Credence has stopped getting strange looks from people in the shop who might have thought he looked… not quite male, and not quite not male. All traces of femininity have disappeared, as if washed away, leaving something new behind.
They call him sir, and the mean ones, on occasion, boy.
"May I have one of these? Three, sir. How much will that be?"
"You there! Boy! Get me two more of these, will you?"
Jacob comes out from the back to check on him every now and again, bringing out fresh baked bread and pastries. Most of them look distinctly like fantastical creatures—a few of them Credence even recognises from Newt's book. He suspects that the others are also in Newt's care, but he hasn't gotten to their pages yet.
Jacob gives Credence strange looks, because he's been around to see Credence's body change past anything that should be possible with Muggle medicine and surgery. Credence can tell he's curious as to how in the world…? But he doesn't ask. Credence appreciates that.
"Where do you get these ideas?" Credence asks. "All these strange animals?"
Jacob is pulling off his apron and packing up some of the very last pastries for tonight's dessert. On the counter in the back, there's a rough sketch of something that looks like it's meant to be a Demiguise.
"Dunno." Jacob pulls the paper off the counter and hands it over to Credence. "Pretty weird-looking animal, huh? I think I had a dream about this thing. I've never been able to remember my dreams very well, but this one… this one almost felt real. You know what I mean?"
Credence stops for a moment. "What happened in that dream?" He hands back the paper, heart beating quickly. He feels as if he may be playing with fire, but he can't see the harm in trying. "Do you remember?"
Jacob locks the door behind them and they step out into the cold streets, weaving their way through all the people going home from work at the same time they are.
They head towards the Goldstein apartment, and as they do, Jacob weaves this tale that seems to slot in perfectly with what Credence already knows. "You know, now that I think about it, that guy feels like he might've looked like Newt," Jacob muses as they turn a corner. "The bright hair, real skinny, kind of funny. He was a really strange guy. We had to look for the animal on the paper you saw earlier. Only it was invisible, I think."
Credence catches his breath. "And," he presses, trying something, "How did you know what it looked like if it was invisible?"
"It was only sometimes invisible," Jacob explains instantly. "And it was hiding from us—" He stops. "I really don't usually remember this much of my dreams."
"Keep telling me about it," Credence says. And then, as a joke to himself, "It sounds like quite a story. You could make a book out of it, probably."
Jacob starts at this. "You know, it's funny that you mention that." He scratches his head. "There was this really interesting looking book I had a while back that I think I was supposed to hold onto, but Queenie—I think it belonged to Queenie? She seemed to know about it, and how to get it back to its owner, so I gave it to her. It wouldn't open, but maybe she found a way."
Newt has a host of spells on his book as a precaution, which Credence finds sort of amusing, in a way. And yet… he doesn't put a quick spell to fix the binding or keep the pages from falling out.
Credence finds this unbearably endearing.
"No, I remember. There was this really angry—thing. This big, black thing that moved through the air—" Jacob demonstrates, swooping his hand through the air. "And it was dangerous, I think. Newt gave the book and his case to Tina to go help the person—the black thing was a person. I mean, it was a really detailed dream."
Credence's heart drops to his stomach.
He should've known better than to bring this up and push it. They're close to the apartment now, and they're going up the stairs…
"I mean, usually the kid would die after ten years old—it was something about magic," Jacob continues. He opens the door to the apartment for Credence and lets him through first. "But this black thing was much older than that, and Newt was dead set on helping it. I guess the Newt in my dream was a bit like the Newt we know, huh?"
Jacob places the box on the table.
"You know, that black thing… I think—somehow it's connected with you in my mind. Not very flattering, I know," Jacob chuckles.
"Sorry, Mr. Kowalski," Credence gets out in a rush, "I don't feel well."
He's pleasantly surprised that he manages to close the door to the guest room before the black bursts from beneath from his skin.
It turns in on itself.
It lifts Credence from his body.
This isn't like the agitation he felt that night he got the job, a light scattering of black particles raising from his skin.
No, this is a bursting, like the popping of a rubber balloon.
His body is not there anymore.
It's all black.
