Newt, dear Newt, your turn to read start to finish. Same as I gotta write. Please?
I’m so damn sorry, Newt.
I never meant to raise bad blood between us.
My word, Newt. You know I ain’t a fella to back down from a fight, and I don’t shy of taking one to the scene when I gotta. But that’s not why I shoved you. And, fact is, I didn’t at first. Not when you took my hand – us sitting on the ground to watch the fire in the stove’s window, going like a heart – or when you kissed it. I’ll be level with you, Newt. The War, it took me places where touching a man close, his hand, his face even, was the real deal. When it’s hell outside and the fellas inside the only piece of human, still in one piece, you all stop reckoning about dos and don’ts, and you cling to each other any which way. I seen officers with their faces pitch black from the gunpowder rock a man to their chest to keep him warm and I tell you, it’s fellas like that made me believe in the next day.
And, Newt, I’ve been in their shoes. I done it once with a boy from Frisco – a nice lad, with sun freckles all over his neck and shoulders, when we washed at crack of dawn – that missed home so awful bad he went and sliced off his middle fingers. Figured they’d send him back then if he couldn’t pull a trigger good. That boy, he made my heart tender. I held him after he slunk away for two days and they found him, and then he kissed my mouth for comfort, his warm from all the crying he’d done due to the rot settling in and he being told it was no good. That he’d be gone by morning. Why, everybody was here and looking, and I never got bull from any of them if it was the right kinda kiss.
Maybe that’s why Mildred couldn’t keep steady with me. I think she knew, somehow, what the War had done to me. Opened a door in my heart and flesh that shut her out, kinda.
But. But, Newt. That was then. When you gave me that kiss, saying how you had changed, too, and wanted no other mate for life, you meant from now on. And – that’s the hard part, Newt – your words scared me. See, now’s another tale. You love a guy now, you got one way of making it a public thing. You gotta be a fairy. Bleach your hair and call yourself Mae West and go perform to the Bowery, where they hold the big Pansy Balls nowadays. Your nice blue coat with the flaring tails? That’s the sissy’s badge, they’ll say. And, Newt, they won’t all hate you, but they won’t trust that you’re a fighter, too. An explorer. They won’t believe that you’re mother and father both to your beasts. And the people who come in here and buy my breads, all the nice ladies and the good guys, they’ll be thinking, oh, Mr Kowalski’s the real man. The other, he’s the lady. And, Newt, I dunno. I got no quarrel with the queer men. It takes guts in my book to rouge your cheeks and come out in the open. But it’s not you. And the other way is just to hide, hide, hide. On top all the hiding that would come with me being a No Maj.
You’re so frank, Newt. It’s what got me smitten with you in the first place. You got no idea how to live the lie. And I don’t wanna be the reason why you try and fail, and take a crack from your folks at home or the cop round the corner.
Christ. I’m choked up just writing about it, Newt.
Please forgive me for the hurt.
Please be safe and well.
Yours, Jacob
---------------------
Dear Queenie,
My first-ever binge, and my first-ever Whisperer in twenty years of office correspondence. The thought alone was a pepper-up, but I have duly eaten the banana. It saw me through the Imbolc Morrow and its batch of far-from-first offenses. (You’d think the younger wizarding public knew better than to invest in fiendyfire-crackers by now, but no.)
I am of two minds about my own sending. The letter herewith was brought to me at 8 by one of our cleaners. I haven’t opened it, but my head is sober enough that it can hazard a guess as to who used a fountain-pen to address it. And if I am straight with myself, and you, I don’t like it. I hate – forgive my bluntless – to think that it may upset you. That, whatever that man wants, it may take the edge off a joy that comes so rarely and naturally to you, and, once found again, should be safeguarded.
But the letter is yours. And to hex or heed it can only be your decision.
I trust you to do the right thing. Just – let me know you’re well, Queenie.
Sincerely yours, Percival
(Apparently, we brought the table down. But yes – it was the greatest fun I’ve had in years, provided I behaved as a gentleman through it all. Or I shall rue more than a maiden hangover.)
------------------------------
Mr Scamander,
It appears that there is a Bubo Americanus in the Owlry, bearing a letter for you. Please come and retrieve it without delay, and please, please, please, direct your non-professional messaging to your home address. Fraternizing with foreign correspondents is not what we want for our boarders. What next, international bird unions?
Gareth Peppercorn Wizard Resources and Management Department Ministry of Magic
Fill - When the Clouds Roll By (11/?)
