It turns out that being in a relationship with Newt is not a terrifying thing. In fact, Credence just might be able to see where Newt is coming from with that adaptation thing he keeps talking about—not knowing is kind of fun. Entertaining.
Because—well—if Newt were someone who'd toss Credence away like a toy he no longer had an interest for, or someone who didn't try his best to make Credence feel as comfortable as he possibly can, perhaps Credence would be afraid of having to go too fast so that Newt didn't get bored, or impatient, or pushy.
But, save for a few issues like Credence's safety, Newt is not pushy or impatient. And, it seems, he's never bored with Credence either.
"Don't you think—aren't we supposed to kiss?" Credence perches on the edge of his bed, leaning over to pull his shoes on and watching Newt fumble his buttons at the question, his freckled cheeks going red.
"Kiss?" he stumbles, and then, "Supposed to?"
The curtains flutter, the scent of early spring and melted snow flitting in through the window and playing lightly in Newt's curls. It's different, being in a relationship with Newt. Knowing that he has this, looking at Newt and thinking, yes, and he knows, and I could reach out and hold you. There's no barrier between them anymore. But physically speaking? It isn't very different. He curls around Newt when they read, just as before. The only thing he's started doing that he wouldn't have dared to is to run his fingers through those bright curls, tugging on them gently as they read, relishing Newt's contented sigh as if absorbing it through his skin. Newt, in turn, kisses Credence on the top of his head, or on his forehead, leaving a tingling, hot feeling wherever he brushes his lips.
Credence wants to run his fingers through them now. He wants to weave his fingers into Newt's curls the way the wind is, gentle and easy and casual, and bring Newt down to his mouth.
"We are… what we are." A "couple," as one might say.
"Yes," Newt agrees anxiously, as if this was in question.
"Yes," Credence says firmly. He tries to go for a very objective tone, devoid of any nervousness he might feel. He fiddles with his collar. "You are. Twenty-nine. And I am twenty-six."
"Mmm."
"And it has been a week."
"Has it?" Newt is notoriously bad at keeping track of days, with weeks, with passing time. All the better that Credence is the one with the potion vials, or they'd be all off track by now. "Yes… I suppose it has."
"Don't you think we should be…" Credence stands and rocks forward on the balls of his feet and then back on his heels, fingers running over the soft inner lining of his trouser pockets. "We're not schoolboys who just. Hold hands."
Newt's eyebrows jump—Credence loves his fair, thin eyebrows, just the edge of delicate-looking, and he wants to kiss Newt there, too, which is when he realizes he must really be going mad. Who thinks about kissing someone's eyebrows? Only someone who desperately needs to be kissed.
Newt, who has finally buttoned up his shirt properly, though it did take a while (and the whole time, Credence could see a sliver of skin down the center of his chest), puts his hands in his trouser pockets. They stand there, the two of them, hands in pockets like they have no desire what-so-ever to touch each other. Or else, too much of one.
"I just mean I feel as if we ought," Credence clarifies after a beat.
Newt makes a sound of assent and glances away from Credence, towards the window. "Don't think about it like that," he says softly. "Don't do things just because you feel like we're meant to."
Credence hums and leads the way out of their room into the dining space, where he pulls down a pan and takes out a carton of eggs. Newt likes watching him cook, watching him move about the kitchen without knocking things over, or whatever it is Newt likes about the way Credence moves. Credence is pretty sure he moves like a normal person, but Newt seems to believe he has some sort of innate coordination, and Credence likes the feel of Newt's eyes on him too much to suggest otherwise.
He cracks the eggs, one, two, three, four, two for each of them, and watches them sizzle gently in the pan, popping when he shifts them.
"What if I never kissed you?" Credence doesn't know why he asks. He wants to kiss Newt so badly, it dominates his thoughts to a detrimental degree.
"Then you would never kiss me," Newt says helpfully, with no edge of upset in his voice.
"And?"
"And so. Kisses would not happen."
Credence turns to Newt, then, a surprising knife of frustration cutting through his gut. "And?"
