i'm glad you like it! um, also, um, right now it's a lot of feelings but credence does the Sexual Soul-Searching thing later on, so... yeah.
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2.
The first time, only surprise kept him still.
It had been a while since he had last been touched by someone. Probably Mr. Graves, in that alley―only it hadn’t been Mr. Graves after all, a fact from which Credence had recovered mostly undisturbed. Of course that strange blond man had only wanted something from Credence. Of course he wasn’t fit to do anything but be used, and badly at that. Of course it had ended terribly: smoke and blood and the debilitating weakness Credence was sure he would always carry, making him shake until it hurt.
But Newt…
“Thank you for your help, Credence,” said Newt – gently, as gently as he talked to his fantastic beasts. And he reached out and petted the top of Credence’s head, a soft caress made with delicate fingers, touching him as if he were as precious as glass that had already been cracked.
That was what got him, probably. The carefulness.
It felt sweet. It felt more than sweet: warm, as if Newt was liquid sunlight and it dripped down, a peculiar sensation that spread through his head, his neck―it tightened his throat with the fullness of tears―and then lower―his heart―and lower still―his belly. The shudder that overcame him was half the result of gratefulness and self-loathing. Even now, he couldn’t help himself. Even now he knew he would never reject Newt, never turn him away, never―never tell him, confess how horribly wrong he was, how he could be, how he still thought about the Mr. Graves that was not the real Mr. Graves holding him firmly and saying his name as if it was something to be owned.
Those were things meant to stay in the dark. So Credence merely nodded, and tried to mumble something (and failed), and then Newt got distracted when two animals―Credence wasn’t sure of their names yet―began to fight, because one of them was convalescing.
Life with Newt was strangely serene, despite the weird smells and the nipped fingers. They travelled by ship: Newt said it would be best to let things settle down for a while, as the memory of… recent events was too fresh, and then he added seriously that he knew all about accidentally making a bit of a mess and everything would turn out all right―Credence helplessly believed him, even though he had a hard time believing in anything these days except the wrath of God, who was surely readying himself to punish him for his inclinations.
As they got used to each other, Newt touched him more often. It wasn’t the sort of casual touches a less socially awkward person would have managed, either―Newt was always painfully aware of what he was doing, and to forget himself that way just wasn’t possible. But Credence didn’t mind. There were mode head pats, and then soft grips of his shoulder that felt nothing like how the false Mr. Graves had touched him, and in one memorable occasion, when they were squeezing themselves through a narrow passage, Credence had been almost close enough to touch Newt chest-to-chest, close enough they looked at each other in the eye although neither of them usually had the daring.
Newt had dispelled the brittle but tense silence with a huff that was born out of that little twitch-smile, and Credence had followed after him silently, and that was that.
That should have been that.
The problem was this: somewhere along the way, when Credence hadn’t been looking, he’d turned greedy. So much freedom was getting to his head―there was sunshine, usually, and the smell of green growing things, and tea because Newt seemed obsessed with tea, and a steady undisrupted kindness―and he began to engineer ways to get touched more, even when he hadn’t done anything to merit it, like helping Newt with a beast.
Newt was bent over his desk with the lamp on, scribbling on some parchment with a quill. His calligraphy was a beautiful disaster, long looping lines and a cramped cursive, like something out of an old book. He lost himself when he was like that, he was consumed by the purpose of his work, Credence thought, recalling what Ma used to say about why she had to fight against the corruption of magic. Purpose, a meaning. Purpose…
Credence wanted to be touched. He wanted to exist so that Newt could touch him.
Once he accepted that, it became easier to gather up a dreg of courage and creep closer to Newt, surely hovering like a shadow of ill-omen. He sat on the floor next to Newt’s stool, who didn’t notice him at all, and after a few seconds of holding his breath to make sure it would stay that way, Credence relaxed and looked at Newt’s free hand, which was just dangling there… He had tiny scars, some better healed than others, a few which looked fresh―and there was the scratch he’d got that same morning, of course, to protect Credence…
It just welled up. He wanted to ask for forgiveness but he didn’t want to interrupt the moment. It just welled up in him, this awful, heart-breaking need, and―and Credence shifted closer to Newt’s hand, and it bumped against his forehead. Credence’s blood ran cold but he didn’t dare to look up… and yes, yes, Newt was too busy, of course, and animals chased him to be petted all the time, or to pet him, and Newt thoughtlessly carded his fingers through Credence’s hair, slowly and methodically, but sweetly.
