Credence has always had his heart in the wrong place.
It's… it's a strange thing to have his mind linger on so much, the way turns of phrases work. The way people always say her heart is in the right place, and that seemed to overrule everything else.
Her heart was in the right place.
Another thing they say:
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Well, Credence's intentions are good, aren't they? He doesn't feel as though they are wrong. But they are. They are wrong.
He hits the ground running.
Right down the road to hell.
With his good intentions—because they are good intentions. They're just not right. He's wrong about them, but he feels them in his heart to be good.
So many words to say he can't trust what's inside of him.
Yes, he means the Obscurus. This wild, angry thing inside of him that swallows him whole and kills people and rages, taking orders not from some uncontrollable agent of chaos, but from his heart. The darkest, most hurting, angriest part of his heart, but his heart, still.
Yes, he means the he, him, his thing, the button-down shirt and tie thing, the tight cloth around his breasts thing, the man thing. The thing that breaks the link between his body and his spirit, as if he was transplanted. As if his heart was transplanted, out of harmony with his body. His heart is always at war with his body.
Just like his heart is, apparently always at war with his magic.
He means the lust. He… he wants things from men, the kind of thing women want from men. The kind of thing that is a sin a dozen times over, the reading assigned every time his eyes catch on a man perhaps a little too long. Leviticus. The duality of being a man and loving men—Ma wouldn't say it, but the two were contradictions to her.
Is he a man? Well. Child of the devil.
Does he love men? Well. Child of the devil.
Why does he have to be both?
And of course she did not say it. Not in so many words—not in any words. She refused to acknowledge the if he was a man, the possibility even for the sake of posing a hypothetical. But it was there in her gaze, written between the lines.
She never was around to see him crushed by magic, not until minutes before her death, but she would've called him a child of the devil.
Unnatural, she called him. Unnatural.
Because his heart is wrong.
His heart is in the wrong place, sending him running, leading him right down to hell, child of the devil.
Mr. Scamander doesn't think so.
Mr. Scamander doesn't say he doesn't think so, but he doesn't think Credence's heart is wrong—at least, from what Credence can see.
That's the thing about Mr. Scamander—he doesn't push. At all. He carefully doesn't bring it up for a few days, and now here they are, watching the sunset on the balcony, Mr. Scamander's hand tentatively turned palm-up between them.
Because Credence doesn't want to hear it. And he thinks that somehow Mr. Scamander knows this.
And Credence will be… open to hearing it, if not ever ready, but not now. And he suspects Mr. Scamander knows this too, or he wouldn't be waiting like this.
Credence isn't locked and steady. He knows he's changing. He can feel himself changing. And he's terrified of it—part of him wants to stay hating himself. It's almost better staying the same thing and hating it than not knowing what he'll become.
But he is changing, and there's nothing that matches the sheer potential of it.
Sometimes he thinks it's such a dream, a fantasy, to imagine a time where he will look at the magic in his hands and not resent it, that he will look at a man and want him and not hate himself for it, that he will feel the swell in his heart when he calls himself a man and not feel as if there is something black and ugly about that pleasure.
And sometimes, he doesn't think it's a dream at all. Sometimes, he thinks it could really, truly happen.
Now is one of those times.
Mr. Scamander is standing beside him, and the sun has almost sunk beneath the horizon, and Mr. Scamander's hand is palm up between them.
It is not a demand or an order or a suggestion. It is not even a request.
It's an offer.
And again, Credence is afraid.
Of Mr. Scamander.
Anything you want, Mr. Scamander said.
And he is not a fool—men make promises all the time. They are the sweetest thing in the universe until you are theirs. And once you are theirs, they are the most monstrous thing. Ordering, beating, screaming. Trapping you in a life you thought you wanted and you didn't.
It's how the world works.
Credence knows anything you want is trying much too hard to please. He knows, also, that the suitcase is so easy to shut and lock, that you can carry anybody and anything away in that thing. Mr. Scamander's whole body goes in and comes out, hair covered in leaves.
Yes, you could steal away a person in that case.