It's Mary Lou, dead on the ground, black lines spidering across her skin like dyed veins, or cracks in plaster.
The wild, furious pain deep, deep inside of him.
The wreckage of New York. Buildings, bridges, walls and ceilings and tunnels and railways.
Exploding through the walls of the Second Salem church, watching them collapse.
Knowing Chastity was in there as the building crumbled.
The train station, Mr. Graves.
A man in a blue coat.
Newt.
And as if summoned by Credence's thoughts, there he is.
The case on the floor opens, and Newt Scamander steps out. He's wearing a blue coat.
He freezes and sucks in a breath as he catches sight of Credence, pressed into the corner of the room, near the ceiling.
The agitation stills.
"Credence," Newt breathes. "What happened?"
Nothing.
Nothing happened.
Not now. It's about what has happened.
What Credence has done.
"Okay—okay, don't answer." Newt takes out his wand from his pocket, and some semblance of comfort shoots through Credence. He knows this. He knows how this works.
Newt will put it down.
Newt carefully puts down the wand on the floor.
He will make it go away.
Newt kicks out his foot, sending the wand out of his own reach.
He will kneel down, holding his hands out just so.
Newt kneels. He offers both his empty hands to Credence, palms up.
And Credence will fly down.
He will touch Newt's palms and feel his magic at the surface of his skin, sitting there, ready to reach for Credence if Credence reaches first.
Credence will reach first.
He will come back into his body, slowly, like sand trickling into one end of the hourglass.
He will hold Newt's hands so tight they go white.
He will let Newt's hands go, and he will touch the blue coat as if to check if it's real, and then he'll look up at Newt's concerned blue eyes and soft, caring expression.
So, so caring.
It will be right there, on the tip of his tongue.
I love you.
He won't say it.
He'll pull Newt close and bury his face in Newt's shoulders, and he will let Newt guide them gently backwards towards the bed until Credence is curled into Newt, sobbing, soaking the blue coat, registering in the back of his mind the up and down sweep of Newt's warm hand against his back, and Newt's gentle comforting sounds, and he won't say it.
He won't mean to do it, but he'll let a rushing wave of power out through every point where they touch: their hands, the place where his forehead presses into Newt's neck, even through his thin white shirt into the hand Newt runs over his back. Newt will gasp—it's an enormous wave—but he'll shudder and let it run through him.
Credence will unleash his magic into Newt and squeeze Newt's hand so hard it goes white and cry and cry. Over and over, until he is exhausted.
Newt will tuck him in and kiss his forehead, and Credence will be too tired to turn to fire where Newt's lips touch him. He will be too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep to Newt's gentle murmurings, sending gentle pulses of magic through their still-linked hands.
When Credence wakes up, Newt is asleep. He's sitting beside Credence's bed, his hand still clasped in Credence's, their fingers gently tangled on the edge of Credence's bed, his legs straight out in front of him. His neck at what looks like an uncomfortable angle in order to lean back into the corner formed by the side of Credence's bed and the bed stand between their two beds.
The candle has burned all the way down and gone out, and Newt's bed is still perfectly made.
His expression is smooth, his hair a mess, stubble faint on his chin, his mouth half open, freckles and freckles and freckles.
Credence stares at him.
Newton Artemis Fido Scamander.
Newt.
"I love you," he whispers, turning on his side.
Newt's eyelashes flutter, his body starting just a bit. His mouth closes, and his eyes open a little bit. And then a little bit more.
He shifts against the corner and knocks into the bed, and opens his eyes all the way, clear blue.
"Hmm?" His voice is rough and low in the morning, and it wakes Credence up immediately.
That's another new thing—he's been wanting… things more. With Newt. He thinks about these things as he changes his clothes and hears Newt change on the other side of the room, when he goes to the bathroom and sees how the potion has been… changing things.
It shoots through him like adrenaline, going down between his legs.
Credence squeezes Newt's hand and doesn't move. He keeps gazing at Newt, unable to look away. Newt blinks quickly, twisting his head about and wincing.
"I said wake up," Credence murmurs.
