[ the romantic tension in the train is pretty much palpable, and newt wouldn't be surprised if they were getting stares, but he honestly, at the moment, could not care less. the touch to his hip practically sends sparks through him and he watches with half lidded brown eyes, still smiling crookedly, keen gaze on the contrast between them, feeling the adoration of his touch. it's a lot to take in all at once, and quite honestly, newt's resisting the urge to hug him, to kiss him (his mouth looks extremely kissable, has he mentioned that yet? good lord.) or something. ]

Could have been. [ he agrees with him idly, gaze flicking back up to his face, hand still resting on his bicep. ] Just looks like I'm a bloody hipster, yeah? No one ever saw it 'sides my mum and friends at the beach.

[ which is implying a lot more than just "i don't like to take my shirt off", but, well. ] London born and raised.

[ he offers that as an explanation, affection coloring his smile as he rubs his thumbs over the phrase "bloody hell". minho and thomas have ragged on him a million times for saying it too much, which, he guesses he deserves.

minho and thomas--minho, and, oh shit. he glances up at the map for a second--there are maybe three stops left, and newt's struck by the overwhelming urge of how badly he doesn't want to leave, how much more he'd want to stay with this guy, and he blurts out-- ] Are you busy?