And Credence is not so stupid as to not realize the wealth of power flowing in his veins, like an untapped natural resource. Mr. Scamander's hands on his, magic where their skin touches. Mr. Scamander seems as if he could reach into Credence and rip it from Credence. (He doesn't, though—rip it from Credence.)
And more than that, he knows… the way Mr. Scamander looks at him. A lingering glance on his eyes, his eyelashes, his lips. Mr. Scamander's eyes following the way his hands move. The look in Mr. Scamander's eyes when he watches at Credence, as if there is something incredible captured in Credence.
There isn't. Something incredible. In Credence.
No, Credence is not a fool.
Mr. Scamander will promise him things, and he will get close to Credence and he will earn Credence's trust, worm his way into Credence's heart, and when he's gotten his hooks in Credence deep enough, he will reel Credence in. He will strip Credence of his power, he will strip Credence of his control and his clothes and Mr. Scamander will…
Mr. Scamander will Conjure him a coat when the snow starts falling when the sun is gone, and they're standing out there in the cold winter air looking over New York as the living-room lights flicker on and silhouettes move through the windows.
Mr. Scamander will give him a tiny, shy look through his eyelashes out of the corner of his eye and duck his head when Credence thanks him
He will offer Credence his scarf because he was a bit of an idiot, really, and only packed one, unfortunately, and he can't Conjure another one, which he could explain sometime if Credence likes, but this one is very nice and warm, it's from his Hogwarts years, see…
And then Mr. Scamander will get shy and ask if he is talking too much, as if he does not hold all the power, as if he is just one shy little man who will not sink his hooks into Credence at all.
Because Mr. Scamander never pushes.
Yet.
And Mr. Scamander will remind Credence why Credence is so afraid when he puts his black-and-yellow scarf that smells just like him around Credence's neck with a look in his eyes that wants so badly, with cold fingers that linger—
But then… he snatches them back.
And now Mr. Scamander is flushed pink all the way up the back of his neck, and he is saying sorry his hands are so cold, and really, perhaps they'd better get in to dinner or Tina will be cross.
Perhaps he is doing it to throw Credence off the track.
Perhaps he can see that Credence is already eyeing the hook.
He doesn't say he wishes they were out here together. But he does say Tina may want to wait until Queenie gets back, and Queenie may want to make dinner once she tastes what Tina has, now that they've run out of beef stock.
And now Credence reaches for his hand. In an instant it is held out to him, palm up. Hopeful blue eyes, a shaky, awkward smile. Credence is saying he'd like to try reaching for his magic again, getting friendly, getting used to it.
Mr. Scamander is saying of course, and Credence is asking if it'll delay dinner.
Mr. Scamander is saying that dinner can wait.
Credence is sliding his hand over Mr. Scamander's warm fingers—they were cold against his neck, but to his own hand they are so warm.
And so gentle.
God, no one has ever touched him quite like this.
Not Mr. Graves, who was only as gentle as you need to be to heal a lashing. Certainly not Ma, who did the lashing. Not even Tina, who really did help him, but in a business-like way.
No, this is unquestionably tender.
And Mr. Scamander's magic doesn't feel bad at all. It doesn't feel wrong or black or cold like Credence's does. It is like the warm touch of the sun, a ray of light wrapping itself around his finger and leaking like sweet syrup down his spine. It runs through him not like rushing water, bursting out of a dam, the way his own magic does. Instead, Mr. Scamander's magic meanders, sweeping through as gently as a summer's breeze.
As if to remind Credence that Credence could expel it from his body as soon and as quickly as he likes.
He doesn't.
He doesn't want to.
But Tina calls for them.
They pull their hands apart, the loss of warmth at Credence's fingertips making him feel cold all over, despite the lent coat and the Warming spell.
Before they can go in, Credence catches Mr. Scamander's sleeve. Credence asks Mr. Scamander to go shopping with him.
To buy some clothes of his own—men's clothes.
He doesn't have any money, and he's afraid this is a problem for a moment, but then Mr. Scamander says he'll buy it for Credence, never Credence worry.