I’m so damn sorry, Newt.
I never meant to raise bad blood between us.
My word, Newt. You know I ain’t a fella to back down from a fight, and I don’t shy of taking one to the scene when I gotta. But that’s not why I shoved you. And, fact is, I didn’t at first. Not when you took my hand – us sitting on the ground to watch the fire in the stove’s window, going like a heart – or when you kissed it. I’ll be level with you, Newt. The War, it took me places where touching a man close, his hand, his face even, was the real deal. When it’s hell outside and the fellas inside the only piece of human, still in one piece, you all stop reckoning about dos and don’ts, and you cling to each other any which way. I seen officers with their faces pitch black from the gunpowder rock a man to their chest to keep him warm and I tell you, it’s fellas like that made me believe in the next day.
And, Newt, I’ve been in their shoes. I done it once with a boy from Frisco – a nice lad, with sun freckles all over his neck and shoulders, when we washed at crack of dawn – that missed home so awful bad he went and sliced off his middle fingers. Figured they’d send him back then if he couldn’t pull a trigger good. That boy, he made my heart tender. I held him after he slunk away for two days and they found him, and then he kissed my mouth for comfort, his warm from all the crying he’d done due to the rot settling in and he being told it was no good. That he’d be gone by morning. Why, everybody was here and looking, and I never got bull from any of them if it was the right kinda kiss.
Maybe that’s why Mildred couldn’t keep steady with me. I think she knew, somehow, what the War had done to me. Opened a door in my heart and flesh that shut her out, kinda.
But. But, Newt. That was then. When you gave me that kiss, saying how you had changed, too, and wanted no other mate for life, you meant from now on. And – that’s the hard part, Newt – your words scared me. See, now’s another tale. You love a guy now, you got one way of making it a public thing. You gotta be a fairy. Bleach your hair and call yourself Mae West and go perform to the Bowery, where they hold the big Pansy Balls nowadays. Your nice blue coat with the flaring tails? That’s the sissy’s badge, they’ll say. And, Newt, they won’t all hate you, but they won’t trust that you’re a fighter, too. An explorer. They won’t believe that you’re mother and father both to your beasts. And the people who come in here and buy my breads, all the nice ladies and the good guys, they’ll be thinking, oh, Mr Kowalski’s the real man. The other, he’s the lady. And, Newt, I dunno. I got no quarrel with the queer men. It takes guts in my book to rouge your cheeks and come out in the open. But it’s not you. And the other way is just to hide, hide, hide. On top all the hiding that would come with me being a No Maj.
You’re so frank, Newt. It’s what got me smitten with you in the first place. You got no idea how to live the lie. And I don’t wanna be the reason why you try and fail, and take a crack from your folks at home or the cop round the corner.
Christ. I’m choked up just writing about it, Newt.
Please forgive me for the hurt.
Please be safe and well.
Yours,
Jacob
---------------------
Dear Queenie,
My first-ever binge, and my first-ever Whisperer in twenty years of office correspondence. The thought alone was a pepper-up, but I have duly eaten the banana. It saw me through the Imbolc Morrow and its batch of far-from-first offenses. (You’d think the younger wizarding public knew better than to invest in fiendyfire-crackers by now, but no.)
I am of two minds about my own sending. The letter herewith was brought to me at 8 by one of our cleaners. I haven’t opened it, but my head is sober enough that it can hazard a guess as to who used a fountain-pen to address it. And if I am straight with myself, and you, I don’t like it. I hate – forgive my bluntless – to think that it may upset you. That, whatever that man wants, it may take the edge off a joy that comes so rarely and naturally to you, and, once found again, should be safeguarded.
But the letter is yours. And to hex or heed it can only be your decision.
I trust you to do the right thing. Just – let me know you’re well, Queenie.
Sincerely yours,
Percival
(Apparently, we brought the table down. But yes – it was the greatest fun I’ve had in years, provided I behaved as a gentleman through it all. Or I shall rue more than a maiden hangover.)
------------------------------
Mr Scamander,
It appears that there is a Bubo Americanus in the Owlry, bearing a letter for you. Please come and retrieve it without delay, and please, please, please, direct your non-professional messaging to your home address. Fraternizing with foreign correspondents is not what we want for our boarders.
What next, international bird unions?Gareth Peppercorn
Wizard Resources and Management Department
Ministry of Magic
-------------------------