Newt smiles wryly. "'M awake now," he says. Low and rough, and just the edge of sleepy.
Newt swallows twice, and Credence watches him. He runs his hand over his chin, flushing when he realizes he's rather unshaven. Credence watches him do that, too. His heart skips as he realizes he has hold of Newt's dominant hand, and Newt hasn't let go.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you sleep on the floor," Credence says, watching Newt sit up properly roll his shoulders with a grimace. "I really didn't. I'm sorry for being such a bother—I must've ruined your night, and—"
"Stop," Newt says quietly.
He leans on the edge of Credence's bed, brushing Credence's hair back. Credence burns where Newt touches him, remembering just last night when Newt kissed him on the forehead.
"You didn't make me do anything. And as long as I spent the night with you, I can't imagine what else I could have possibly have wanted to do." He smiles his awkward little smile. "You're never a burden, or a bother, or any of that."
Newt squeezes Credence's hand and drops it. He looks away, face flushed. "You know I don't exactly mind having you around."
This is where you kiss me, Credence thinks, heart racing, but of course Newt doesn't.
He stands and pulls off his coat with a forced smile. "I probably wouldn't have fallen asleep if I hadn't happened to be wearing this thing. Cold night, wasn't it?"
Now Credence knows why Newt was wearing that coat—his shirt underneath is smeared all over with blood. "Tell me it's from feeding your Graphorns."
"It's from feeding my Graphorns," Newt confirms, his smile becoming a bit more genuine. "I knew Jacob was coming, so I tried to get my feeding done early. Lucky thing."
Lucky thing, he means, because Credence was having an episode when he got back, rendering Newt incapable of doing anything else.
"Yeah," Credence says.
Newt frowns, unbuttoning his bloody shirt, seemingly completely unaware of what it does to Credence. Newt does things casually, almost thoughtlessly, that set Credence's heart on fire. Running his hand through his hair. Smiling his awkward smile.
As if Credence hasn't been as obvious as he possibly can. What else does he need to do?
"Do you want to talk about what happened last night?"
Credence isn't sure. "No."
"Alright." Newt hesitates. "Do you want to cook? Or do you want me to cook?"
He asks every morning now, because he's picked up on the way Credence wavers between the pleasure it gives him to contribute and the way sometimes cooking reminds him of Second Salem.
"I'll cook."
Credence cooks.
They have a normal day.
Credence flirts his heart out and does not say I love you.
Newt gets flustered and pink-cheeked and stares and stutters and looks at Credence as if the universe turns around him and does not kiss Credence. He looks at Credence's eyes and his hair and his lips, staring and looking away as if equally compelled to do both at once.
They go to sleep. They wake up.
He does not kiss Credence.
They go to sleep. They wake up.
They do it again and again and again.
Credence goes to work and talks to Jacob, who's remembering more and more, day by day. He comes back to spend time with Newt, curling up against his side and reading through Fantastic Beasts, the pages left running out one by one.
Credence tries a magic a bit more—just a tiny flicker of heat when he cooks. He's not quite ready to try spells Tina has shown him yet—he's learned that he's not so good at measuring magic out. Case in point—the bit of heat he means to send cooks the fish right through. "Oh."
"Your kind of power is almost unprecedented," Newt tells him, sending plates his way. "It's normal to have a shaky hold on something that powerful in the beginning. You're learning incredibly fast."
"Stop assessing him like a racehorse," Queenie jokes, coming in and ruffling Credence's long hair. "Did you hear about Jacob?"
Credence has only told Newt bits and pieces of what happened when he lost control that evening—just about how he was reminded of wrecking New York, of Chastity being inside the church as he brought the walls down, of everything that came rushing back.
Newt listened and held him. There are moments, still, when Credence is convinced there's no realm in which Newt could be real. But he is.
He hasn't really told Newt about Jacob.
"No, what is it?" Newt shoots a look Credence's way. "Or maybe—Credence, do you want to tell me later?"
"Now is fine."
"You're sure?"
Credence's heart warms any time Newt says something like that. Asks him. Makes sure. "I'm sure."
"So Jacob," Tina begins slowly, watching Queenie.