This gives Credence a pause. Mr. Scamander is so quick to support Credence, to make him a man in every image that he wishes to be. Mr. Scamander is clever. He does not miss a beat or a blink, not a look, not a second.
It is as if Mr. Scamander is… real, just as he appears.
But Mr. Scamander knows, doesn't he? He has to know.
He asked Mr. Scamander—not because he wants so much to spend more time with Mr. Scamander. Not mostly anyway. But because he is reminding Mr. Scamander of who he is—a man. Mr. Scamander doesn't want a man.
It's only once they're inside at dinner that he realizes: he should've asked Tina. The last thing he needs is to be more dependent on Mr. Scamander than he already is.
NewtCredence seems rather hesitant to use Newt's money. Very hesitant. Practically allergic.
It takes them a couple days to actually get out there and buy Credence some clothes—Credence says he doesn't want to that day, and Newt doesn't want to make him. Then he says maybe Tina wants to come help them, and Newt says he'll ask. Then Credence says he doesn't want to wait until the weekend, and after a bit of waffling, they finally go the next day.
"Credence, really, it couldn't matter less to me what the cost is, please."
Newt eyes Credence—he's… he's… well, the coat he has now fits better about the shoulders and the high collar makes his cheekbones even more sharp, somehow.
The black makes him look very pale and Newt might recommend a different color, but Credence seems to like black. Credence seems practically married to black. He doesn't pick up anything that isn't either black or very near black.
It has a bit of a different effect; Credence doesn't look friendly or approachable, really, but he looks unreal. Magical, if harshly so. Stark. A bit… beautiful.
Newt stops looking at Credence.
"You look good," he says, looking at the rack of coats. "It looks good on you, I think. And it fits, doesn't it? Do you want it?"
There is, again, the sound of the tag rustling. "It's a lot, Mr. Scamander."
"If you remove the cost from the equation, do you want it?"
There's a pause. Credence probably does, Newt muses, as he flips through the coats on the rack. Actually… all the coats seem within the same sort of cost range, although he's not really sure if it's a lot or not—Muggle money is a bit confusing. They seem to find a shocking amount of worth in a single Galleon.
There are all sorts of things in this brightly lit shop, of all colors and sizes. Hats sit piled up on a shelf, flat little brown ones and top hats and lady's hats with little feathers and brightly colored cream ribbons around them. Shirts sit folded in piles, most of them crisp and white, but a few of darker colors. Vests beside them of very nearly any color—there's an electric purple and a brilliant blue and an emerald green, a bit more reminiscent of the colors Newt might see in a wizarding village. (Muggle men seem rather fixed in black and white.) There are ties and coats up, and trousers on tables near the back. And Newt thinks he might be able to buy out this whole store if he'd like to, with a couple galleons only.
"I do like it," Credence admits. Newt looks back towards Credence, who seems to have realized he'll have to get a coat, and all of them cost money. "If I get a job, I'll save up and pay you for it."
"Oh no, please." Newt watches Credence finger the price tag yet again. "Wizard money is so valuable to Muggles, it's nothing to me. I mean it's really, really nothing."
Credence looks at the floor more often than any grown man Newt's met (except maybe for himself) but when Credence stares, he stares. It's the dark, dark eyes and the heavy brow, the gentle way his mouth looks unhappy when he's not actually frowning, and the way he watches, as if tracking, studying.
Newt glances to the pile they've already assembled: several pairs of trousers and several white shirts, a couple vests, and a couple ties. Newt has never felt something quite like he felt when Credence shuffled over and put a couple ties on the pile.
He looks back; Credence has looked away.
"I don't want to owe you, Mr. Scamander." Credence's voice is soft and a bit wobbly again. "I'd rather pay it back."
"Of course you may, then," Newt agrees immediately, guilt crawling in his stomach. It hadn't occurred to him that he might be making Credence feel useless or pitied, but it should have. "I didn't mean—of course. If you want help finding a job, I'm more than happy to—"
"I'll do it on my own." Credence slips the coat off of his shoulders and folds it neatly, adding it to the stack. He gathers the clothes in his arms and looks up. "I'm sorry for interrupting. And thank you for offering."
