summer slipped us (underneath her tongue)

by tigerlilycorinne

Mr. Scamander licks his finger clean and makes a small, pleased sound, his blue eyes fluttering, and Credence loses his breath. Mr. Scamander scoops up more honey from the hive. "Here." Or: Credence and Newt are neighbors. Newt is a beekeeper, Credence is a gardener, and they're both pining.

Credence doesn't really know what it's like to live independently.

He's not sure… what qualifies, exactly, as independently, but he's pretty sure it's not this: getting legal help from your next door neighbor every time you need to do taxes, calling your next door neighbor and apologetically asking them if they know how Credence can find someone to fix the pipes, going grocery shopping with your next door neighbor because you don't know how to meal-plan weeks and you've been eating dinner with him every night since the day you moved in.

Even Credence's livelihood depends, in a way, on his next door neighbor's livelihood, Newt Scamander, who is a beekeeper.

And Credence, he's a gardener.

To be fair, Mr. Scamander's livelihood also depends on Credence's, but that hardly seems to matter. Beekeepers, Credence read once, can move around a lot, to different spots that serve their bees better, or to places with specific plants, so they can produce specific honey.

Gardeners, they don't move quite so much.

"I don't think that's a fair assessment." Mr. Scamander—this stick of a man, red hair and freckles and unfairly long limbs, stunningly pretty—is smiling this little smile, ducking his head and looking up through his lashes the way he often does. "Your plants would get pollinated either way."

Credence has brought it up before—not the co-dependence part, the job-dependence part (he keeps the co-dependence part to himself)—and Mr. Scamander's insistent that his bees make no difference to Credence's success.

They're eating dinner now, which is always the highlight of Credence's day. Tonight is spaghetti with homemade sauce that Credence helped about 10% with and watched for the other 90% as Mr. Scamander put it together. They're sitting on Mr. Scamander's big porch in little wooden rocking chairs, their plates in their laps, mostly looking at the rows of flowers in front of Credence's house instead of each other.

A couple bees buzz around the roses, even though evening is falling and most of the colony has returned to the boxes in Mr. Scamander's back yard. Credence planted the rose bushes in the front the year he moved in, and somehow, three years later, they're still alive. More than that, his continually expanding vegetable and fruit garden is also still alive, and so prosperous he makes a living out of selling the produce.

"I was never able to keep plants alive before I moved next door to you," Credence admits. "I couldn't even grow ivy, and ivy grows itself."

Mr. Scamander makes a surprised sound next to him. "Your ivy died?" he asks, as if he can't quite believe it. "You have a magic touch."

It's a struggle to stop ivy from growing, and no one knows it better than Mr. Scamander, who has had an ongoing battle with the ivy crawling up the sides of his house for as long as Credence has known him. If he doesn't cut the ivy down with regularity, it moves to cover his entire home in a matter of months, giving it the appearance of an abandoned cottage in the woods. But no matter how many times he tries to pull the ivy by the roots, it's somehow always there again after a week or two.

"But I wanted the ivy to grow." Credence bites his lip. "Miss Lou wanted the ivy to grow."

The air seems to quiet. The gentle breeze doesn't stop, and the bees don't stop buzzing, but somehow the space between Mr. Scamander and Credence goes still. They don't talk too much about Mary Lou, mostly because Credence doesn't like to talk about it. Mr. Scamander listens when Credence does say something, but he never brings it up himself, and Credence appreciates that.

Sometimes, though, like now, he wishes he could just transplant the knowledge into Mr. Scamander's brain, so that he could know without them having to discuss it.

"She wanted an arch in the front yard of the church. With ivy." Credence picks at his spaghetti, unsure why he's still talking about this. "It died. Ivy."

"Ivy," Mr. Scamander repeats beside him. He sounds nervous, like he's not sure what to say—what he's supposed to say. "I'm sorry it died."

Credence shrugs and glances at Mr. Scamander's way. Mr. Scamander looks sad. "Now look at me." He gestures to his house. "You're my magic touch."

Mr. Scamander breathes out a little laugh, but Credence isn't joking. Mr. Scamander has turned his life around. "You're mine," Mr. Scamander says politely, but Credence knows it isn't true. He's more trouble than he's worth, Credence is. Always asking for help, always losing his way, always keeping Mr. Scamander around because he's so hopeless Mr. Scamander can't help but stay.

Mr. Scamander used to travel a lot. The way beekeepers do.

He liked to cultivate specific honey, dozens of different floral types. Mr. Scamander has stories about them—the flowers in the mountains, the disastrous attempts at trying to make honey from them, the places he's gone to make wildflower honey and clover honey and even coffee honey, which Credence would never have guessed was a thing.

He'd move every year to try something new.

And now he's been here for three years.

"What will you do when you leave, then?" Credence asks. "If I'm your magic touch."

Which he's not. Somehow, Mr. Scamander's honey from his travel years is gloriously flavorful, beautifully unique; Credence hadn't known before, but the type of flower clearly makes a difference on the final product. Mr. Scamander's honey sells for unbelievable prices.

Except right now he's producing unremarkable honey, for his standards, because Credence's garden is so mixed and its contents are so common.

Credence is his unmagic touch. His absolutely normal, ordinary touch.

But Mr. Scamander answers this question the same way every time Credence finds a way to worm it into the conversation, trying to figure out how much longer he has to prepare for letting Mr. Scamander go: "How could I leave you?"

