them and they stumble away, obviously having repeated the cycle a few times at this point. "He crashed at my house last night, his parents turned his room into a home gym, apparently."
Thomas frowns, because Newt hadn't told him that. Hell, Newt hadn't even told him when his plane was landing.
And that's weird in and of itself, because it's not like with Minho, who frequently just forgets that other people aren't on the same page as him. Newt was always the organizer, the communicative one. The one Thomas would trust to pick up his little brother from school when he didn't want to tell his parents about getting another detention. That nagging thought that Newt is keeping something from him twinges in the back of his brain.
"That sucks."
"You should go find him," Minho claps Thomas on the shoulder, aiming him towards the hall. "I'll catch up to you. Probably after midnight," he frowns at the punchbowl, "because they threatened to tell my mom if I abandoned my post, but we might still be able to do something later."
Thomas wants to say that they're supposed to do it at midnight, but no one else cares anymore. The tradition is dead and Newt is keeping a secret, and Thomas is in an indefinably bad mood because of it.
"Sweet. I brought the resolutions just in case we had time."
Minho looks at him carefully, "and you honestly haven't peeked?"
"No, of course I haven't peeked." He peeked once, when they were younger, and because he was fourteen he didn't do a very good job of keeping a secret. He teased Minho about his stupid, repetitive resolution two weeks before New Year's and he can still remember the look of utter disappointment on Newt's face.
"You've had that bottle four years and you haven't peeked?"
"No, I haven't peeked. I don't need to peek to know that your resolution was a date with Brenda, and that it didn't happen."
"You really haven't peeked," Minho is unnecessarily somber when he says it. "Newt thinks you peeked."
"Is that why he's mad at me?"
"He's mad at you?"
"I don't know. I know that he doesn't talk to me unless I start the conversation, and I know that he usually asks me for a ride from the airport, but I didn't even know when his plane was getting in," Thomas chugs his punch to avoid Minho's too knowing look, flinching slightly at the burn of rum on the back of his throat. Whoever mixed the punch was feeling generous. "I don't even know if he wants to talk to me."
"God Thomas, you're such a drama queen."
"So nothing's changed," Newt appears from seemingly nowhere beside them, resting elbow on Thomas's shoulder and taking a sip of punch. He's obviously had a few, his cheeks flushed as he leans on Thomas a little too hard. "What're ya being a drama queen about this time, Tommy?"
"The usual," Minho waves them both off. "Now get away from the punch bowl, I have to be seen hosting." He hands Thomas another cup and they wander to a slightly quieter corner of the room.
Conversation comes easily, and Thomas feels stupid for thinking Newt was mad at him as they fill each other in on the past couple of months. Newt laughs at Thomas's jokes, even the really bad ones, ruffling his hair and leaning against the wall. Thomas doesn't know whether it's the punch or the volume of the party putting his brain into sensory overload, but he's noticing Newt more than he usually does.
He has a way of leaning that makes him look purposeful, while if Thomas tried the same thing he'd just look drunk. His hair is a darker shade of blonde than the last time Thomas saw him, like he hasn't been out in the sun, and his sweater sleeves are pushed up his forearms. Thomas remembers the sweater, Newt's grandma gave it to him for Christmas a couple of years ago, and no matter how many times Newt complains about itchy wool, it always ends up making an appearance around the holidays.
They both finish their cups of punch and Newt offers to go get more, his usual slight limp a bit exaggerated by the alcohol. Thomas watches after him, still aware, still concerned, and his suspicions flare anew when Minho says something that obviously angers Newt. Newt takes two cups with a sneer Thomas knows accompanies biting sarcasm, shaking his head and stalking back across the room, looking significantly closer to sober. He shoves one cup into Thomas's hand with too much force, draining half of the other in one gulp.
"What was that about?"
"Nothing."
"Yeah, it looked like nothing." Thomas scoffs, angry again. He doesn't like being kept in the dark. He doesn't like being lied to. "You and Minho are always snipping at each other—"
"Glad you noticed," Newt says it like an insult, his lip curling slightly, one sweater sleeve falling back over his hand.
"I also noticed you didn't ask me to pick you up at the airport. And you were acting weird all fall break, and—"
"I'm sick of pretending everything is normal. Just go ahead and say something about it, I'm bloody sick of waiting."
"Say something about what?"
"My buggin' resolution." Newt shakes his head, "it's been four years. You don't have to pretend you haven't seen it—"
"I haven't! Why does everyone think I would peek?"
Newt rolls his eyes at that, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's fending off a migraine.
"I mean, I thought about it, but the last time I did, you nearly burned me to death with your glare, so—"
"I can't take this anymore," Newt shakes his head, downing his punch and leaving the empty cup on a table. "Where is the bloody thing? Back at your parents' place?"
"The what—the bottle?"
"No, my bloody underpants. Yes, the bottle."
"In my coat pocket."
"Perfect, let's go," Newt grabs his arm with a grip that's shockingly gentle in contrast with his tone, dragging him towards the front door and into the room with the pile of coats. He thinks for a second before shutting the door behind them and flicking on the light.