Red-cheeked, Newt shifts on his feet, focusing on the eggs in the pan. He speaks haltingly: "And we find a—a mode of—you know. Expressing. Affection. That isn't kissing." And then he is speaking a river of words. "You know, humans are the only species that kiss—different species all have different ways of expressing lo—care to one another. In fact, one of the most common things is to groom each other? Such as wings, or feathers, or fur—it makes me think, sometimes, of when we—when you shaved for the first time? Or sometimes it's a mating dance. Although: bad example, I don't think either of us is interested in doing a mating dance—but if you were—! And hugs, as you know, as everyone does, is a way of expressing human affection, or—"
"Newt." Credence points to the plates behind Newt—Newt's talked so long that the eggs are ready—and tries to keep steady as he serves them out. It's hard with Newt here, like this, his earnest hand gestures and his ridiculously studious speech.
Newt flushes. "Um."
Nowhere did Newt even mention not expressing affection, or not having affection. Or ending it.
"Do you even want to kiss me?" Credence asks bluntly, handing Newt the plate. "Or have sex—I have male… parts."
Newt adds a toasted slice of bread to both of their plates. "I'll get the maple syrup." His cheeks are bright, brilliant red—he's heard Credence ask.
Returning with the maple syrup and a spoon, Newt settles into the chair across from Credence, and Credence quietly watches him pour out a generous amount for Credence to swallow down.
Credence swallows it down.
When he opens his eyes, the bitter taste of the potion effectively chased away by sugar-sweet maple syrup and a hastily gulped glass of milk, Newt's watching him.
"Bugger," Newt says finally, one hand rubbing over his face. "You can't ask questions like that. Merlin. I—I—"
"You don't have to answer," Credence says quickly. "Please don't, if you don't want to."
"Do you want to know?"
"Well." Credence bites his tongue. "I don't really… I could go either way." God, yes, he wants to know. And if Newt doesn't want to—do things, that's fine and Credence will always, always be wildly in love but. But he really would like to know.
Newt drops his face into his hands and groans, the tips of his ears flushed. "I do," he says, muffled from behind his hands. "To both."
A wild thrill shoots through Credence, the blaze of flashing fire. He trembles with it. I want to have you right here, right now. He says, "I've never kissed someone before."
Newt blinks, blue eyes and half-raised eyebrows peeking over his hands. "I don't… mind?" He winces at the wording, but Credence knows what he's saying, and his heart flutters again in his chest.
Since today isn't a workday, Credence joins Newt on his rounds with the creatures—feeding, grooming, cleaning up enclosures. He hasn't gotten over the marvel that is Newt's magical world yet, and whenever Newt glances over at him, he can tell Newt notices the stars in his eyes by the way Newt's mouth turns up and his step lightens.
"Ma and the church…" Credence brings up hesitantly, as Newt rifles through the Niffler's stash to see if there are any valuables he will have to send back anonymously to their owners. He's taught Credence what sorts of things the Niffler's allowed to have, and what must be stolen, and now Credence helps with this sorting, too. "They had—they didn't really believe in romantic… pursuits or activities."
Newt's fingers flutter over the shining piles, quick and clever, his side pressed warmly against Credence's over the workbench, but they slow when Credence begins to speak, and Newt turns slightly towards Credence. This little sign of attention warms Credence more than it should.
"If you don't want to…"
"I want to," Credence clarifies quickly. "I want to very badly."
"Ah." Newt's fingers fumble with a wristwatch so badly it clatters to the floor. "Good to know."
"I just don't have any practice, or…" Credence isn't sure why this point matters so much. He feels as if, at twenty-six, he should have at least shared a kiss with someone, but though men did try things on him, it was never his mouth they were interested in. He stops thinking about that. "I'll be…" he flutters his hand in a vague gesture.
Newt continues sorting thoughtfully for a while after stooping to pick up the wristwatch, and, with a quick cursory glance around the Niffler's den, pronounces them finished.
"Is it bad," he asks finally, as they're climbing out of the case and dusting themselves off, "that I'm—I'm happy I get to be the one who—who you learn with?"
Credence's heart flip-flops in his chest, warm and shaky, and he looks quickly over at Newt, halfway sure Newt's only saying it to reassure him of his insecurities. But no: Newt is flicking invisible lint off of his sleeve, the tips of his ears red again, his pale eyelashes strikingly pretty when he looks down.
"I'm glad." Credence is acutely aware of how much of an understatement that is. "I'm—" he tries again, "very glad." There are more words in the English language than this. He goes: "Newt—"
Newt steps over the now-closed case on the floor and takes Credence's hand, looking at Credence in askance when Credence breaks off—he can't actually find any other words in the English language. Except love. Newt's freckled fingers curl around his, a calloused thumb running over Credence's knuckles in the most tender caress Credence has ever been the recipient of, and Credence's mind screams love, love, love.