And he says it sweetly, but it isn't as if he doesn't know Credence needs him. It makes Credence feel guilty and achingly warm at the same time.

"You'll have to someday," Credence says, frowning.

Mr. Scamander stares down at his food. "Hmm."

Credence twirls the last strands of his spaghetti around his fork. "Will you come to the grocery store tomorrow with me? My fridge is getting low." It isn't. It's actually relatively well stocked, but there's room for more. More importantly, tomorrow is the first Tuesday of the month, and that's the day the local grocery store buys honey off of Mr. Scamander. Mr. Scamander always manages to fumble the operation, somehow.

Credence asked, once, what he did when he had to sell on his own, but Mr. Scamander had explained that larger chains often bought in bulk, just once, and that was easier to navigate.

Another way Credence has made Mr. Scamander's life more difficult—it's the least he can do to be there to help.

"I'd be happy to!" Mr. Scamander smiles, and Credence's heart skips a beat. "I'm going to drop off some honey tomorrow, but I think you know that. It wouldn't be out of my way at all."

"I know. I'm going to drag you to the grocery store sometime this week." Credence shrugs. "It's convenient."

Mr. Scamander's cheeks are pink, his eyes sparkling. "Mmm. Convenient."

At three in the afternoon the next day, Mr. Scamander shows up at Credence's door with a cart stacked with several boxes of honey jars at the bottom of Credence's steps, his red hair curling over his forehead. He's chewing on the corner of his bottom lip when Credence opens the door, but he smiles when he catches sight of Credence, his eyes lighting up.

"Hello," he says, in his British-ish voice. He's from here, Britain, but he's stayed in so many different places that it's been partly washed away by the influence of other accents. "Are you ready to go?"

Credence was ready to go at two, which is when they'd planned for, but he just nods, lifting a cloth bag full of cloth bags over his shoulder and stepping out onto his porch, locking the door behind him. "May I drive?" Mr. Scamander is catastrophically distracted on the road. "Your car, um…"

"Oh yes." Mr. Scamander's facial expression and tone are peculiar, his eyes fond. "I know how much you like my car. Please, by all means."

Mr. Scamander holds out his ring of keys to Credence, dangling it from one long finger so he can lower it into Credence's palm with minimal jingle. He doesn't like the jingling. So when Credence locates the car key, he holds the rest of them in his fist as he unlocks the car and puts the key into the ignition.

"I'm really sorry for being so late," Mr. Scamander says sincerely, when they're on the road. He runs his fingers over the lines of the glove compartment. "I thought I'd packed all the honey boxes, and I really thought I'd checked to make sure I had—"

"It's alright," Credence says, tightening his fingers on the wheel. Mr. Scamander sounds so earnest and guilty and Credence knows from spending so much time with Mr. Scamander that he really genuinely tries to keep everything in order. And Mr. Scamander feels bad when things end up out of order. And Credence hates it when Mr. Scamander feels bad. "It's really alright."

He'd watered some of the vegetables while he waited, and set the water on one of his fruit trees before Mr. Scamander showed up.

"No, I'm sorry for keeping you waiting."

"No, it's okay."

Mr. Scamander does another of those breath-laughs that make Credence's stomach flutter. "Will you let me buy you an iced coffee or something, at least?"

Credence's stomach flutters more vigorously. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Mr. Scamander beams at him.

Credence nearly drives off the road.

When they get there, they have about an hour before Newt's meeting, so they shop first.

"What do you think you want this week?" Mr. Scamander asks, pushing the cart through the isles.

Credence waffles. And waffles. And waffles. And Mr. Scamander just accompanies him down the isles, smiling patiently.

"We could make your favorite," Credence suggests, as he often does, motioning to the corn tortillas. "I like tacos."

Mr. Scamander frowns. "No you don't. You tolerate them because I like them."

That's true. "Let's have—"

"Credence." Mr. Scamander's mouth is turned up again. "No tacos. Let's get… Credence, the sushi-grade tuna is on sale."

That's Credence's favorite. He never got that sort of thing when he was in the foster-care system, because quality sushi is a little expensive, and the first time he had sushi he'd fallen in love with it. Mr. Scamander had been there.

But it is expensive.

Mr. Scamander catches Credence hesitating, and his smile widens, because he knows he's won. "Come on."

In the end, Mr. Scamander has gotten them a decent-sized piece of sushi tuna, as well as the fancy glass-jar milk Credence likes, Credence's guilty pleasure—frozen four-cheese pizza—and three watermelons ("You love watermelons, Credence.") He justifies these purchases to Credence by writing out their costs and carefully suggesting other items that are on a discount, showing Credence as he balances the budget.

Credence looks at Mr. Scamander as Mr. Scamander hauls the watermelons into his cart, his biceps flexing.

"Thank you," he says as they check out. "Next time we get tacos."

Mr. Scamander sighs. "You don't like tacos," he says, as if this is an offence. "You care more about what you eat than I do."

They make their way to the back room after storing their bags in the trunk of Mr. Scamander's car.

"That's a kind way of saying I'm picky," Credence points out.

Mr. Scamander shakes his head, the curls on his head tumbling again. He holds the door open for Credence, putting his hand on the small of Credence's back as they make their way down the hallway, which feels much warmer after wandering around in the cold grocery store for so long. "You just enjoy your food," he says, his eyes bright. "I love it when you get to eat what you want. You look so happy."

"I didn't used to," Credence says. "Miss Lou."

