Tina isn't quite sure why she's here, or how, even, but all she knows for sure is that she has his name now.
When she looks into his eyes, she almost believes she's up on the roof again with him, the wind rushing around and through them until they couldn't feel their bones anymore. His smile is almost the endearingly crooked grin he'd throw her way when he caught her gaze. His touch is almost the warm, assuring grip on her hand, callouses and scars etched like constellations in his skin.
Tina's tired of so many almosts.
She watches from what seems like a hundred miles away as Theseus bends, his lips brushing delicately against the back of her hand, and feels a splinter of her heart shatter as his (almost) eyes meet hers.
Newt doesn't know why he's stopped, or how, even, but as he wanders along the streets in a daze with no particular place in mind, he wonders if it wouldn't be better to resume the chase.
The past several months were cold, empty—even with the jubilant celebrations following the eagerly-awaited battle victory, he couldn't bring himself to enjoy the frenzied relief of the world. He'd tossed invitation after gilded invitation into the fire without sparing a single cursory glance at the sender's address; to his bitter triumph, the owls eventually dwindled away.
("Those Lestranges are quite the heartbreakers," his mother remarks absentmindedly. He promptly spins on his heel and leaves the room, ignoring her baffled calls.)
He slinks unnoticed into the nearest pub and stays for what feels like decades, hiding from the world, hiding from himself.
In a past life, he had called it home.
It's the first time he's stepped onto the estate for years. He's always tried to avoid it when he could; he was never too fond of it. To be honest, he hates it, and a bitterness enters his mouth when he remembers Tina lives there now. Tina, who has always hated large, ostentatious spaces, who much prefers her tiny brownstone over a mansion, who is now Mrs. Theseus Scamander.
Of course, the house could have been his.
He forgets his bitterness when he's greeted by warm arms and a distinctive floral aroma, a mellow voice murmuring near his ear as he holds her tight and memorizes the feel of her lithe body pressed against his. Despite the trying years, she still looks the same—soft lineaments, short bob, willowy figure, but he can't help but notice the alarmingly dark circles under her eyes.
"Theseus is away," she informs him as she pulls away. "Berlin."
"How is he? Not too stressed, I hope?"
Tina shrugs. "You should know," she retorts. "He's your brother."
"And he's... treating you well?" he tries carefully, studying her eyes. They narrow for the slightest second, but she smiles quickly and nods.
"Well, I can't say I'm not glad to see you," she confesses as she leads him to the kitchen. The tea set is already laid out neatly on the table. "But it was certainly a surprise. I mean..." She huffs an unconvincing laugh. "Three years, Newt? Don't you think that's a bit..."
"I know," he interrupts, forcing a smile. "Theseus calls me a Scrooge."
Tina rolls her eyes and flicks her wand at the tea set. "He has every right to call you that, you know," she chides him as the tea brews. "You've missed out on every party, every family gathering, even during the holidays..."
She falls silent, shifting her gaze to her lap, and Newt suddenly knows her next words with a surge of guilt.
"The wedding," says Tina at the same time he says, "I'm sorry I didn't go."
"It's alright," she says quietly, but her eyes say otherwise.
I didn't want to hurt you.
Lies, Newt. You didn't want to hurt yourself.
"How are the creatures?" Her voice is strained, but she plasters a smile anyways.
"Fine."
"The erumpent?"
"She's faring wonderfully."
"And her children?"
Newt knows they aren't talking about his creatures anymore, but manages a nod, swallowing the growing lump in his throat.
Tina stares at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. He knows better than to leave with an abrupt apology, but what more can he say? Or rather—what can't he say? Instead, he ignores the taunting glint of gold and silver on her left hand and boldly covers it with his own. "I loved you," he blurts out, and is promptly horrified by his own nerve. "I'm afraid I still do."
The teapot halts its whistling, silently tipping its contents into the two teacups. Neither are touched.