Queenie cuts in, and Tina grins. "Jacob remembers! He remembers almost everything that happened, he just thought it was a dream and didn't really realize how much he knew until he really thought about it—but most of it is still there!"
"They were good memories," Newt murmurs.
"Oh," Credence realizes. He'd been wondering how Jacob could remember so much when New York seemed to have collectively forgotten. But of course—a memory with Newt is a good one. "And the venom only removes bad ones."
Newt looks at him, his eyes bright. "Yes."
"I read it in some book, I think."
Newt swallows and looks at him more, a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. "Yes."
What more does Credence need to do? Credence can only try to show Newt, again and again, that he's crazy for Newt. He really is. He's off the hook, head over heels, fallen and still falling in love. Credence is trying.
"Being read to is quite captivating, and it's a memorable book, and a memorable writer. And a nice voice."
Newt flushes deeply, his mouth opening a little. "I—I—" he sounds like he's dying. "Compelling book, then?"
For heaven's sake. "Quite."
Tina watches them, her jaw tight. Credence gets the distinct impression that she's getting very impatient with the two of them. She's started kicking her feet and jabbing her elbows even more than before.
"I'm under the impression," Tina says, "That Jacob realized this with Credence's help, when Credence recognised the Demiguise that Jacob's planning to bake into a sort of frosted treat."
"A bun, with icing down the sides like hair," Queenie fills in immediately, sounding proud.
"You recognised the Demiguise?" Newt smiles, shy. "He was a hard one to draw. He kept turning invisible, and wandering off…."
"You're a really good artist," Credence tells him honestly.
Newt's got a natural hand, and the way he studies the creatures—their lifestyles, their characters, the way they move and interact—clearly bleed into the way he portrays them. It's impressive, the way the sketches show these creatures in the middle of action: flying, running, growling, just about to disappear.
"I recognised him right away, and Jacob's drawing wasn't so detailed."
Newt lights up like a Christmas tree and takes a seat next to Credence, still flushed and stuttering. But he puts them back on track: what happened with Jacob?
They have a normal conversation with Tina and Queenie, explaining just how Jacob unlocked his memories, so to speak, by putting pressure on his mind and finding that it could—to his surprise—deliver.
Queenie had been there when Jacob worked through it, talking slowly through what he remembered and calling them all by name in his dream, visiting the bakery every day.
Credence had managed the store during that time rather alright on his own, he thought. He'd gotten paid extra for those hours, enough to pay off the last of what he owed Newt, shoes, clothes, and all.
I'm lucky Jacob pays me so well, he'd said when he pressed the last of the money into Newt's warm palm.
Newt had smiled back at him, his fingers closing around the coins. You're a good worker. You're focused and determined, and you make sure everything is exactly right. I think he's lucky to have you.
"He remembers nearly all of it," Queenie is saying now, gesturing excitedly. She recounts the entire New York adventure, slipping tactfully over the Obscurial parts, remarking on which bits Jacob has remembered. The gaps in Credence's knowledge fill in, and he's filled with an inexplicable fondness—what trouble and what help Newt's creatures were.
Jacob, Queenie finishes smugly, had kissed her. Many times.
Tina rolls her eyes, smiling. Queenie, she adds, cried.
"He remembers you too—must've seen you once or twice. He says you're a harder one to recognize because of the hair." Queenie smiles at Credence. "Among other things, of course. You should let me cut your hair."
It's still long and uneven, because the last time it was cut was months ago, when Credence stole Ma's scissors and hacked it off indiscriminately. Thin, faint facial hair is coming in, now, too, patchy but present.
Credence agrees.
On Queenie's next off day, she drags up a chair from the dining table and turns Credence away from the gray light coming in from the window, throwing a blanket around Credence's shoulders. He's just showered, so his hair is damp, straightening nicely when she runs a comb through it. He tries to stay as still as he can.
"How do you want it?" Queenie comes around to stand in front of Credence, considering him, smoothing out her plain pink dress—her "mess dress," as she calls it. "I'm not too bad at hair. Of course, magic helps."