Mr. Scamander is quiet again. "All the more reason to make sure you get to eat anything you like," he murmurs, knocking on the door to the back. His voice is warm and soft. His hand is still on the small of Credence's back.

The meeting to sell the honey is pretty simple, really. They go over how much has been sold last month, and therefore how much they're going to be buying for this month. As a small grocery store, they can't afford to overbuy too much, and Mr. Scamander is very cooperative. Credence thinks they rather take advantage of it—plenty of their other suppliers don't sell this closely to the store's needs—but Mr. Scamander always says it's no trouble.

Credence chimes in a little here and there as they talk about pricing and display and all that, and in the end, everything goes by with barely a hitch.

"That was rather an episode," Mr. Scamander says from the passenger seat as Credence drives them back. "It always is, isn't it?"

Credence blinks. "What, the sale? It was hardly any trouble."

Mr. Scamander just smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "My champion."

Credence goes hot. He focuses back on the road.

When they get back home, Mr. Scamander helps carry the groceries into their respective homes, taking all the heaviest bags. Credence watches him do it, his throat dry. Mr. Scamander is much stronger than his skinny limbs would suggest, and Credence doesn't even know why, because his lifestyle doesn't entail any heavy lifting.

To be fair, Credence's job requires heavy lifting—boxes of fruits and vegetables piled in the back of his pick-up truck every weekend so he can transport them to the local farmer's market—and Mr. Scamander insists on helping him with those boxes.

"Thank you for shopping with me," Credence says when Mr. Scamander puts down the last bag just inside Credence's doorway and straightens, breathing just a little heavier than normal. "Please, let's not split the bill, you only chose things I like."

They always split the grocery bill, because they eat together so often, and so they plan their meals together, and so. But Mr. Scamander always manages to fit in Credence's favorites and pay for half of it anyway. At check out, they asked the purple-haired cashier if they could split it, and the cashier—clearly new—hesitated, so Credence had paid for them, fully aware that Mr. Scamander would hound him about paying for half later.

Sure enough, Mr. Scamander shakes his head. "Consider it a thank you for helping me out."

They argue over it a little bit more, but eventually Credence lets Mr. Scamander pay for half of it, because he really is adamant. It's nearly time for them to start cooking dinner—it's Credence's turn, and they'll be eating on Credence's porch—so they say an awkward goodbye and head back in.

It's always an awkward goodbye for them.

It's partly because they're neighbors—are they friends? Are they just friendly neighbors? Are they housemates who live in different houses? Are they… something else? (No, they're not, but Credence gets this feeling, sometimes, like there's something intangible and unexplainable between them. It makes goodbyes even more awkward.)

It's partly because they have dinner together every evening. It's hardly a goodbye; it's more of a see you later or see you tomorrow. But everything, for neighbors, is a see you later, and it feels strange, wrong, to never properly say a goodbye. It's like leaving the phone call running, but walking away from the phone.

It's partly because the two houses seem unnecessary. The parting ways seems unnecessary. It feels like oh, we're doing this again? This is weird. This doesn't make sense.

But they say goodbye every time they get together during the day, and goodnight after dinner every night.

Credence makes the sushi and does, in fact, enjoy it very much. Mr. Scamander keeps looking at him, as if clocking his enjoyment, and smiling and smiling and smiling, that little head down, eyes up smile. They say goodnight, and Credence watches the lights flick on in Mr. Scamander's windows, through his white curtains, and then, a couple hours later, flick back off.

The next day, Mr. Scamander makes the frozen four cheese pizza.

The next week, Credence makes sure they get tacos. Watching Mr. Scamander's eyes light up, he thinks he knows what Mr. Scamander means when he says he likes Credence getting to eat what he wants.

Mr. Scamander chops up the watermelon with his sleeves rolled up and his forearms flexing, and sticks the slivers in the fridge. They break out the cold slices over the next couple of weeks, on the hottest days. Mr. Scamander's always flushed and sweaty around the edges of his curly hair because of his beekeeping hat and veil.

"Isn't it meant to be breathable? Good for hot weather?" Credence asks, because he'd have expected so, given how much beekeeping beekeepers are doing specifically in summer.

Mr. Scamander has his hat in his hand, fanning himself gently, leaning against Credence's kitchen counter. They're both looking out the window, watching the bees buzz around the roses in the front yard, a whole mass of them. This is what it's like, living right next to a bee colony, with a bunch of flowers all around your house. The faint, ever-present humming sound is one that Credence has come to associate with summer.

Mr. Scamander puts the hat down on Credence's counter, and Credence winces. The hat is white, and the counter has dirt on it. But Mr. Scamander doesn't seem to mind. "I reckon it's more breathable than it could've been, but it's hardly an ice-pack around my head. I imagine they could've made the veil solid material, instead of this…" He rubs the mesh against itself.

"Mesh?"

"Mesh," Mr. Scamander agrees. "But god, it's hot anyway."

Credence wanders over to the living room, to where the thermostat is, and turns up the AC.

"Oh," Mr. Scamander says. Moans, really. He's standing right under the AC. "God, Credence…"

"It's not that hot," Credence says, voice scratchy. Mr. Scamander looks good hot, with his cheeks and neck flushed against his white shirt and his curls a little messier, and his tendency to lick his lips more often. Credence loves that about summer. He obviously doesn't say it. "The heat is kind of nice."

"You can try on the outfit and step outside for a day with the bees if you'd like," Mr. Scamander offers, his tone only half joking. "Perhaps then you'd come to appreciate your air conditioning as much as it deserves."