Somehow, he seems afraid and sorry, and also very decisively ending the conversation there.
Newt understands, he thinks. With how Theseus and his parents would treat him as he wandered about the world, studying magical creatures, they'd always offer to set him up with a girl, or a job, or a boy, even, or a place, even. He'd just wanted to do it himself, to take care of himself like an adult. And for them to stop asking and start believing that he could.
Credence, cheeks a deep pink, shuffles off to the very, very back of the shop, through a fluttering curtain, where underthings are. When he comes back out, Newt doesn't look at the pile of clothes in his arms, though he supposes Credence has buried them carefully so they aren't visible anyway.
He pays at the counter with a Galleon and is very careful not to look as she counts them up. December or not, Newt feels as if he'll die of heat stroke if he stays in this coat with Credence buying underthings right next to him.
The shop owner goes wild over the money, and Newt can't even figure out how to use words to tell her no change, so he just grabs Credence and steers him out the door.
Credence looks at him funny. Newt is incredibly relieved when he starts talking and stays safely away from underclothes.
"That's wizarding money?" Credence asks. He seems so curious, he's forgotten to be afraid of misstepping. "You gave her a gold piece! Do witches just conjure gold up?"
"Well, no." Newt looks up from the grimy streets for a moment at the of people all in a hurry to get from one place to the other, coat collars high and scarves tight. No one pays attention to what anyone else is doing or saying, but he casts a quick spell around them anyway before carrying on. "We can't create things like money and food. We do value gold, quite a bit. But not as big of a bit, I suppose, as Muggles do."
Credence nearly trips over a man's leg as they wind their way down the street, staring at Newt again with those deep, dark eyes. He doesn't seem accustomed to walking quickly down a crowded street like this—Newt supposes he's spent most of his time in these busy streets at a stand still, handing out those… those Second Salem pamphlets. The man sleeping on the street grumbles at them halfheartedly, barely audible over the growl of automobiles passing them by.
"Muggles?"
"Non-magic. No magic. Tina will tell you No-Maj, but I like Muggle better, don't you? Sounds friendlier." Newt gives Credence a smile and Credence almost crashes into someone. Newt pulls him out of the way just in time. "New York is quite busy."
"Yes."
There doesn't seem to be much to say after that, but this is not a comfortable silence; it is most certainly an awkward one, even if technically the city is loud enough to fill any silence all on its own.
Newt observes the buildings, tall and white, windows and pillars, rickety stairs. It doesn't make it less awkward.
Credence turns again.
This street is nearly empty, lined with smaller, one-story shops and faded signs. Newt can see the swinging wooden sign for the shoe shop down at the end of it.
"About your job," Newt says, because they're very quiet, and the streets are quiet, too, which makes the quiet even more present. "I hope you understand that I do believe you can do it on your own—of course. I know you can, I just… I want you to know that you don't need to prove anything."
"I don't want to prove anything," Credence says quietly. He pushes open the dark wooden door and a little bell jingles. "We're here."
He gets two pairs of shoes at Newt's insistence—one to look good and one for wear and tear—and at his promise that he'll let Credence pay them off.
Newt decides not to bring the job thing up again. It's hard to suppress the urge to offer more help, but he reminds himself that Credence is quite annoyed by them at this point, and this shuts him up quite well.
He draws Credence into the nearest corner, dark and hidden from view, fishing out his wand to Apparate.
"Mr. Scamander—" Credence pulls away from him shockingly quickly, as if Newt's hands sting. "I don't—I don't want—" He looks so afraid.
Newt drops his wand, wincing a little as it hits the dirty, wet ground with a clatter and wishing the afternoon sun hadn't melted all the clean, soft snow on the sidewalks. He holds his hands out flat, palms up again. "What's wrong?"
Credence snatches Newt's wand off the ground, and Newt realizes he's gone fuzzy at the edges, toeing the line.