Credence isn't sure. He just wants short hair. Newt seems to really like his long hair, actually—will Newt like his hair short, or would Credence look better with longer hair after all? "Whatever—looks nice."
Queenie bites her lip, smiling, her hands framing Credence's face. "Oh, Credence, honey. It would take a very bad haircut to make you look anything other than stunning, don't you know?" She steps around the chair to stand behind him again. "I know what to do with you."
"I don't know about that," Credence mutters belatedly, feeling heat crawl up his neck. "You're very kind."
His head feels weird, and it takes him a moment to realize Queenie's setting his hair on end with magic. "Oh, I'm not alone," Queenie's saying now. "Just ask Newt."
There's a noise like the whoosh of a blade through the air, and in one, his hair falls, cut locks littering the floor and his blanket-clad shoulders. There's a rattle of metal—Queenie must be getting out her scissors.
Credence is glad for it. It takes Queenie as long to find her scissors as it takes Credence to find his voice. When she's back, he says, "I don't know what you mean."
"I know you do." Queenie sounds fond and a touch exasperated. A little amused. Newt was right—they don't have any problems with same-sex attraction. "I've noticed you noticing him noticing you."
Credence breathes out a laugh. "Queenie," he says. And then he doesn't know what else to say. "Mr. Scamander's very kind."
"Don't you pretend with me, young man."
"I don't pretend!" Credence objects, more vehemently than he means to. "I don't pretend at all. I haven't been pretending anything."
Queenie walks around to his front and studies him again, her expression thoughtful. There's nothing but the soft sound of scissors, the tug and then strange weightlessness on his scalp. "Are you upset? I can hear some of your thoughts. You know, I can't read your mind, not usually. I think it's the Obscurial."
"Obscurus," Credence corrects automatically.
It's important to Newt that Credence understand the distinction between the Obscurus, the thing inside him; an Obscurial, a person with this thing inside him. They're not the same thing, Newt has told him over and over. You are not an Obscurus.
"Of course," Queenie corrects herself quickly. "I'm sorry."
She seems distracted. She might be listening to him—and suddenly Credence is full of thoughts, and Credence can't stop them.
Only when it comes to this internal question he's been asking—does Credence desire more because of the way his body is changing, or does he desire more because of his constant proximity to Newt?—that he's able to force his mind to stop by thinking determinedly of his magic, and the way it feels rising to his skin. If there's one thing he's learned to clear his mind and focus on, it's his magic.
And Newt's magic, rising to meet his.
Queenie waves her wand and vanishes the hair on the floor. She's silent for a long moment. "Do you want to talk about Newt? Or would you rather I never—"
"I don't know what to do."
Queenie is quiet for so long, Credence is about to apologize for interrupting, but she speaks before he does. "You're never afraid of doing the things that intimidate you—magic, or—"
"You've been talking to Mr. Scamander, haven't you," Credence says dryly. "You both give me too much credit."
"Well, you're talking to me, now, aren't you?" Queenie's messing about with his hair, probably just to preoccupy herself while they talk. "Never afraid. Or at least very brave."
"I just wanted to learn magic and be myself—it didn't really matter if I was scared, I just. I just wanted it."
Queenie taps his shoulder and steps back, beckoning him to the bathroom. "You told Newt what you wanted, didn't you? Clothes, the potion, everything." She holds open the door to let him in first, flicking her wand to light up the small room. "Close your eyes."
Credence closes his eyes, the bright lights against the back of his eyelids darting across his dark vision. "He asked me first." Always asking. Just to make absolutely sure Credence has everything he wants. "But I did tell him, or he wouldn't have done it."
Queenie's hands set gently on his shoulders and maneuvers him so that, were Credence's eyes open, he'd be looking at himself in the mirror above the sink. He can feel the cold marble edge of the sink in his hands. "I just don't understand—"
She takes her hands away. This means Credence can look.
"—Why you can't tell Newt what you want with him. You can tell him what you want from him."
Credence opens his eyes and looks in the mirror. His vision is blurry from keeping his eyes closed, and it takes them a moment to focus under the new light. He blinks several times.