"This is hardly a time to be telling me this," says Tina finally, and his heart sinks at the immediate tenseness under his palm.
"Please," he begs without thinking, and suddenly he's the lost sixteen-year-old of his past. "Please say it."
Tina shakes her head and swipes her eyes briefly before tugging her hand away, and he desperately clutches at it, knocking the teapot over in the act. Tina flinches back, wide-eyed, as it shatters into a thousand fragments just inches from her feet, searing liquid splashing over marble.
"Tina—"
She looks at him, the corners of her delicate lips trembling. A lusty wail floats from the nursery.
"I can't," she whispers brokenly, and with the scrape of her chair and the click of heels against tile, she's gone.
There's too many scars for him to remember how he got each one, but he vividly remembers one in particular that doesn't mark his own body.
"It's a small price to pay," she'd say dismissively when she would see fresh cuts lining his hands, his arms, his chest.
He wondered what would serve as the ultimate price, if it embodied real pain, if it would destroy him.
He thought he had the worst of it when he ran to the back of the greenhouses, clutching his torn shoulder and leg and trying to ignore the faint spots dancing in his vision. She helped him patch it up after stifling a fit of giggles. "All that, from a Sevelox?"
He didn't quite know why, but he laughed too.
"It's a small price to pay," he echoed. She smiled, and suddenly, everything seemed to be worth it.
He couldn't say the same when he visited the hospital wing the next day.
She wouldn't meet his gaze. "Just a nasty scratch, that's all," she muttered as she hastily tugged the sheets over her arm, but not before he managed to glimpse a wide, crimson slash. She immediately ordered him out of the room once she saw his face, and he sworn he could've heard a sob as he shut the door behind him.
He could call it a small price to pay, but he'd be lying to himself.
Newt learned that day what real pain was.
It was worse than any scratch, any broken bone, any venomous bite. Worse than when Theseus had shoved him down a steep flight of stairs, worse than when his father had locked him out the house for four days, worse than when he saw his mother break down in tears for the first time in eight years.
Newt Scamander thought he had nothing to lose. Nothing at all.
("Don't worry about me," she said nonchalantly, stuffing potions into an already bulging schoolbag. "Jarveys can't harm a hair on my head.")
As he watched the heavy iron gates clang shut with finality from the carriage window, he realized just how much had already been lost.
They could call it a game, but it wasn't, really.
It wasn't a game when what had started out as playful kisses along the jaw and neck suddenly morphed into something inexplicably urgent, something far more heated and frighteningly real.
It wasn't a game when they would collapse breathlessly onto the bed, slick with sweat and sex, stroking through the sheets and seeking each other's lips in their sleep.
It wasn't a game when at night, he'd murmur her name out loud in the darkness, over and over like a prayer, just to keep the loneliness from festering him.
("Checkmate!" Theseus crows, and he knocks Newt's white king off the chessboard with a triumphant flick of the wrist.)
"Why can't she come back now?"
"Shh. Go to sleep, monkey. Go back to sleep." Newt reaches over to flick the light off, but little Aurelie clambers over his chest and tugs insistently on his hair. He winces—it hasn't been combed in ages and he knows it's his own fault, but he can't bring himself to prioritize his presentability in these times.
"When is she coming back home?" she asks imploringly, her eyes wide with innocent fear. He feels an acute pang in his chest as he knows those eyes, the same ones that had begged for him to stay and remember her.
He gathers Aurelie close to his chest and buries his face in her wild mane of raven hair, tremors working through his limbs. "Soon, little one," he whispers, and he knows he's right when his eyes latch onto the locket on the nightstand.
"Soon."
A/N: Toska is a Russian word that is virtually untranslatable.
Vladimir Nabokov (author of Lolita) described toska as followed:
"No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom."
This will likely be a two-part work; I can't guarantee when the next chapter comes out since I'm rather busy at the moment.
As always, thank you so much for reading. Feedback is always appreciated!
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