There's a world of wonder where their skin touches.
And then—Oh, and then—Newt brings Credence's hand up to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to Credence's knuckles, smiling against Credence's skin. "I know." His kiss is as light as a feather, and still Credence burns, trembles with it.
It takes Credence a moment to rewind their conversation—Credence had not been saying I love you, he had been saying… kissing. That's right. There's a clatter of high heels and a call—Queenie's home, and from the sound of flatter footsteps, either Tina or Jacob is with her.
"More champagne!" she's calling. "Come on and help set the table while I get some dinner on!"
Something whisks through Credence—a bright, wistful feeling that, in the same moment, buzzes inside excitedly. Tonight, he takes his last dose of the Transitioning Potion. The last touch of that bitter taste he hates (ew) and loves (God, how quickly he's changed in just two months, how completely).
"Too much champagne," he murmurs, but he doesn't mean it, and no one but Newt hears him anyway as they file into the dining room obediently, their hands still clasped together.
He can hear Newt's quiet laugh behind him, can feel Newt squeeze his hand. "You're fetching when you're tipsy," Newt replies, his voice just loud enough for Credence to hear as they open the cupboards and take out dishes. "You're sweet, and happy, and you're less afraid of being yourself."
Credence, when Newt nods, floats plate over onto the table. Tina's lessons have been helpful, but Newt's more so—there's something about the innate use of magic, words unneeded, that he finds easier. Newt, a couple days ago, called it magic from the heart, instead of the head, and Credence really likes the feeling of those words settling in his chest as he places the plate on the table without so much as a clink against the wood.
He knows Newt must be smiling at him over the champagne glasses floating between them.
"That's what alcohol does," Credence tells Newt exasperatedly. He feels sweet and happy and less afraid of being himself without any champagne in sight, so long as Newt's there. He tells Newt this, and Newt lights up like a Lumos charm, slapping him lightly on the shoulder with a bashful smile.
It's another good day.
It seems that there are more and more good days here than he thought he'd ever see in his life—Tina with her graceful defeat when they tell her she can pour the champagne, please do not cook, and Jacob with a box full of pastries and eyes only for Queenie, and Queenie, who confidingly informed Credence that he didn't need a haircut to have a heart-to-heart if he ever wanted one.
And champagne! Ever more champagne.
"We have many things to celebrate, these days!" Jacob says, raising his glass with a wide smile. "We're lucky."
"May we have many events that warrant champagne," Tina agrees.
Credence lifts the very last vial of his disgusting, wonderful potion in one hand and the champagne glass in the other. "I love you all very much."
Down goes the potion—the last time he'll have to taste this bitterness almost tastes sweet in itself—and chases it with bubbly champagne. It's like swallowing joy. They're all cheering around him, and he loves them, he loves them all.
He opens his eyes to them, four shining faces smiling for him, and puts the empty vial down on the wood. "And then there were none," he pronounces. He can't stop smiling and he doesn't want to.
Newt laughs, a bright, delighted sound, and kisses Credence lightly on the cheek. "And then there were none," he echoes.
They dig into dinner, congratulating Credence and talking about Jacob's bakery, which is quickly becoming a local favorite, Credence's job there, all manner of things.
"I love it there." Jacob is a kind and friendly boss, and Credence gets to eat the ugly ones that Jacob doesn't like enough to sell. At Second Salem—a time and place Credence gladly finds himself to think of rarely these days—Credence would cook and serve, but always as a necessary cog in a machine. "I've never had anything like that."
Jacob looks at Credence and Newt both. "Are you staying in New York?"
...Staying? In New York? Credence is set here, a job and everything. He knows the city like the back of his hand. He has, after all, lived here all his life. And—but. He doesn't live with Tina and Queenie; he should get himself his own place if he's going to stay in New York, and is he?
"Newt…?" he turns.
Newt's lip is caught between his teeth, his brow furrowed, a touch of bewilderment in his eyes when Credence turns to him with the question. "I… have… my job travels. You know. I can't speak for Credence."
Jacob, seeming to realize he's stuck his foot in it a bit, holds his hands up good-naturedly. "Ah, just wondering. Whatever you decide, whenever you decide it, be sure to tell me! I'll miss you guys if you leave."