It takes them a moment to find the coat, because apparently fifty people have arrived since Thomas and all of them were wearing black jackets, but the bottle is just where Thomas left it. He hates how nervous Newt looks when he holds it, long fingers sickly white as he examines the glass like it's some rare artifact.
"Being a senior in university is so different than high school," Newt says slowly, "now it's bloody terrifying. We've all got to get jobs and support ourselves and—but back then, it was magic. It made me feel fearless."
"Now you're starting to scare me," Thomas laughs.
"Last year," Newt continues like he doesn't hear Thomas, like this is something he rehearsed. "Last year Min and I were arseholes and we told each other what we'd written." He doesn't wait for Thomas to react, doesn't even look up to see the disappointment on his face. "He shocked the world with his, 'I will get over Brenda', by the way. But—I shocked him with mine." Newt holds the bottle over his head like he's going to smash it, before swearing under his breath and sticking his finger inside, trying to reach the paper.
"You can just tell me—"
"I will tell Tommy how I feel," Newt looks up, and the eye contact is suddenly scalding.
Thomas frowns, "how do you feel?"
Newt snorts, the bottle slipping from his hand and falling inconsequentially onto the carpet. "How do I feel? I'm in love with you, you bloody idiot. Have been since I was fifteen, and I thought I had to tell you before high school ended, and then I didn't, and then…well. Well," he looks up, a wry smile out of place with his piercing, fixed gaze, "are ya gonna run away now? Tell me you hate me?"
"I…" Thomas's jaw flaps silently, and he can't figure this out, he can't understand what Newt's saying. His best friend…in love with him?
He expects to feel something strange, for the space between them to feel awkward. He expects to start thinking about how to let him down easy, but all he can think about is how lonely this must have been for Newt. Keeping this secret while Thomas texted him about dates and girlfriends, while they laid in the same bed and played video games.
"I'll go," Newt shrugs, like none of this hurts him, like he can brush it off. "Happy New year," he checks his watch, "two minutes early."
"Wait," Thomas catches Newt's wrist, fumbling for words he can't find. "I don't care—not that. No, that's not what I mean. I do care. I care and I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be sorry," Newt frowns, "it's my bloody problem."
"No, I'm sorry that I didn't notice," Thomas stares at his feet, because for some reason looking at Newt makes it hard to think, hard to breathe. "I'm sorry that you felt you had to keep this a secret, I'm sorry you've been miserable about it and I'm sorry if Minho made it harder."
"Should have known better than to tell that git," his smile is fond, but sad, and Thomas can feel the other boy's pulse racing against his palm where he's still holding his arm. "He's been nagging me to tell you."
"You should have told me."
"Because this has been so much fun—"
Ten. Nine. Eight.
The people outside start counting down, and Thomas drops Newt's arm, because he doesn't have anything to say to make him stay. He misses the contact immediately, excruciatingly, and a stupid, wild idea flashes across his mind.
Seven. Six. Five.
His eyes dart to Newt's lips, and while he can honestly say he's never thought about kissing him before, he sort of wonders why he hasn't. His lips are redder than normal, stained slightly by punch, parted slightly with labored breathing and Thomas licks his own lips subconsciously.
Four. Three. Two.
Newt looks at him, and it hurts, everything about his expression hurts. These few minutes of confusion for Thomas equate to years of heartache for Newt and Thomas is filled with the need to make up for all that pain somehow. He was the one who looked for the secret, and he wants to fix its resulting implications.
One.
He leans in and kisses Newt all at once, and it's clumsy, because he's not used to leaning up, not used to cool, long-fingered hands that grip his shoulders with surprising strength. He weaves his hand through Newt's hair, holding them close, and when Newt starts to respond, Thomas moans low in his throat. He's never thought about kissing Newt, but he should have imagined it would be this good.
Newt pulls back first, breathing hard, locking his elbows and looking at Thomas from an arms' length away. He frowns. His cheeks are flushed and his lips kiss bruised and Thomas shrugs off the grip on his shoulders, leaning back in, his hand cupped around the back of Newt's neck as he kisses him carefully, a series of slow pecks that each convince him this was a good idea.
"Not that I'm not thrilled," Newt's hands are on his waist, and Thomas tries to find it strange. The touch is welcome, distracting even. "But I—I am a bit confused."
"I…me too," Thomas laughs, running a hand through his hair. He likes the way Newt is looking at him a little too much. "But I don't want you to regret telling me. And I really wouldn't mind kissing you again."
Newt seems to mull that over for a minute, "you're not…you're not gay."
"I guess I'm not straight either," Thomas laughs, and it should be a revelation, but it's not. It's just…he's happy that Newt looks happy.
"Happy New Year, Tommy."
"Happy New Year, Newt." He bends over and picks up the bottle, shaking the slips of paper inside around. "People are probably going to want their coats."
"What's yours say?" Newt takes the bottle from him, their hands brushing across each other with a bolt of electricity that makes Thomas flush. "It's the only secret left."
"You aren't going to believe me. It's going to sound like a bad pickup line," Thomas laughs.
Newt raises an eyebrow, "now I'm curious."
"This year, umm," he clears his throat, forcing himself to look Newt in the eye, "this year I will get laid."
Newt laughs, and slings his arm around Thomas's shoulder, and for the first time, a resolution seems truly prophetic.