Mr. Scamander's house doesn't have any AC, and he always lights up like a Christmas tree whenever Credence invites him in on hot summer days. Nearly all the summer days are hot, so Credence finds himself inviting Mr. Scamander in more days than he doesn't, and they sit inside, sipping cold drinks—iced tea for Mr. Scamander, iced coffee for Credence.

Mr. Scamander, who knows Credence is half in love with his iced coffee, offers him some on every occasion. As an apology for being late (which Credence could never hold against him anyway), as a casual celebration for the anniversary of Credence moving in, as a thank-you for helping Mr. Scamander through another one of his honey-selling meetings. And still Credence never gets tired of his iced coffee, or the smile Mr. Scamander gets when he sees Credence drinking one.

"I will," Credence says, also half-joking. Because he's not sure which to choose: joking or serious. He has wondered, sometimes, what it might be like to be Mr. Scamander. Covered head to toe, lifting boxes full of beeswax and live bees. It must take a certain sort of bravery, he's always thought, to get in the middle of that cloud of bees, no matter how much you trust the bees or how much you think the bees trust you. "I'll come over tomorrow."

"You should!" Mr. Scamander sounds delighted.

And so Credence does.

He shows up at the side gate to Mr. Scamander's back yard in the early afternoon, wearing trousers and a loose T-shirt because he's not sure whether the beekeeper thing goes over or in the place of clothes.

Mr. Scamander's already there, at the edge of the gate, his face mostly obscured by the thin veil over his face and the shadow from the brim of his hat. He unlatches the gate and lets Credence in with a bright "hello" and a lot of shuffling. The bees buzz all around Mr. Scamander, as if he is their hive.

"Here," he says, slipping off the baggy white overshirt. He's wearing a shirt underneath, so Credence puts the white beekeeper's coat on top. "You're lucky you're about as tall as me."

He's not, really. Credence is a couple inches shorter than Mr. Scamander, and the sleeves are a little long. Mr. Scamander's quite tall.

The bees swarm around the boxes. Credence can smell the honey from here, but over that, he can smell Mr. Scamander on the coat—this gentle, homey scent, like baking spices and rose scented soap. Credence wants to bury himself in it.

Credence has come to see Mr. Scamander's bees before, wearing his own jacket and Mr. Scamander's hat, and he wishes he could've worn this. It feels like he's Mr. Scamander's… something.

"Come here," Mr. Scamander says, holding his hand out towards Credence. Credence slips his hand into Mr. Scamander's, bare skin on bare skin, because Mr. Scamander's gloves are tucked into the back pocket of his trousers. Mr. Scamander draws Credence close, takes off his beekeeper hat—he is smiling, this wide, nervous smile (he's always sweetly nervous, Mr. Scamander). "Here." He settles it on Credence's head, fiddling with the veil, settling it around Credence's face.

It's easier to see through than it looks, but it does shade Credence's face, which is a relief in the summer sun. Mr. Scamander doesn't look like he's overheating yet, though he is a little flushed, but he looks relieved to be out of the coat.

"Gloves…" Mr. Scamander pulls them out of his back pocket, handing them to Credence. The fingers of his gloves are too long for Credence and they bend when Credence brushes his fingertips against the hive box. "Do you want me to open it? Or you can open it, if you like."

There's a hole in the side of the hive box, where the bees can fly in and out—a thin, steady stream goes to and from the direction of Credence's backyard, but Credence has watched Mr. Scamander open the box before, taking the top carefully off, and it always causes an explosion of bees coming up and out in every which direction.

"I'll do it," he says.

Mr. Scamander doesn't have on any real protection—even his shirt, a light blue button down, leaves his arms bare. They're very freckly. Credence is glad the veil obscures his face, and, more specifically, the direction he's looking.

There are several boxes stacked on top of each other, each a hive box, and the bees can fly from one to another. Credence lifts the lid off the top box gently, turning it carefully so that the honeycomb side faces up, preventing it from dripping.

Sure enough, a cloud of bees rises from the open box, buzzing around Credence, almost as if curious, before shooting off in a dozen different directions, mostly Credence's yard.

"Hello," Credence says, setting the top down, honey side still up. The air smells thickly of sugar now, of nectar. "Hello, all of you."

Mr. Scamander makes a soft, happy noise, steps up behind Credence, looking down at the bees as well, his bottom lip sucked into his mouth. His shoulder brushes Credence's. "They say hello back," he says, and that's so endearing, Credence feels as if he's going to burst.

"Hello," he says again, helplessly.

Mr. Scamander, with his bare hand, reaches slowly into the hive. "Honey?"

Credence can hardly look. There are bees crawling all over his hand—but he comes up without a sting and a fingerful of very liquid honey.

"This is how it is straight out," Mr. Scamander tells him, letting it run down his index finger. He licks it clean and makes a small, pleased sound, his blue eyes fluttering, and Credence loses his breath. Mr. Scamander scoops up a fingerful on his pinky and holds it out to Credence with an earnest smile. "Here."

He lifts Credence's veil like a wedding veil with his other hand, draping it back. Credence can't speak. Mr. Scamander is very close, and his lips are wet, and he's holding out his finger for Credence to lick.

"It tastes different like this," he explains, as Credence leans hesitantly forward. "There's rather a process to get this stuff to become the kind of honey you buy on the shelves, but this is exquisite, I promise, it's—"

Credence takes Mr. Scamander's pinky finger into his mouth, and Mr. Scamander's sentence breaks off abruptly.