This question clings to Credence for the rest of the evening, uncertain. It's a reassurance that he cannot choose wrong—he has a good job here, a good life here, and if he were to follow Newt, it—Newt. He cannot choose wrong if Newt is what he chooses. If Newt is an option. Is Newt an option?
Newt's arm curls around him when they pull out Fantastic Beasts again, flipping through the worn pages, his body warm through the two layers of soft night clothes between them.
Credence leans against him, breathing him in and listening to the cadence of Newt's voice. He's not even listening, really, but he loves the sound of Newt's voice, quiet because Credence is close and he's speaking to Credence alone. Newt's hand runs up and down his side absently, a gentle trail of fire.
Credence looks away from the pages of the book, covered in Newt's thin scribbles, and gazes instead at Newt—his lips moving as he speaks, the gentle rumble of his voice in his throat, the curl of his eyelashes and the way his blue eyes travel across the page. He can tell when Newt realizes Credence is staring because his voice pitches up a little and he stutters, tongue wetting his lips.
"So—so they prefer to—ah… mate in the early spring." Newt stares at the writing for a moment as if it has betrayed him with this sentence before continuing determinedly: "And…"
"Newt." Credence waits for Newt to turn his face towards Credence, sure Newt can feel Credence's heart pounding where they're pressed together.
Newt lets the book close and puts it gently on the bed beside him, still looking down at Credence's mouth.
Credence reaches up and runs his fingers through Newt's soft curls again, his breath leaving him in a rush.
The kiss is sweet, awkward, bumbling. A brush of lips, light as a feather, and then again, and again, careful fingertips at Credence's jaw, guiding him into it. It's the most special thing Credence has ever shared with anyone, this clumsy string of kisses.
He'd thought—now, when they come together a little too hard, now when their noses bump, now when he gasps at the feel of Newt's stubble against his chin—that he'd be self-conscious, embarrassed until he could get it right. Not so.
Newt sighs against him, his body turning into it, his other arm wrapping around Credence, and in the shaky way Newt breathes against him, in the way Newt's fingers curl around him tight, pulling him close, Credence can't find it in himself to be self-conscious.
Instead, he lets Newt pull them flush, following Newt's guidance, and when they pull back for a moment, eyes fluttering open, Newt's giving him this stunned, warm look that suggests Credence didn't do too bad.
He can hear Newt swallow and feel Newt's chest rise and fall with a breath before Newt's lips find his jaw, brushing light, demanding nothing.
Credence's heart could burst out of his chest.
"I like this," Credence murmurs, his hands in Newt's hair. It's not quite the words he's looking for—I like this? He likes… he likes being near Newt, their bodies warm together, the bloom of nearness, the intimacy that kisses create, this thing they have between them. I like this isn't enough to express that.
Newt seems to understand what he means to express; he hums gently against Credence's neck and lifts his head to capture Credence's lips again.
Credence sleeps with his heart full, Newt's arm cast over his waist, Newt's heartbeat pressed to his back, and he dreams wistfully about Newt stealing him away in his case.
It's Newt who ends up bringing it up one day, when Credence comes back from work, taking off his hat and following Newt down into the case, where he's learned to shoulder a few of the menial tasks without guidance. He tidies up, for one.
Credence is working on the shed, organizing all the odds and ends scattered over the many work surfaces and stacking the papers for later sorting, when Newt steps in, shirt freshly smeared with blood.
"Oh!" Newt blinks, looking about the shelves, vials lined up neatly, the bins full of seeds. "I see you've been busy." His eyes are wide, and he steps through the doorway cautiously, as if reluctant to intrude on Credence's order. They land somewhere to the left of Credence, and he breaks into a bright smile, a startled laugh bursting out of him. "I can see the wood of the worktable!"
"Yes, that's how it's meant to be, I expect," Credence agrees dryly, his heart fluttering. He enjoys tasks like these—putting everything to rights—but Newt seems utterly baffled by it, so delighted he can't help laughing. "It's no magic. I just put a few things away."
"The potions ingredients!"
"I thought you might want to be able find them."
"Yes!" Newt nods vigorously, looking over the neatly labeled shelves. "Alphabetical! That's—" He laughs again, and turns to Credence with a smile that says he knows exactly how ridiculous he's being, and that he doesn't care. "Kiss?"
"Mmm."
Newt's hands come to Credence's face and pulls him in. Their kisses have become bolder, open, the sort of kiss Credence always thought was a bit gross in theory, but now he enjoys more than he'd care to admit. Newt's mouth is hot, curved into a smile, and his stubble scratches pleasantly against Credence—he's begun to suspect Newt's stopped shaving quite so often because he's realized Credence likes his stubble so much. When they kiss like this, Credence can't even be embarrassed about it.