"It seems a small thing compared to what you've already been brave enough to do," Queenie says quietly.
His hair is shorter on the sides, a little longer on the top, completely male and completely fitting with the rest of his face—his narrower face and sharper cheekbones, the jawline that has made itself more known.
Credence looks at himself.
Newt"You don't want a beard?"
Credence shakes his head. He looks really good with short hair—his jawline and cheekbones stand out even more, and when he runs his hand over the hair coming in, Newt has to look away. "No."
"Alright."
"You have to show me, or I think I'll hurt myself. And I'm not really good enough to perform a Shaving Charm yet." Credence nudges him gently, playfully, with his shoulder. "I think I'd better get Wingardium Leviosa down first."
Newt clears his throat and stares intently at the hem of Credence's sleeve. "You should know I'm not incredibly skilled at shaving, myself, seeing as I usually use a Shaving charm—well, you've seen me do it, of course. And I forget to shave at all—to be quite honest, I'm not sure I recall the last time I shaved using the Muggle way, with a razor and everything…"
"You have more experience than I do." Credence holds the box with the razor up. It's black and slim, and it looks very intimidating. "I'm going to shred my throat if I try without help."
"Yes, I suppose so," Newt agrees affably. And then, "No! I didn't mean—I meant I suppose I have more experience. I'm sure you're not going to shred your throat; you're very capable and very good with your hands. You're methodical and steady, and I know you'll be fine."
Credence laughs and makes his way through the living room, towards the bathroom. "Washing dishes," he says over his shoulder, "is not nearly as remarkable of a thing as you make it out to be."
Newt hardly has time to be properly mortified that Credence has noticed, because just then they step into the bathroom, and—Merlin.
This bathroom was not made for two.
It isn't as if he's never been in the bathroom, but he's never had to try to fit side by side with someone else in front of the sink, looking into the mirror with them.
Like lovers might.
Which is a stupid thought, obviously, because plenty of people look into the mirror over each other's shoulders at their reflection together—Queenie must have, after she cut Credence's hair. It's not like they're naked, coming out of a shower together, kissing each other and drawing hearts in the steam on the mirror or anything.
That's an even worse thought.
Newt shoves it down.
Deep, deep down.
He can do this.
He is a fully functional, fully rational, fully capable adult (except when it comes to certain things like cooking, dishwashing, and sleeping in a bed rather than falling asleep in his case, but those are minor details). He can pull Credence close enough to help him shave in the small space between the towel bar behind them and the edge of the marble counter, and he can do it all without thinking Thoughts about Credence.
He'll do it like he's trimming the hair of one of his creatures.
Yes, that's what he'll do.
All business.
"Should I take off my shirt?"
"Please don't," Newt blurts out. Merlin's sake. "I mean—I don't think there's a need to. Unless we end up making quite a mess of things."
Credence flips open the mirror to reveal the shallow shelves behind it and grabs shaving soap from the top shelf. He's only wearing his one shirt, nothing over it, so when he reaches up, the shape of him is very clear. His waist and his ribs, his shoulder blades.
"Is that yours?" Newt accepts the soap, because Credence is handing it to him. So he should take it.
Yes. He can function.
Credence ducks his head, smiling. "I bought this and the razor and no one batted an eye."
There's a burst of warmth in Newt's chest. "Of course. Anyone can see you're a handsome young man, and—"
A handsome young man.
A handsome young man.
Newt suppresses the urge to give up completely and just walk out before he ends up saying another word. But no! He persists. "And we should just—we should do this. Now. At this rate we'll be late for dinner."
Credence is grinning. "We just had lunch."
"Well, I—oh bugger. Just give me the brush." Credence is laughing at him, and Newt can't help but smile. He sweeps the brush in circles over the hard cake of soap, watching it form foam. He's about to reach for Credence when he has a brilliant, life-saving idea.
"Here—I can demonstrate on myself, and then you can try." This, as far as Newt is concerned, is genius.
Credence frowns. "I'll shred my throat."
"Not—" Newt points the razor to emphasise his point, "If I show you how not to."