He's right, Mr. Scamander. Of course he is. The honey is completely different like this—it's not even the same thing, this sweet liquid and the thick syrupy stuff from the grocery store. It's a little bit more acidic, tastes almost citrusy. He imagines this is much more like what nectar tastes like—thinner, brighter, sharper.

He tries not to think about Mr. Scamander's finger. It's knobby at the knuckle and soft and firm and his nail is smooth—

"You're right," he says, coming away. Mr. Scamander's pinky is shiny. Ew, he thinks faintly, poor Mr. Scamander. "It's very good."

"Hmm." Mr. Scamander looks hot now, flushed completely red. "Um… Ah… do you—shall I? Would you like more?"

Why not drive myself absolutely insane, Credence thinks, and nods.

That's how they spend the next half hour: Mr. Scamander dipping his fingers into the honey and Credence licking Mr. Scamander's fingers clean, and then vice versa. At first, when Credence asks if Mr. Scamander's going to have any, Mr. Scamander just shrugs.

"I have honey from the hive any time I like," he says. "We should have it with our watermelon sometime."

Credence agrees.

Mr. Scamander, after Credence asks hesitantly, shows Credence how to get a honey on his finger. It's not extraction—that, Credence has seen, is a complicated process—just for small amounts for Mr. Scamander to indulge himself. He reaches in, careful not to alarm the bees, and presses the tip of his finger against the tiny rows of hexagons, bending the beeswax structure so the honey will run onto his finger.

"It's fine," he says about the smushed honeycomb left behind. "That's barely anything to them. I mean, it's truly nothing."

Credence spends a little more time waffling, and then he pulls his glove off, reaching in very, very slowly.

"It doesn't need to be that slow," Mr. Scamander says, but he's teasing.

Several bees land on the back of Credence's hand, and Credence freezes. Living next door to the best friend he has, a beekeeper, gardening for a living, it's not like he hasn't had bees land on him before. But he's never invaded the home of hundreds of bees before. Or had six bees on his hand at the same time.

There's a moment, and then Mr. Scamander's arm slips gently around Credence's waist, barely there. It's much more comforting than Credence thinks Mr. Scamander realizes.

"You're alright. They won't sting you," Mr. Scamander says earnestly.

Credence laughs quietly. "Are you sure?"

"Hey, they like you!"

"Sure they do," Credence says, but he's warm inside. What that really means, he knows, is that Mr. Scamander likes him. It's a nice thing to know.

He brushes his finger against the walls of the box, which are coated in the honeycomb, harder than he'd expected it to be, after watching Mr. Scamander press the honeycomb in. It's strong. It's actually rather structurally impressive.

"Are you sure this is okay?" he asks, looking back over at Mr. Scamander. Mr. Scamander is so close.

"I just did it a dozen times," Mr. Scamander replies. The corners of his eyes are crinkling. Go ahead, it's alright."

Credence glances at Mr. Scamander one more time—he's giving Credence a patient smile again, pressing his hand gently against Credence's back. "They're not going to be upset that I'm wrecking their work?"

Mr. Scamander blinks, bemused. "They don't exactly have the same sense of justice as humans do," he says, amused. "They'll respond to a threat to the hive. This isn't quite a threat to the hive, and they're used to me doing it. Besides, if you get stung, I promise to make it up to you with as many iced coffees as you like."

"You already get me as many iced coffees as I like," Credence replies.

A few of the bees on his hand have left, and a few more have taken their place. None of them are moving particularly urgently, although to be fair, Credence doesn't know how to read the movements of bees particularly well.

He pushes the honeycomb in—it feels a little bit like very thin cardboard in strength, bending—and liquid honey spills over his fingers. It's cool against his skin, and the bees leave it alone. They don't even bother him when he pulls his hand out, taking some of their honey with him.

"Oh," Credence says, as the last bee leaves his hand, flying back into the hive. "Bye."

Mr. Scamander's mouth twitches. He likes it when Credence talks to the bees, Credence suspects.

"Thank you for the honey," he says to the hive, just to see.

Sure enough, Mr. Scamander's smile breaks out again. Credence's heart flutters.

"Here," he says impulsively, offering his index finger to Mr. Scamander. "Come on, have some."

Mr. Scamander's blue eyes go wide. His pink cheeks go pinker. "I—well, I." But after some stammering, he accepts.

Having someone else's mouth around his finger feels very different from having his own mouth around his finger, Credence realizes. Everything is unexpected. Mr. Scamander's mouth is warm and wet and his lips are soft and his tongue is strangely… gentle. Slow. Credence didn't know what he expected. It feels a little weird, but in a good way.

It feels like Mr. Scamander is kissing his finger with tongue.

He basically is.

In the end, the experiment to see whether the heat is truly unpleasant because of the beekeeper's coat and hat is inconclusive. Credence feels too hot for other reasons to be able to tell.

Later that night, as the temperature goes down, Credence watches Mr. Scamander's lights flicker off and runs his fingers over his mouth. He's washed them, of course, but he still feels tingly.

That's not really the kind of thing mildly friendly neighbors do, he thinks.

Nevertheless, it becomes kind of a thing.

They're right next door, so it's not like it's a huge journey for Credence to go over to Mr. Scamander's back yard upon invitation. And they see each other every night for dinner, so there's no shortage of opportunities for Mr. Scamander to offer an invitation. And Credence clearly enjoys it—both the honey and the strange intimacy of feeding it to Mr. Scamander vice versa.