"It's stupid," Newt mutters against Credence, pressing them back until a wooden shelf digs into Credence's back—not that Credence minds. "But I just—I can never get things in order. I do try."
"You like how I've done it?" Credence asks hopefully, tearing his eyes away from Newt's reddened mouth.
"Yes." Newt looks so earnest and genuine that Credence laughs again, kisses him again. "I can never keep order, no matter how hard I try at it," Newt continues ruefully when they pull apart. "I ought to take you with me so you can scold me properly when I make a mess of things until I learn."
"Yes, you ought." Credence agrees absently, distracted by Newt's mouth, by the closeness of him, by—he pauses, raising his eyes to Newt's. "I… Newt?"
Newt's staring back at him, looking just as surprised as Credence at his own words. "Ah—I hadn't meant to—I was going to mention—it was only a joke. I was kidding. But I… had meant to bring it up seriously. Later. Not when we were like this."
Like this probably meaning tangled in each other against the shelves, mouths burning with open-mouthed kisses.
"Of course," Newt hurries to say when Credence can't come up with words quickly enough, "I do not expect or ask you to—to leave your job, and New York, and all of it, I only… put forward the offer if you'd like to consider it. And of course, I am a wizard; I'd visit often and I'd come back to you—if you'd have me—any time I don't need to be anywhere in particular."
Credence's mind races to take these words and turn them into something that makes sense to him—I'd come back to you if you'd have me.
"And of course, you know, I'm sure, I wouldn't want you here to—tidy up—that was a joke—"
"Yes, I know." Credence can't hide his amusement, and Newt laughs quietly at himself against Credence's skin, which warms Credence head to toe.
"I'm saying too much again."
"Hush," Credence murmurs, voice wobbly with laughter. "Just give me a moment."
"Oh, no, please—" Newt's hands fumble for Credence's and he clasps them tight between them. "Don't decide now. Think on it at least a few days, Please? Won't you?"
"I don't think… I don't see myself saying no to you," Credence gets out.
There's a moment. A breath. "Oh," Newt says, his voice weak. "Think—think on it a bit longer anyway." This is said reluctantly, but determinedly.
He is so good, Credence finds himself thinking. Again. He can see how much Newt wants to accept him now, to whisk him away to another world, to take Credence's choice now rather than wait for Credence to think it through more thoroughly.
Credence imagines himself working at the bakery—he does so love it—without Newt to come home to, and he stops immediately because he cannot bear to think about it. That Newt would not be here to hold and kiss and laugh with, no enchanting, strange man that miraculously cares for Credence so much he cannot even begin to comprehend it… Credence can't picture himself doing it.
"Alright," Credence agrees, and only because he cannot bear to not kiss Newt one moment longer. He is very sure what his answer is. "Ask me in a week, and I'll answer the same."
He pulls Newt down to the newly cleared workbench and covers Newt's near-protest with his own mouth, Newt's hands hot on the small of his back through his thin work shirt. Mouths and hands and wrinkled clothing, following the heat of Newt's body as a moth follows a light.
Newt makes a noise, and it sets Credence on fire.
"Oh!" Credence, who has found himself hovering above Newt, somehow horizontal on the bench, is sure he's redder than the blood on Newt's shirt.
"It—um." Credence can feel that Newt matches him, pressed to Credence's thigh. "Does that."
"Yes, I know." Credence flushes even deeper. "It has happened before."
"Ah." Newt is very still. "Shaving."
"More often than twice in a month."
"Ah. Yes. I—Yes. Of course."
"Of course? Does your—do you?" Credence blurts out curiously before he can stop himself. He watches, mesmerized, as red crawls up Newt's neck and fills his cheeks.
"It's normal for it to be often for all men." Newt sounds slightly strangled. "But. Yes. Merlin. Is it dinner?"
"No."
"Well—"
"Do you want to stop?"
Newt's mouth opens, closes. "Do you not?"
"I've never… not in this body."
"Not even by yourself?"
"No."
Newt makes another sound. "Credence." He sits, slips off the bench. "Upstairs."
For a moment, Credence is sure Newt is going to insist on making them tea or something, but then Newt glances back at him, pupils big and black. "I don't want to be lying on a bench."