He'd kneel again, but the purpose of that is to get at eye level, and Credence is up there, now.
"If you wanted my wand, you only needed to ask," he jokes.
The joke does not appear to land very well; Credence frowns, holding the wand wrong. "I don't want to."
Oh. Perhaps Credence Apparated often with Grindelwald? Or perhaps he did once, and got sick to the stomach—Newt still does, sometimes, with Side-Along. He remembers suggesting Apparition offhandedly the first day they found Credence, and how Credence, curled about Newt's shoulders like a scarf, had darted off of him instantly.
He feels foolish now for not remembering earlier.
"That's fine," he says quickly. "That's fine, I don't fancy myself a very big fan of Apparition myself, only of the time it saves. I forgot you didn't like it. I'm sorry."
Credence stares at him, his face pale, but coloring in quickly. "Apparition?"
"You know, when we"—Newt makes a sort of whooshing noise and flutters his hand, and Credence keeps staring—"Disappear and reappear somewhere else. Apparate is the verb, Apparition is the noun."
"Oh," Credence says. "Right." He looks down the street for a moment. "If you're doing the spell, can you take us anywhere?"
"Yes, if I know the place." Newt glances at his wand, still in Credence's hands, but looks away when Credence notices. He gets the strangest feeling that Credence feels threatened by him—him! Newt Artemis Fido Scamander, the harmless oddball little brother. He backs up a few steps just in case he is. "Why, is there somewhere you'd like to go? If I know the place, I can take you near it."
Credence eyes him, and then shakes his head. "Let's—can we walk? Apparition makes me dizzy."
"Of course, of course." Newt follows him down the street. Bugger, he should've remembered Credence didn't like Apparition—and from Credence's reaction, dizzy is an understatement. "It's a bit less dizzying if you're the one casting."
"You'd let me cast?"
"Yes, of course. You'd have to learn how first, of course." Newt winces. He's saying of course a little bit too much. "But my wand seems to like you."
"Oh," says Credence. He looks down at the wand in his hand and gives Newt's wand back, right before they turn into the busier streets. Newt drops it quickly into his pocket.
"I can start teaching you about magic outside of doing those exercises with you, if you like," Newt offers before realizing his pledge not to keep pushing offers of help onto Credence. But this is different; this isn't about the job. "Only if you like," he says hastily.
Credence frowns. "Can Tina?"
Oh… alright. Newt tries not to let his heart sink to his shoes, but it does. He almost apologises for being so annoying, and then realizes that would likely be even more annoying… Merlin. Once you start down the road of getting on someone's nerves, there's no going back.
"Ah." Newt swallows. "Yes—er. Of course."
Credence seems to know his way around better than Newt—he makes a turn. Newt follows. Credence is doing his stare again—the kind that makes Newt feel very studied, observed.
"Well, actually, that's not my promise to make," Newt corrects himself quickly. "But I'm sure she'd be quite open to it!" He's talking too much, probably. "And probably a better teacher than me, too."
Alright, he's done talking. No more talking.
"Tina handles things very seriously," Newt adds. "I think she'd educate you very well. Of course, she was taught in Ilvermorny, and I'm of the belief that there's no better school than Hogwarts, if you're looking to learn your magic."
Credence lets Newt cast a Muffling charm so that Mrs. Esposito doesn't hear them go up the stairs. He looks like he wants to say something, but isn't sure if the charm muffles their voices.
"What is it?"
Credence bites his lip. He has—Merlin. He has such full lips, pink. They look soft.
Newt looks away.
"I still have your Hogwarts scarf," he says. They'd gotten a scarf for Credence, though Credence had said it wasn't necessary. It was snow storming just the other day. Newt thought it was pretty necessary. "I should give it back."
If you want to keep it— Newt almost says, but Credence has his own. Why would he want Newt's? Newt opens his mouth. "Ah—only if you don't want it anymore."
Which is pretty much the same thing. Merlin, Newt.
Credence looks at him oddly. "I'll give it back."