Sweetly…
Credence hugged his knees and rested his shoulder against the stool, and he rubbed his cheek against Newt’s wonderful blue coat, which was really very soft. Newt kept writing, and Credence eventually began to doze, even though his back ached and he should stop it already before Newt came out of his daze and he realised how pathetic Credence was, how much he…
He…
“Credence?” said Newt’s bemused voice, and then ― “Um.”
Credence straightened up with a start. He rubbed his eyes and glanced up at Newt, who had a bit of ink on his face and one eyebrow raised in that lopsided quizzical look he got sometimes―and, and, and. And his hand was still in Credence’s hair.
“Um,” said Newt again. And then carefully, just like when they found a new animal and Newt was trying to decide how to lure it closer to ensnare it with food and affection, he caressed the side of Credence’s face… clumsily, as if unused to it, and somewhat awkwardly, because of the angle. His thumb brushed against Credence’s lashes, which fluttered closed out of unexpected pressure, and then another slow caress... Credence turned his head, seeking more contact, and he got Newt to touch his mouth―his mouth―by accident before, startled, Newt jerked away.
He looked uncomfortable. Credence felt his stomach sink.
“I―I’m sorry,” he said, trying to speak past the knot in his throat. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again―I just wanted―I’m sorry―”
“No, no, don’t apologise, don’t, oh,” said Newt, waving his hands around. He rubbed his face―he’d forgotten about the ink because he smeared it more―and then sighed deeply. “I just forgot―I’m alone so much―it’s my fault―Credence.” His tone had turned serious. He slid off the stool and knelt in front of Credence, so they could be of a height if not, necessarily, looking at each other, as Credence kept his gaze on his shoes. “Credence, if you need anything, you have to tell me, all right? D’you understand?”
Fill: Newt/Credence. Take the fever out of me (2/6)
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2.
The first time, only surprise kept him still.
It had been a while since he had last been touched by someone. Probably Mr. Graves, in that alley―only it hadn’t been Mr. Graves after all, a fact from which Credence had recovered mostly undisturbed. Of course that strange blond man had only wanted something from Credence. Of course he wasn’t fit to do anything but be used, and badly at that. Of course it had ended terribly: smoke and blood and the debilitating weakness Credence was sure he would always carry, making him shake until it hurt.
But Newt…
“Thank you for your help, Credence,” said Newt – gently, as gently as he talked to his fantastic beasts. And he reached out and petted the top of Credence’s head, a soft caress made with delicate fingers, touching him as if he were as precious as glass that had already been cracked.
That was what got him, probably. The carefulness.
It felt sweet. It felt more than sweet: warm, as if Newt was liquid sunlight and it dripped down, a peculiar sensation that spread through his head, his neck―it tightened his throat with the fullness of tears―and then lower―his heart―and lower still―his belly. The shudder that overcame him was half the result of gratefulness and self-loathing. Even now, he couldn’t help himself. Even now he knew he would never reject Newt, never turn him away, never―never tell him, confess how horribly wrong he was, how he could be, how he still thought about the Mr. Graves that was not the real Mr. Graves holding him firmly and saying his name as if it was something to be owned.
Those were things meant to stay in the dark. So Credence merely nodded, and tried to mumble something (and failed), and then Newt got distracted when two animals―Credence wasn’t sure of their names yet―began to fight, because one of them was convalescing.
Life with Newt was strangely serene, despite the weird smells and the nipped fingers. They travelled by ship: Newt said it would be best to let things settle down for a while, as the memory of… recent events was too fresh, and then he added seriously that he knew all about accidentally making a bit of a mess and everything would turn out all right―Credence helplessly believed him, even though he had a hard time believing in anything these days except the wrath of God, who was surely readying himself to punish him for his inclinations.