Credence, a moment ago, was sure he could not walk, he was trembling so much, but now he finds he can absolutely walk. There is nothing he can do better or faster than go up the ladder to their bedroom.
"Normally, people do it at night," Newt says afterward, staring up at the ceiling. Credence just stares over at Newt, tracing constellations in his freckles with his eyes.
"Pleasure isn't something that the Second Salem… told us about. Except in terms of sin." Credence sighs, weak-limbed. "But I did gather that much."
"Mmm."
"Is it strange that this is when I feel very complete?"
Newt peers up at Credence through his fair lashes. "How do you mean?"
Credence shrugs, and the sheets rustle beneath him. "Two months for my body to change was very fast, but it was also gradual… and I suppose now is when I actually feel… here."
Newt looks faintly embarrassed, but he kisses Credence's shoulder and holds him. "I'm happy for you."
"I'm happy for me, too."
They clean up, and thankfully, no one comments on them if they're a bit giddy during dinner, or if Newt looks very warm but will not take off his scarf.
At night, Credence finds Newt on the balcony, standing in the cold night air. The snow has stopped falling so frequently, but it's falling now, dusting Newt's hair and the shoulders of his blue coat.
Carefully, sure to not let too much magic out at once, Credence casts a warming charm, and then wills the snow to please fall around them instead of getting on their clothes and wetting them. The snow, to his delight, obeys.
"You're a fast learner," Newt tells him again.
Heat rises to Credence's cheeks—last time Newt said that to him, it was about kissing—but he flicks a quick drying charm towards the shoulders of Newt's coat just to show off, basking in the way Newt beams proudly at him. "What are you doing out here in the cold?"
"New York," Newt answers him simply.
Joining him at the railing, Credence follows Newt's gaze out at the city, reminded strongly of another time.
He lays his hand between them. Newt takes it.
There it is again, this airy, summer's sunshine magic that bubbles out of Newt, fluttery and sweet. This time, it isn't careful, probing around to gently coax Credence's magic out; it flows through Credence as naturally as if it was his own magic. Is this something non-Obscurials can do—sharing magic like this through their skin? Or is the way that Obscurials dissolve into a pure manifestation of their magic that they're able to transcend the physical rules of magic?
He'll have to figure that out with Newt—it feels like a very Newt-like question, the kind that Newt would puzzle over for days, completely distracted from whatever original project he'd been working on.
"It's a wonderful city," Newt murmurs beside him.
Out in the city, the lights are twinkling on again, bright pricks of light in the night, a living, breathing city-scape. The roofs shine with enough snow to make them slick and not enough that the snow stays unmelted, white and glittering, the way it would in the winter.
He does love this city so much—the life and bustle in the day, the quiet evidence of life glowing in every window when the sun goes down, the tall buildings against the velvet night sky.
And yet, he's looked out on this city all his life, from the small, miserable little window in his shared rooms with Modesty and Chastity, to the much lovelier view here in the guest room of the Goldstiens' apartment.
"I could stand to see something else when I step outside," Credence murmurs back, squeezing Newt's hand.
"Just give it a week," Newt replies, but he squeezes Credence's hand back, his magic pulsing through Credence delightedly, as if Credence could feel the skip of Newt's heart in the way his magic moves through him. "Please. For me."
"Anything you want," Credence agrees easily. And then, just as easily, "You know I love you."
Newt breathes in sharply beside him, his magic crashing through their connection in the closest thing Credence has ever felt to his own magic in Newt's, sweeping over him like a wave.
Someone's dark window flickers to a bright yellow.
Newt's hand trembles in Credence's. Credence is no better—he'll burst any moment now. He imagines this is what men feel like when they propose.
"I didn't know that." Newt says eventually, more breath than voice. He breathes shakily, audibly, staring out into the city. "And… I did know, in a way."
The clock chimes, and in the same instant, streetlights down every avenue turn on, displaying the grid-like formation of some of the streets, the winding nature of others.
Newt turns to Credence, reaching for his other hand as well, pulling them both to his mouth and kissing Credence's cold fingers. "You know I love you too."
And when Newt says it, Credence realizes that he did know. Newt tells Credence in everything he does, in the way he gazes at Credence when he thinks Credence isn't looking and the way he gazes at Credence when he knows Credence notices him, in the way he holds and touches and kisses Credence—it is not a hard thing to believe, that Newt loves Credence. It isn't hard at all.