"Right," Newt agrees. "Yes. Good."
He pushes open the door to the apartment and goes in before he makes it even more awkward.
"Welcome back!" Queenie's cooking up dinner again, a fluttery pink blouse on, leaning against the dark counter. Newt has a feeling she's been laid off of the Wand Permit office or something—she seems a bit sad. "I hope you found everything you wanted!"
Credence looks down at the bags he's got clutched in his hands. "And then some," he says. His mouth tugs up a little.
Merlin.
Merlin.
Credence looks… happy.
His expression, which is always a bit tense, has softened a bit, and the ever-present little crease between his eyebrows has smoothed out, and his mouth is turned up. The tiniest bit, but still. He looks as if he's been gently lit up from the inside, a little bit of a glow to him.
Credence glances up from the bags and catches Newt looking. His eyebrows crease again, and his mouth tugs down. His shoulders pull in.
Oh, bugger.
"I'll just be down in my case!" Newt announces, a little too loudly. Queenie starts and Tina, coming out from her room, halts in the doorway of it.
"Well, if you're that certain of it," she teases.
Newt flees to the guest room, slips into the case, and stays there, just at the bottom of the ladder.
For at least ten minutes.
Oh, Merlin. Does Credence know? Credence must know.
Credence acts afraid around him, a bit closed off—granted, he does the same with Queenie and Tina, but Newt and Credence had something, at least for a bit. And then it sort of… puttered out. Credence pulled back.
Credence noticed, then.
It makes sense, too, that Credence wouldn't want to spend any more time with Newt. The way Credence shies away from getting too friendly.
Oh.
Merlin.
Newt allows himself a nice, long time for a bit of self-pity.
Poor Credence probably has too much of a heart to let Newt down easy, and now Newt's just making him uncomfortable, and talking too much, and buying him all these things and offering to help Credence and Credence, at this point, just wants to be rid of him, doesn't he?
Bugger.
He feeds his creatures and almost forgets to tell the fairies how pretty they're looking today, and nearly chops off his hand cutting up the meat for the Graphorns, and looks at the Obscurus floating in its bubble for a very long time.
Newt looks at it.
Twisting and twisting, idle now without its human host, but still faintly agitated. Upset, unhappy. Turning in on itself, again and again.
What if… what if Credence is upset with Newt because he thinks Newt likes women?
Newt winces. That's probably it, isn't it? Credence thinks Newt sees him as a woman, and wants him… in that way… because of it.
That would make sense. That would make so much sense.
Newt feels terrible for how Credence must feel, thinking that, especially with everything he's been saying about supporting and helping Credence. It would look like he was lying, wouldn't it? That he was only pretending.
Bugger. Newt buries his face in his hands.
Credence should've slapped him in the face for it.
"You're late," Tina informs him when he joins them in the dining room, offering a sheepish smile. "Don't tell me you took another nap down there."
"Ah… no." Newt rubs the back of his neck. "Not this time."
"Out on the balcony, then?" Queenie's twirling her spaghetti, round and round, slumped a little in her chair.
"No, I just wanted to get away from the sounds of the city." It's sort-of true. He wanted to hide. And wallow in self-pity. That's not easily done in a loud city apartment that holds four and is really meant for two.
Tina's not fooled. She raises her eyebrows at him. "Are we too loud for you, Mr. Scamander?"
He pretends he thinks she's talking about New York. "It's much nicer at night. Less people, less noise." Newt settles into his seat. "Today it's quite nice."
Queenie leans in to serve him: spaghetti with a rich sauce, and sausages besides. "Are you a country boy, then?" she teases him. "Can't stand the noise of the city? What about you, Credence?"
"I've only ever been in New York," Credence answers. Newt knows Credence likes the quiet from the way he stands, the way he moves, freer, more content.
"Well, one day you should go see the world." Tina presses Newt's foot under the table, and Newt shoots her a look; he knows exactly what she's getting at.
He says it anyway: "I'd take you, if you wanted to. I go all over the world for my creatures." And then he remembers—Credence is under the impression that Newt's interested in Credence as a girl.