And they've already done it, so why not do it again?

So Credence goes over once or twice a week, and they do the strange honey-sharing thing.

Once Credence shows up with roses from his garden as a thank you—a piece of my yard for a piece of yours—and Mr. Scamander's so delighted that Credence does it again and again. After a couple weeks of that, whenever he goes into Mr. Scamander's house to help him cook, he spots vases all over the house with roses in various states of health. It's a little bit of a game, seeing if he can find the newest place Mr. Scamander has come up with to put the roses—on top of the piano, in the middle of the dining room table, in the corner of the kitchen counter beside the cabinet, even beside the bathroom sink.

"It's almost romantic, the roses," Mr. Scamander says, turning the stem of one in his fingers. He's usually easy for Credence to read, but he can't tell for the life of him whether Mr. Scamander is joking or not.

Credence leans steps into Mr. Scamander's back yard, accepting the beekeeper's coat. He likes it too much to turn it down, and Mr. Scamander seems to have no qualms with handing it off. The bees never sting him, anyway. "I have too many roses," he replies finally. "You can have as many of them as you want."

Mr. Scamander pulls off his hat and hands it over, even though he always ends up putting the veil up so Credence can have honey. He looks fond. "You sell the roses."

"You sell the honey."

Mr. Scamander's lips press together—he's keeping in a smile. "That's different," he says, heading into his house for a vase, as he always does.

"Not really," Credence calls after him, but the door is already shutting behind him.

Credence allows himself to smile widely after Mr. Scamander—only because Mr. Scamander's not there to see him—feeling soft inside, and like a fool.

Credence lifts the top; he's gotten used to doing it enough that he can do it on his own. The bees buzz around him, and he murmurs to them. It's become a habit, after so much time with Mr. Scamander, who murmurs to them as if they're newborn babies.

"I've had to start using plastic cups," Mr. Scamander says when he comes back into the yard, his arms bare. As they usually are when he isn't wearing the beekeeper coat.

Credence shakes his head. "I should stage an intervention," he says seriously. "When the roses are dead, they're dead, Mr. Scamander."

"Newt," Mr. Scamander says. He always says Newt.

Credence can't say it. He's tried it on his tongue when he's alone at night, curtains closed, but it feels too special. It's like a diamond he can't bear to get his dirty fingerprints all over.

"Aren't you ever worried you'll get stung like that?" Credence asks, in a completely transparent attempt to sidestep saying Newt Scamander's given name.

Mr. Scamander ducks his head, running his hands over his freckled arms—God—and then over the exposed back of his neck. "No. I. It's more of a precaution, really. I know how to handle the bees, I like to think."

Credence nods. He has witnessed that; the bees crawl over Mr. Scamander even when Mr. Scamander doesn't have his hand in their hive, landing on his arms and his face as if they can't get enough of him. Credence can't blame them. He certainly has a way with bees, and with Credence. "Well, if you ever do get stung, I'll make you tacos as an apology."

Mr. Scamander blinks, his expression going earnest. "No, no, if I ever get stung, you need to call 911."

Credence holds out his finger, laughing softly. He can manage actual words while Mr. Scamander's licking honey off of his finger; he's come a long way. "You handled getting my wooden box full of summer squash dropped on you yesterday. You can handle a bee sting."

"No, I mean—" There's a bit of honey in the corner of Mr. Scamander's mouth. Mr. Scamander licks it off with a swipe of his tongue. "I'm severely allergic to bee stings. I—last time I got stung, when I was pretty young, really, the doctor said I should try not to get stung again. If you know what I mean."

Credence is absolutely still. Suddenly, he is not at all sure any of his movements are quite safe enough, no matter how friendly the bees are. He wishes he could freeze Mr. Scamander, who is still sticking his hand into the beehive, on the spot and drag him inside. "What do you mean?" he asks faintly, because he really has no idea what if you know what I mean is supposed to refer to.

Mr. Scamander ducks his head down, his curls tumbling. There's a bee crawling on his collarbone, and it zips off when Mr. Scamander drops his head. Suddenly, that movement is very alarming. "I'm, you know. I don't have a high chance of surviving another bee sting?" His voice goes up at the end, as if it's a question.

"What?" Credence hisses. It's a total shock. And it's also not a shock at all, because of course Mr. Scamander is—it's exactly the kind of thing he would do.

Mr. Scamander looks far too abashed and not nearly frightened enough. "I like the bees," he says, spreading his hands helplessly. A couple land on the hand closest to the opening of the hive, and he turns his hand over so he can look at them, bringing them closer to his face. Credence wants to scream. "They like me, I think."

"God, yes, they like you," Credence says. "That's not protection enough—" He's already struggling to get the beekeeper coat off of him, and pull the hat off at the same time. "Put these back on."

"I told you it was just a precaution," Mr. Scamander protests, his voice mild. "They've never stung me. I don't really like the beekeeping suit."

Credence holds them out. "Would you like to die?"

Mr. Scamander looks baffled. "I'm not going to—!"

"Put them on," Credence orders, and this time Mr. Scamander takes them.

"If you think I must," he says, gently shooing the bees that have settled on him off of his skin. Even that movement shoots terror through Credence's blood. "I really don't think you should worry—we could both come out here stark naked and we'd be fine—"

"We're not coming out here stark naked," Credence says without considering it very carefully.

