one shots | newtmas

𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞- 𝐫𝐲𝐧 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫

2114 words

Thomas' arm brushed Minho's as they crowded into the arena. Teresa clung to Minho's other arm, grinning as she looked around. They were a few steps away from the fence that separated them from the stage.

Brenda bumped into Thomas' other side, holding four beers between her fingers.

"How are you so good at that?" Thomas asked as he took three, handing them to Minho and Teresa, and keeping one for himself.

"Practice," she grinned.

Thomas grinned and turned back to face the stage.

The arena was full, bodies so close packed together, some people had already broken out in sweat, before the band even started playing.

Brenda slapped Thomas' arm excitedly when the low lights turned all the way off.

"They're starting!" she squealed.

Thomas glanced at each of his friends eagerly before his gaze settled on the stage. being so close, he could see the dark outlines of people walking on stage. Thomas bit his lip in anticipation, tapping the side of his beer.

Minho nudged Thomas' side with his elbow, grinning stupidly at him in the dim lighting.

"Oh shut up." Thomas rolled his eyes and took a sip.

After a minute or two of darkness, light lip up the stage, illuminating the band members.

Thomas' eyes instantly locked on the slender blond man. Newt. Even after looking at him for years, Thomas would never get over how hot the blond was. His arms were thin yet well muscled, the skin covered in detailed ink. A dark metal ring hung in his bottom lip, his dirty blond hair falling stylishly into his dark brown eyes.

The brunet in the crowd stared up at him in awe.

Newt wore an old Metallica shirt and ripped skinny jeans, the same kind of clothes he wore four years ago when they first met. His eyes met Thomas' and he shot him a familiar smirk.

He shifted his guitar strap so it hung comfortably against his body. Another band member, who's famous nickname was Frypan, walked up to the microphone.

"Let's make some noise!"

The reaction his words got was deafening. Thomas and his friends screamed as loud as they could. No one could hear anything over the numbing noise of the audience.

Thomas grinned like an idiot when Newt's fingers moved along the neck of the guitar with ease, strumming out the first few chords of the song.

Newt's band was a cover band. They were called Wicked. This was their first real performance, in front of an audience this big.

The band played Wonderwall by Oasis as their opening. Thomas had heard them play it a million times back home in dingy bars and open mic nights before they'd gotten their big break.

Brenda and Teresa belted the lyrics at the top of their lungs, not sounding half bad. Thomas and Minho tired singing but their voices were not having it. That didn't matter to either of them. The people in this band were their friends and they were here to support them. They sung as loud and as horribly as they could.

Frypan took a step back from the mic and Thomas watched in absolute awe as Newt took a step forwards, breaking out into the guitar solo.

Thomas watched with an open mouth, hearing the rest of the crowd scream. Newt had never looked more in his element than when he was playing the guitar. And now the rest of the world got to see it.