"Yes." Credence smiles, his heart so full it is bursting at the seams. "I know."
And then, even though he feels stupid saying it, he says, "I love me too. I really love me."
The light in Newt's eyes could put the stars, the glow of the city, the sun itself to shame. "Good," he says, sounding like he might cry. "Good."
Who needs New York when they have Newt Scamander?
Credence obediently waits a week, but when the sun rises, Credence rolls over in Newt's arms, squinting against the sun that streams through the cracks in the curtains, and shakes Newt awake.
"Mmmm?" Newt's so pretty in his sleep, his hair mussed and soft against the pillow, creases pressed into his cheek. He is even prettier as he wakes, blinking lazily, mouth twitching into a gentle, absent smile as he sees Credence.
"Up," Credence insists, shaking Newt more, "Wake up."
Newt, his smile growing more and more bemused as Credence hauls him up and sits him against the wall, taking both of his hands solemnly, nods attentively. "I'm awake," he promises. "Why are you awake?"
Credence has become a chronic late-waker, and Newt's so incredibly fond of this that Credence has decided to abandon fixing this.
Credence squeezes Newt's hands, hard. "Listen to me very carefully."
Nod.
"It's been a week."
A surprised laugh escapes Newt's lips, and he ducks his head, grinning.
"I would like to stay with you."
"Ah."
"Will you have me?"
Newt moves forward, practically tackling Credence back onto the bed, hugging him tight enough to squeeze all the air out of him. "You know I will."
Credence breathes in and out, and Newt's arms around him rise with his breath. He could stay like this forever, forever. In a bed with Newt and his little smile, the case full of wonders just a few feet away from them.
The feeling of forever no longer feels like a glass cage—it does not feel like a cage at all. It feels as open and as free as a clear sky does to a bird with healed wings.
NewtNewt has never had a traveling companion that was a human before. Neither has he had a lover who loved him very much before.
It's a new thing, to have someone in his life like this, who stays by his side and enjoys it, to have organized shelves, to have someone to yell at him when he recklessly hurts himself infiltrating a ring of poachers, to have someone who helps him in the case and is far quicker with creatures than anyone he's met before.
He reminded Credence of as much—surely he will not be a good person to live with when he's never lived with anyone since he moved out of his parent's house. Credence just knocked his shoulder gently and told him that they had been living together for over three months.
And now here they are.
Living together.
He knocks on the top of the case and Credence climbs out, his shirt smeared with blood from the Graphorns, Pickett in his hair, and looks around the small boat cabin curiously: a bed that will just about fit the two of them, solid wood walls, a dresser they won't need—the case has space enough for all their clothes—a small writing table on which Newt has laid out tea and biscuits for them. Credence, after some experimentation, has found the kind of tea he likes (sugar and a dash of milk), and he likes it when Newt makes it for him; he says Newt can make it better than he can.
Over tea and biscuits, he asks how long they'll be here, and looks pleased to hear two weeks or so—the perfect amount of time, he says.
The biscuits, made by Jacob and wrapped prettily by Queenie, are delicious and disappear rapidly.
The teaspoons, which aren't theirs, also disappear rapidly, and Credence dives back into the case with a muffled curse that seems to Newt so much like himself that he has to laugh out loud at how the pair of them are getting on. There will, of course, be ups and downs, and the question of whether they will ever settle down or if Credence will want to explore the world forever, but for now they fit so perfectly, he cannot imagine them any other way.
He is so glad he offered to bring Credence with him. He is so thankful Credence agreed to.
When Credence emerges once more, flushed and messy, clutching two shining silver teaspoons in his hand triumphantly, Newt plucks Pickett from Credence's hair and puts him back in the case before closing it decisively. He kisses Credence once, twice, three times, seizes his hand, and drags him out of the cabin just as they begin to move.
The air whistles around them, the sky clear and bright as spring should be, and from here, they can see the trees in New York bursting with flowers and bright, young leaves.
Credence points—they can see Tina, Jacob, and Queenie waving their hands in the air, standing at the very edge of the water, hollering goodbyes they can't hear over the roar of the water. They holler back anyway, until their three friends are so small, they can no longer make them out against the crowds of New York.
"Goodbye, New York," Newt says.
"Goodbye, New York," Credence echoes.
Credence doesn't sound mournful or wistful or sad—he sounds eager. He sounds ready to jump right into a new world and adapt, and Newt is just as ready to watch it all happen from his place at Credence's side.