As they got used to each other, Newt touched him more often. It wasn’t the sort of casual touches a less socially awkward person would have managed, either―Newt was always painfully aware of what he was doing, and to forget himself that way just wasn’t possible. But Credence didn’t mind. There were mode head pats, and then soft grips of his shoulder that felt nothing like how the false Mr. Graves had touched him, and in one memorable occasion, when they were squeezing themselves through a narrow passage, Credence had been almost close enough to touch Newt chest-to-chest, close enough they looked at each other in the eye although neither of them usually had the daring.
Newt had dispelled the brittle but tense silence with a huff that was born out of that little twitch-smile, and Credence had followed after him silently, and that was that.
That should have been that.
The problem was this: somewhere along the way, when Credence hadn’t been looking, he’d turned greedy. So much freedom was getting to his head―there was sunshine, usually, and the smell of green growing things, and tea because Newt seemed obsessed with tea, and a steady undisrupted kindness―and he began to engineer ways to get touched more, even when he hadn’t done anything to merit it, like helping Newt with a beast.
Newt was bent over his desk with the lamp on, scribbling on some parchment with a quill. His calligraphy was a beautiful disaster, long looping lines and a cramped cursive, like something out of an old book. He lost himself when he was like that, he was consumed by the purpose of his work, Credence thought, recalling what Ma used to say about why she had to fight against the corruption of magic. Purpose, a meaning. Purpose…
Credence wanted to be touched. He wanted to exist so that Newt could touch him.
Once he accepted that, it became easier to gather up a dreg of courage and creep closer to Newt, surely hovering like a shadow of ill-omen. He sat on the floor next to Newt’s stool, who didn’t notice him at all, and after a few seconds of holding his breath to make sure it would stay that way, Credence relaxed and looked at Newt’s free hand, which was just dangling there… He had tiny scars, some better healed than others, a few which looked fresh―and there was the scratch he’d got that same morning, of course, to protect Credence…
It just welled up. He wanted to ask for forgiveness but he didn’t want to interrupt the moment. It just welled up in him, this awful, heart-breaking need, and―and Credence shifted closer to Newt’s hand, and it bumped against his forehead. Credence’s blood ran cold but he didn’t dare to look up… and yes, yes, Newt was too busy, of course, and animals chased him to be petted all the time, or to pet him, and Newt thoughtlessly carded his fingers through Credence’s hair, slowly and methodically, but sweetly.
Sweetly…
Credence hugged his knees and rested his shoulder against the stool, and he rubbed his cheek against Newt’s wonderful blue coat, which was really very soft. Newt kept writing, and Credence eventually began to doze, even though his back ached and he should stop it already before Newt came out of his daze and he realised how pathetic Credence was, how much he…
He…
“Credence?” said Newt’s bemused voice, and then ― “Um.”
Credence straightened up with a start. He rubbed his eyes and glanced up at Newt, who had a bit of ink on his face and one eyebrow raised in that lopsided quizzical look he got sometimes―and, and, and. And his hand was still in Credence’s hair.
“Um,” said Newt again. And then carefully, just like when they found a new animal and Newt was trying to decide how to lure it closer to ensnare it with food and affection, he caressed the side of Credence’s face… clumsily, as if unused to it, and somewhat awkwardly, because of the angle. His thumb brushed against Credence’s lashes, which fluttered closed out of unexpected pressure, and then another slow caress... Credence turned his head, seeking more contact, and he got Newt to touch his mouth―his mouth―by accident before, startled, Newt jerked away.
He looked uncomfortable. Credence felt his stomach sink.
“I―I’m sorry,” he said, trying to speak past the knot in his throat. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again―I just wanted―I’m sorry―”
“No, no, don’t apologise, don’t, oh,” said Newt, waving his hands around. He rubbed his face―he’d forgotten about the ink because he smeared it more―and then sighed deeply. “I just forgot―I’m alone so much―it’s my fault―Credence.” His tone had turned serious. He slid off the stool and knelt in front of Credence, so they could be of a height if not, necessarily, looking at each other, as Credence kept his gaze on his shoes. “Credence, if you need anything, you have to tell me, all right? D’you understand?”
I want you to touch me everywhere.
“I understand, Mr. Scamander,” said Credence.
Some things were meant to be a secret.