It's easy to see, now, the way Credence's eyes flick over him and his frown deepens. He looks deeply uncomfortable, a little upset, and… terribly resigned.
Newt's heart goes tight in his chest, cold guilt settling in his stomach like a stone. Is this what he's been doing to Credence this whole time? Helga help him, how could he have not realized it earlier?
Newt will wait until he can get Credence alone to talk to him, obviously. They'll be fine after that, he hopes. He'll never not be annoying, but at least he won't be that man who sees Credence as nothing but Credence's body. He'll do it tonight, if he can catch the chance. He can't bear Credence believing it one moment longer than he needs to.
"Newt." Tina's kicking him under the table. "Newt."
Newt looks up, catching Tina's worried look.
"Everyone's stuck in their heads today, huh?" Queenie murmurs quietly. "It's okay. I have good news."
"She was trying to tell you, but you were somewhere on another planet," Tina says, but her mouth is turned up in a gentle smile. "Are you alright?"
No, Newt thinks. Not really. I've been so terrible. "Yes, I'm quite alright. Just a bit tired. What is it, Queenie?"
Queenie smiles, a relieved sort of smile. "I was talking to Jacob today."
Newt can't help a small smile. "That's new."
Queenie flushes. "And he told me he… he doesn't remember much, but he recognizes me."
Newt opens his mouth to say That's wonderful, and I'm so happy for you. but Queenie's not done.
"He gave me this back." She reaches down into her bag and she pulls out a worn, leather-cover notebook, creased and written in, doodled all over, margins filled with notes. People might say old, but Newt would say well-loved.
Only just now, he can't say anything at all.
He sits there, staring like an idiot for a moment, as Queenie reads off the lettering on the inside. "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, property of Newt Scamander." She's beaming. "Have I heard that before?"
Newt's breath rushes out of him. "I—I can't believe you gave it to him," he gets out, even though it's the last thing on his mind.
Queenie hands it to him.
"Thank you."
He's not even looking at her, he's tracing the cover and flipping through the pages. The Kelpie, the Thunderbird, the Marmite. His terrible attempted sketch of a Runespoor and a better one of a Bowtruckle, because he convinced Pickett to stay still for him.
He brushes his eyes and flips through it again. "Thank you, Queenie. I thought you'd lost it."
"I wouldn't have," Tina assures him.
"But you gave it to Queenie," he laughs, his throat still working around bright tears.
"And I wouldn't have either," Queenie says.
"But you gave it to Jacob."
"And he wouldn't have either, not if he had his memory." Queenie sighs. "I guess I should leave him alone now."
Newt closes Fantastic Beasts. "What?"
Queenie stares at her plate. "I said I'd talk to him until I could convince him to give it back, somehow. I could've just taken it, but I liked talking to him, you know?"
"Yeah," Newt said, "Yes, of course."
"But I've got it back, now." Queenie shrugs one shoulder, up and down, slow. "Tina and I both think I really ought to leave it alone."
"Queenie—" Newt turns. "Tina—"
"Don't try to talk me out of it." Queenie's jaw is set. "It's for the best, and I know it's the right thing to do. He doesn't need us messing with him again, Newt. He already thinks I'm so strange, following him about. I imagine he's rather sick of me."
Tina reaches over and squeezes Queenie's hand. "He's not sick of you," she assures Queenie. "But I'm proud of you."
Queenie pulls out a paper box, holding it carefully, waving her hand to send off the empty dishes. "I got one more day of desserts for us."
Tina lets go of Queenie and opens the box just as carefully. "Then we'll make sure to enjoy it."
Newt practically pounces on Credence when they close the bedroom door.
"Credence," he says immediately, so vehemently Credence jumps, his body tensing. Newt wants to smack himself on the forehead. "My apologies, I didn't mean to alarm you. I was just… might I say something to you?"
Credence sits carefully on the edge of his bed, clean white sheets creasing under his weight, putting Newt in mind of the times his Obscurus would hover there, leaving barely an impression on the sheets. He hugs his middle and chews his lip.