"I wasn't suggesting it," Mr. Scamander's voice comes from inside the beekeeper coat as he pulls the whole thing over his head. Obviously he wasn't. Credence is an idiot. "I just think you're overly worried."

"You have no sense of worry at all," Credence counters. He breathes a little easier as Mr. Scamander slips his arms through, covering 90% of his previously exposed skin. "Take the gloves. And the hat."

"Credence," Mr. Scamander says placatingly, "Credence. Calm down."

Credence has yanked the glove off of the hand he wasn't using to collect honey and pulled the other from his back pocket, pressing them to Mr. Scamander's chest, forcing him to take the gloves. He puts the hat over Mr. Scamander's head and pulls down the veil.

"There's actually a bee in here," Mr. Scamander says, lifting the veil again. A bee flies out and rejoins the hive. "He didn't sting me. He actually likes me very much."

"Mr. Scamander."

"Newt." Mr. Scamander's veil is still up. His mouth is twitching.

"Mr. Scamander—"

"Newt."

"Newt! Will you—will you come inside, please?"

Mr. Scamander's face grows more serious, his bright gaze softening. He lays a hand gloved on Credence's elbow. "Credence, I understand why you might be worried—my family was very worried, too, you know, they don't quite approve—" Here he looks chagrined. "But I've been beekeeping for ten years! I haven't been stung yet. Isn't that something?"

"Newt…" Ten years is a lot. Credence is terrified for Mr. Scamander, terrified, but the evidence stands that over ten years of Mr. Scamander's characteristically reckless behaviour and, it seems, general over-friendliness with his bees, Mr. Scamander has not gotten stung. The evidence stands that Mr. Scamander apparently enjoys beekeeping so much, he's decided he'll take the risk. He does understand the risk, doesn't he? After ten years to process it, he must. "Beekeeping isn't worth it," Credence says anyway. Because it's not. It's not his decision, but it's… it's not, it's not worth it.

Mr. Scamander's eyebrows turn down. He looks a little hurt. "It makes me happy?" He still sounds like he's asking questions. "It's not something I take lightly? I know I could die, but I don't think, not really, not until you've spent enough time with the bees, that people realize how uncommon it is that they sting. They die, you know. If they sting you. Stinging you kills them."

"I know," Credence says. He learned that when he was young, tending to the always-dying ivy-arch. Mr. Scamander told him, too, when he was encouraging Credence to meet his bees for the first time. "But it's like you're carrying a loaded gun with the safety off, pointed at your heart. All day. It doesn't really matter how unlikely it is that someone's going to come and pull the trigger on you. It's not smart."

"But the loaded gun makes me happy?"

"God, Newt."

"I love my bees, Credence, I—"

"I know."

It's a stalemate.

It remains a stalemate for several weeks.

Mr. Scamander doesn't invite Credence back to his hives anymore, but he doesn't seem angry at Credence, or holding any sort of grudge. He just seems to realize that seeing Mr. Scamander so close to the bees makes Credence very nervous.

Mr. Scamander does not get stung during the several weeks of stalemate.

It seems absolutely miraculous that he walks out there and buries himself in the thing that can kill him the most swiftly, the most easily, and he still walks out alive every day. Credence feels like he's living every day on the edge of a cliff.

And then, slowly, he begins to feel like he's living every day a couple steps from the edge of the cliff.

After a couple months, he feels like he's living in a house three yards from the edge of a cliff, with a yard and a fence and a wall between him and the edge of the cliff.

Credence watches from his garden as Mr. Scamander drains out the last of this year's honey harvest—late summer harvest—and removes the honeycombs from the frames, pressing them, draining out the honey. He leaves some of the boxes for the bees to live in, live off of, and work up from into the top boxes for next year.

Mr. Scamander is quite literally crushing the bees' work of several months.

But they love him, and they love their hive, which he keeps perfectly, and very attentively, as Credence has learned. Because Mr. Scamander loves them. He makes sure they have proper proximity to an abundance of blossoms—although, again, lately they haven't moved—and the bees seem not to mind one bit if Mr. Scamander makes his living off of them, as long as he's providing them with their living.

They're co-dependent. They take care of each other.

And none of them sting Mr. Scamander when he takes the honey. And the wax. And the very top box, which he'll put back when the bees are filling up the one below it. Not one of them sting him.

Credence asks, the next day, if he can come back to see the bees' new set up after the final harvest.

Mr. Scamander looks as if Credence has just licked honey off of his finger.

"Wear the coat, though," Credence says. "And the hat, or I'm not coming."

"I have been," Mr. Scamander tells him, which is true, from what Credence has seen. "I've been careful with myself, I promise."

That's not exactly careful with himself, but it's more careful than he was before, and Credence decides he'll take that. There really is nothing quite like beekeeping for Newt Scamander; his heart is made for it.

"Did you start wearing it more because of me?" Credence can't help asking as they step back into Mr. Scamander's back yard. He hasn't been here in what feels like forever.

"Yes." Mr. Scamander doesn't look embarrassed at all to admit it. "Why else would I wear this heavy thing in the middle of August?"

Credence presses his fingertips to the wooden boxes, running his hands along the lines of the frames when he lifts the lid. "I can't tell if you're joking," he says to Mr. Scamander.

He's missed this. He's missed the sweet, sweet smell of the honey and the smooth wood of the hives, and he's missed the bees. He thinks he knows a little bit about what Mr. Scamander feels. He's missed the bees and their sweet buzzing and their fuzzy little bodies coming to rest on his bare hands.