Credence sighs and perches himself on the counter with considerable grace, elbows on knees and chin in hands. Now that his body has stopped changing in structure, all traces of his fleeting clumsiness are fading, and he moves with as much ease as before. "Alright."
Newt gathers that Credence would rather he show Credence on Credence, for whatever reason, but it cannot be a better reason than Newt's reason not to. Newt is trying to avoid close proximity and anything inherently romantic. It's very reasonable and logical.
He applies the soap, which is cold and smooth, and smells faintly like the seaside. He shaves, which is actually a very pleasant experience—the blade is smooth and the soap is soft, and he's forgotten how much better the Muggle way works than a quick Shaving charm. It would be relaxing if not for the way Credence watches him: his intense stare is back, an unblinking gaze, fully serious.
He narrates as he goes, though he isn't sure when he's saying things that are obvious and when he's leaving out things that aren't.
"You might never want to switch to the magical way, actually." Newt dries off and runs his hand over his throat, over his jaw, feeling the smooth skin. "The Muggle way isn't nearly so crude as the charm."
Credence is quiet for long enough that Newt glances over at him, just in time to catch the tail end of some look Credence is giving him, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
"Do you think you can do it?" Newt washes the razor. And then, for good measure, he casts a Cleaning Charm. Just in case Credence doesn't really want to be sharing razors. It's not the kind of thing friends do, Newt thinks. "It's easier than it looks. Just don't cut yourself."
"Very helpful," Credence deadpans, his mouth turning up. "You'd better stick around just in case."
"Right, of course." Newt steps back until the towel bar hits his back. "Just in case."
Credence doesn't come off the edge of the sink. Nor does he turn around to look in the mirror. He sits there and he lathers up, still facing Newt, tipping his head back, back, to cover under his chin—it's impossible to look away. Credence's throat bobs.
Credence raises the razor to his cheek, and then stops, hesitating. He bites his lip—"Ah!" He sputters, face scrunching up.. "Oh, it tastes terrible."
"Don't get it in your mouth—"
"You didn't tell me that before—" Credence turns and spits into the sink. "That was terrible. That was terrible."
"Worse than your Transitioning Potion?" Newt steps up to him, half afraid Credence is going to fall off the counter because he's twisting around to reach the sink. When Credence turns back, Newt realizes he may have overestimated the space between them. Just a bit. Credence's eyes lock on him, dark, framed with soot black lashes.
Credence holds up the razor between them, as if to ward Newt off. "You'd better do me at least a little bit. I'm too afraid to set the blade on my skin."
"But you trust me to do it?" Newt shakes his head, but he takes it anyway—he can't say no to Credence. "Horrible judgement there."
The corner of Credence's mouth creeps up. "I don't think so." He's whispering.
Newt takes a deep breath and lets it out. Credence is looking at him like he wants to kiss Newt—what is Newt thinking? "Do you want to come down?" He steps back.
"Oh, just." Credence parts his knees and tugs Newt in by the front of his shirt.
Newt puts a hand on the edge of the counter. In. Out. It smells like the seaside. Credence's knees press warmly on either side of his hips. Newt is going to die. "Right," he tries to say normally, but it sounds like he's being strangled. "Chin up."
Credence obliges. His neck is long and milky pale, and his Adam's apple is nearly enough to send Newt running out the door.
How did Newt end up here? How?
Newt lifts his hand to the underside of Credence's chin and tips it just so. He drags the razor down, smooth, leaving behind a patch of bare skin under Credence's chin, a stripe. Another.
He can see Credence's eyes flutter shut.
He can feel Credence breathing; he can hear it. He can see Credence's heartbeat, his pulse; he can feel it when he presses his fingers to the warm skin there, gently, to hold him steady.
It's racing.
Which isn't a big deal. When people get shoved in close quarters, they can sometimes get agitated. Newt's holding a blade to Credence's throat, of course he's a bit worked up, a bit nervous.
Credence's racing heartbeat has nothing to do with what Newt is thinking about. Nor does Credence's hands on Newt's waist, or Credence's knees still pressing warmly, firmly, against his hips.
