"You should take it up again, you know," Newt says apropos of nothing one lazy afternoon. Tina turns her head to face him, finding his eyes and lips mere inches away. They are sprawled indecently over the small couch, legs at opposite ends but heads bent conspiratorially together in the middle.
He shows a smirk when she raises a confused eyebrow.
"I'm only saying," he murmurs, and sighs carefully. "Mother insisted I learn piano, and I make it a point to play for her whenever I am home." He fleetingly meets her eyes, then: "I'd be happy to play for you, should the chance ever arise."
I'd be happy to take you home, hangs unspoken between them, weighted with promise. Tina closes her eyes when she remembers that he will be leaving her again — and sooner than either of them would like. Only now, in between the words they've said and the words they haven't, she understands.
"So you'd like me to play for you, instead," she whispers, and ignores the almost audible crack that rends the scarred and battered landscape of her heart.
The click in Newt's throat loud from this proximity. He presses his lips firmly together before nodding, eyes wide. "Yes. I would." His mild face is arranged in unusually serious lines, the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks adding a boyish weight to otherwise grave features.
Tina tries very hard not to think about how long it's been since she'd practiced, and fails. "Okay," she agrees hesitantly. "Just...gimme a minute to dig the damn thing out, will you? I don't even know where my rosin is, nevermind the last time it's been tuned."
He smiles in agreement, and the press of his hand is warm and comforting when he helps her rise from the couch.
Her mother's violin is stashed under her bed, in place of pride just beneath where she lays her head. Flicking open the worn latches brings her back to childhood, as it always does, and she has to swallow down sudden tears as she reverently touches the smooth neck. The little cake of rosin is just where she had left it, tucked neatly in beside the bow, and its familiar scent fills her with a pleasantly bittersweet nostalgia.
Tina carefully rosins the bow before shedding her blazer to roll up the sleeves of her blouse, flexing her fingers to loosen them while eyeing her foe. She stretches her arms and rolls her head on her neck before finally admitting defeat, and brings the stool of Queenie's vanity over to the window before taking up the instrument.
Slotting the chin rest into place is a revelation: suddenly, despite her softened callouses and a distinct lack of practice, the years fall away when her fingers pluck out a simple 4-note warm-up tune before she's consciously aware of doing it. She fiddles with the pegs to bring it into tune, before closing her eyes to allow the rest of the world to fall away.
With a deep breath, she delicately lays the bow across the strings to tease out the first ethereal notes.
She loses herself in the music, as she always does — allowing the tension and reverb of the strings, the vibration of the lower bout through her shoulder to soothe away her concerns.
Tina's so immersed in the joy of creating aural beauty, that after she draws out the final, haunting note, her eyes fly open when a gentle and familiar voice wraps around her from behind.
"That was beautiful."
Newt's standing in the doorway, one long-fingered hand slung into his pocket, the other worrying the seam of his trousers. He's watching her through preternaturally green eyes, hair a coppery halo about his head when he steps into a late-afternoon shaft of sunlight. He drops into a crouch at her feet, carefully taking her hand in his to massage her fingers before meeting her eyes.
"That song, does it have a name? It's remarkably lovely."
Tina makes as if to look away, until he gently but firmly cups her chin and prevents it. She puts up token resistance before meeting his gaze square-on, finding him smiling at her softly through the blur of her tears. He dries her cheeks with a solemnity he rarely exhibits, and continues to watch her carefully while shifting to kneel.
His lips are dry and slightly scratchy when they brush her forehead, though his sigh takes much of the tension with it as he aligns their profiles.
Tina hesitantly threads her arms around his shoulders. "My mother never told me it's name," she says slowly. "She only said that when she played it for Pa, she was saying I love you through something other than words." She feels him hold his breath, and is forced to close her eyes lest she lose all nerve. "I think that's why it's the only song I remember how to play…"
There's a long, fearful moment when Newt doesn't move, and even the gentle rise-and-fall of his chest stops. Then, hands trembling visibly, he reaches out to reverently take hold of the violin and bow. Tina offers no resistance when he stands to place the precious instrument in its case, cradling the delicate neck with a deftness borne of long exposure to fragile things.
She watches them get tucked into their nests without protest, until he turns to her with his heart shining in his eyes.
"Music hath powers," Newt quotes without a hint of irony, and pulls her close.
There's more she could say, countless declarations clamoring at her throat—but then his mouth in on hers, his clever hands cradling her skull with similar reverence, and Tina thinks, perhaps, her mother had been a better teacher than she'd ever imagined.
That perhaps, kisses truly were a better fate than wisdom.
Author's note: You can find me on Tumblr (username: katiehavok) if that's your thing. I would recommend seeking me out there—it's the best place to find me if you wish to keep track of my works, and I always accept prompts and requests for Newt/Tina and Newt/Queenie. Thanks, as always, to Kemara for beta-reading and general encouragements.