"Ah. Um. For protection, I suppose." Mr. Scamander blinks at him, all wide blue eyes and sheepish, nervous smile. That answer clearly did not even occur to him.

Credence reaches in and presses gently, cool honey running down his finger. He offers it to Mr. Scamander. "I may have to follow you to the next place you move, just to ensure you use protection," he says seriously. Use protection, the voice of a health education teacher echoes in his brain, as Mr. Scamander runs his tongue around Credence's knuckle.

Mr. Scamander straightens. He's really rather close after that, close enough that Credence can smell rose soap and baking spices over the scent of honey and nectar. "How many times do I have to say," he says, his lips shiny, "I'm not moving anywhere."

This time, it's not this sweet, joking tone Mr. Scamander usually uses; it's his earnest tone, the one he uses when he says he loves his bees or he'd like to please buy Credence whatever food Credence wants.

"I'll learn to manage on my own without you," Credence promises. Because he doesn't know how to beat around the bush. Because, really, it's something he should've said a while ago. Because maybe he doesn't know how to do his taxes or find a man to do his pipes or organize a meal plan for a week… but maybe, just maybe, he's avoiding learning how. Because then Mr. Scamander would have no reason to stay behind.

It's a terrible thing to do.

It's about time he's encouraged Mr. Scamander to get back on the road.

But Mr. Scamander frowns. "Manage on your own? You manage on your own just fine."

"No, I don't." Credence flushes. "You know I don't. You've seen me."

Mr. Scamander continues to look baffled. "Well—and you've seen me. I reckon the both of us are helpless without each other. I got by on a bit of inheritance from my family before I met you. Now I get by on you." He offers an uncertain smile. "Magic charm."

Credence has known about this inheritance, and how much it has helped Mr. Scamander maintain the rather un-profitable work of beekeeping using unconventional flower species that don't always work.

He hadn't really thought about why Mr. Scamander didn't need that money now. But really… "That's only because this area produces very normal honey," he says. "So you can sell more reliably."

Mr. Scamander shrugs. The veil slips over the top of his hat and falls over his face, and he pushes it back up with a small huff. "That's the kind of thing I don't really think about. That's the kind of thing you think about."

"Clearly," Credence says, and draws the veil back over Mr. Scamander's face. "Let's keep this down."

"You offered me honey," Mr. Scamander points out.

"Well, put it back down after, until we're out of the back yard."

Mr. Scamander just laughs and takes his elbow and brings them both out of the backyard, around the side of his house, and onto his porch. Then he removes the hat and the coat entirely. "Is this better?" he asks, smiling his nervous smile.

Credence nods, his cheeks heating. "Better."

Mr. Scamander puts the hat down on the table between the porch chairs, fiddling with the veil. "I don't really know why you keep expecting me to move away," he says, as if he's confessing a shortcoming of his.

"Well, why do you really stay here?" Credence asks.

"Because of you!"

"I told you, I can take care—"

Mr. Scamander interrupts him with a soft laugh, even though it's not quite the kind of conversation for laughing, Credence thinks. "I don't stay because I don't think you can manage on your own. I don't even stay because I think I can't manage on my own, really."

Credence blinks. Mr. Scamander doesn't seem to be lying.

"I just… well, I rather like the way we fit together." Mr. Scamander hasn't looked up from the veil for several seconds. "I like the way you provide for me, and how you let me return the favor now and again."

Now and again, Credence thinks incredulously. "You stay because you like how practical it is?"

"I just said that I didn't." Mr. Scamander's smiling again. It's a warm smile, his eyes rising from the veil of the beekeeper's hat to Credence's face. "I stay because I like you." His expression goes more serious again, still warm. "I'd use another word that starts with L, but frankly, I think that might be a bit much for you."

Rather. Credence is already full to the brim with another word that starts with L for Mr. Scamander, but he's not quite sure either of them should be saying it just yet. Miss Lou is still there in his mind, sometimes, deeply and traditionally religious, and he suspects Mr. Scamander knows this about him.

"Oh." Already, hearing Mr. Scamander say that, it leaves him breathless and a little shaky.

"I didn't think… maybe I shouldn't have said that, either," Mr. Scamander's saying nervously. "I didn't think it would be such a surprise. I mean, I can't imagine why it wouldn't be obvious—I keep all your roses. I was just sucking your finger…"

Credence feels his face flush deeper. "I didn't really know."

Mr. Scamander blinks. "Oh."

"Did you know?" Credence tries to get a handle on his words. "That I do, too. That is. L… word." He's not quite stringing words together the right way.

Mr. Scamander's eyes are bright. "A little, yeah."

Credence smiles. He likes that, kind of. Thinking about how Mr. Scamander knew, and didn't say anything to Credence about it. Waiting patiently.

He feels warm inside, so warm, when he watches Mr. Scamander's light turn off through his curtains and slips into his own bed, thinking about Mr. Scamander—Newt, really—right next door, depending on Credence. And Credence, depending on Mr. Scamander.

How they both meet each other wherever they're at. How he's never quite known someone like that before.

"Okay," he says one autumn evening. He has an iced coffee in his hand, but he's not drinking it just yet. His mouth is sweet from honey and sore from Newt's mouth.

Newt eyes him, bemused. "Okay?"

"Okay, be a beekeeper," Credence says, "and stay here."

Newt licks honey off of his bottom lip and smiles his smile. It doesn't look so nervous anymore. "Okay."