Newt realizes that from Credence's perception of him, this sort of advance might sound alarming, even a touch threatening. He quickly retreats to his own bed, so that they're facing each other but a long long distance of at least six feet between them.
He looks at Credence, who's watching him intently. That stare could scare you cold if Credence wanted it to, but right now Newt just feels very…. Well, Credence's lashes are so dark, his mouth so full, his eyes so intense. He looks lovely. A dark sort of lovely, and lovelier for it.
Merlin, he can't say this while looking at Credence.
He looks down at his hands instead, eyes flicking from freckle to freckle, looking at the way his shoes look against the dark wood floor, watching his right index finger tap against the scar on the inside of his left palm, just visible in the trickle of sunset light from the closed curtains.
Yes, this is better.
Okay.
Alright.
Now to just. Just say it.
For Credence, he thinks. Credence deserves to hear this, and to know I see him as who he is.
That's what does it.
"This—" Newt realizes he should take a breath. He takes one. Starts again. "This might make you uncomfortable. And if that's the case, I'm deeply sorry. Actually, I'm fairly certain it'll make you uncomfortable, but I suspect I've already been making you far more uncomfortable over the past few days and I'm—I regret that very much, and I apologize. I hope this will ease your discomfort a bit, in some regard."
Credence is still staring at him. He can feel it. Not a terrible start though, he thinks. But so many words. Too many words.
"And I should have you know that if you want me to move out of the room, I can take my case to the living room—there's a bed in it, see—and I can sleep in my case. My clothes are in it, too. I wouldn't have any reason to—to come into this room," he says quickly. "If you'd like me to move, I will."
Okay, onto the thing. The rest of it.
"Credence…"
Credence is a very nice name. It feels good in his mouth, it makes him think of solid, trustworthy things.
"I think you… well, I suspect that you may have—I think it's highly likely that you have—have noticed that I rather…" Newt swallows. It's not that hard. It's just words. "I rather fancy you, a bit. I'm almost quite sure that you've picked up on it—Merlin knows I'm not subtle, although I truly haven't meant to let you know."
Merlin, oh, Merlin, he's said the thing. He's said it. Bugger. He's rather proud of himself, really, even if it did make him break out into cold sweat that's now making an uncomfortable trail down his back and his hands are shaking and his heart is pumping so fast he thinks he might fall over and die in a moment.
But he can't—not just yet. He isn't finished yet.
Breathe in, breathe out. Credence still needs the last part.
Newt clears his throat and tries to wipe his sweaty hands on his trousers very subtly. "And I just. I wanted to clear this up—that I—I fancy men. I don't… feel the way I do because of what your—you know. I fancy you because you're a man, and I fancy men."
Credence stares at him for what feels like forever.
Truly, truly, it does.
First, Newt is wondering what Credence will say, of course. Whether he'll let Newt down easy or just. Drop him. Whether he'll let Newt stay in the room or whether he'll ask him to move to the living room. Whether he'll tell Newt he's been an absolute idiot and that wasn't what Credence was thinking at all….
Credence just keeps on staring.
Newt starts thinking about how when Credence finally rejects him, he'll go over to the Obscurus' bubble and stare at it, and he'll give himself a bit of time to nurse the wounds of rejection. He should pick some of that Knotgrass for the Transitioning potion before it goes dormant in January…. And then he'll have a shower and wash off all the cold sweat, and he'll get over it.
Or… looking at Credence and feeling the swell in his chest, he may not get over it, but he'll fancy Credence as unnoticeably as he can. If he tries really hard, he can probably mostly not fancy Credence. Can't he?
"Mr. Scamander."
Newt looks over at Credence quickly. Credence has his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them tight. His eyebrows draw down, his mouth is tight, and his fingers tug at the edge of this sleeve.
Credence's stare is back: dark, dark eyes, unmoving. Steady. "I don't want anything like that with you. Ever. Okay?"
Newt swallows. "Yes. Of course."