Newt makes his way over Credence's neck, up the underside of Credence's chin, reaching around Credence periodically to rinse off the blade. When he does, he's practically chest-to-chest with Credence. Quite frankly, this is not the most practical arrangement, but Credence seems to want him here, so here he will be.
Only, when he does, he can feel Credence's breath against him. It makes him feel shaky.
Very shaky.
"Credence," he murmurs, apprehensive. He nicks the right side of Credence's jaw. "Ow." Bugger. He pulls the blade back hastily, setting it on the counter top.
Credence brings his head back down, his eyes opening slowly, unhurried, dark eyes, dark lashes. His pupils—
Newt resists the urge to look down at Credence's lap. Prolonged human contact just does that sometimes, and he doesn't want to embarrass Credence by checking if he really—anyway. Newt can feel it, maybe, against his stomach, since Credence's knees haven't let him go.
"You don't get to say ow, I'm the one that got cut." Credence is laughing gently, swiping at the red spot on his jaw.
"I just—sympathetic reflex." Newt can feel it, definitely can feel it against his stomach. And there's still virtually no space between Credence's body and his own. And—
"It's strangely charming." Credence presses the razor back into Newt's hand, and Newt is too distracted to register it. "Here."
Charming..
Wait… "I'm going to nick you again."
"Oh, have a little confidence in yourself."
Newt presses the razor back into Credence's hand, with effort, and drags in a breath that smells like the sea and like Credence's skin. He doesn't want to look down, because Credence—against his stomach—but he doesn't want to look at Credence either, so he looks carefully to the side and ends up catching sight of himself in the mirror behind Credence: red-cheeked and freckled, messy. Hapless, helpless, and hopeless.
"You know my hands are shaking," he tells his reflection awkwardly. "And you're not going to learn how to shave like this."
There's a sigh, and Credence's form rises and falls with the breath just a bit, his hand picking up the razor, backwards in the mirror. "If you say so."
Newt is about to back up a safe distance away (or at least, some distance away; a safe distance would be… China? Japan? The middle of the Pacific?) before he goes mad from the proximity, but Credence's hand returns to his shoulder.
"You'll stay here? It's… having you close steadies me."
That makes one of us, Newt nearly says, but he nods. "If it helps."
"It does."
Credence shaves as if mindlessly. He's doing fine on his own, even if his breath is stuttering a bit. Which is understandable; it's a blade to his skin. Newt inspects himself in the mirror again—pale and skinny, looking perpetually bewildered—and then notices the way Credence is leaning over makes the line of his spine visible and he wonders if there's anywhere safe to look—the light! He'll look there.
"I've been meaning to ask—is there some sort of courtship ritual or something that wizards do before they get… involved?"
Oh, for the love of— "Er—No. We're quite like Muggles, I believe. Although my observations have never been quite reliable when it comes to humans."
"So if I was keen on a wizard, there's no mating dance I have to do first?" Credence is teasing about the Erumpent, and Newt is unbearably charmed.
But there's something else welling up, too, a tight, twisting feeling in his stomach. He glances over at Credence, and for a moment he can't really see anything; his vision is all one bright spot from staring at the light for so long. Newt blinks several times.
"Credence," he says quietly, waiting for his vision to clear, "Listen—you're being a bit cruel."
Credence comes into focus. Dark eyes, full lips, bold features, clean shaven. How long has he been done? How long has he kept Newt pressed close, driving him positively mad, completely unnecessarily?
Credence doesn't need Newt here anymore, that much Newt is sure of. He retreats to the doorway, where he can finally hear his thoughts a little bit better. The air feels cooler a good distance away, and it throws him how much of a difference it makes to be safely across the room, breathing something other than the scent of Credence's soap and skin.
"Newt—"
"I'm—it's wonderful that you've finished; it just happens that I remembered—the Nundu needs—"
"Wait—"
"I highly doubt you need my moral support to wash off."
Credence's mouth opens, but he doesn't say anything. More than anything, he seems too surprised at Newt—Newt is surprised at himself—to say anything.
What—what was the excuse Newt just used? The Nundu.
"I'll be in my case if you truly need me."