#'imagine all the lovely memories of your family youve forgotten because you were too much of a lazy fuck to write them down'

[liverpool-enjoyer]

vent

[inkstainedfanfics]

To a Wonder, From a Fool

Request: YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON AND I HOPE YOU ASCEND TO HEAVEN AND LIVE WITH ALL THE BROKEN SOULS YOUVE BROKEN WITH YOUR FANFICS ...On the other hand, i love you so much and literally live for your writings. PART 5 OF To Newt, With Love PLEASE!!!

Word Count: 2,530

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Part 1   |   Part 2   |   Part 3   |   Part 4

Tag List: @red-roses-and-stories @caseoffics @dont-give-a-bother @myrtus-amongst-the-stars @ryeosomnia @fangirlingandcrying @ly--canthrope @heneed-somemilk @gemininomad @adellyhatter-blog @trying-to-benormal @akacheelz @unculturedswines

The evening ends lonely, as it always does. The sun sets in a bath of a million colors, from vivid blues that are deeper than the ocean to pastel greens that remind you of a set of eyes you haven’t seen for a long time.

Too long.

You bite your lip and step onto the walk leading up to your house. It’s a thin trail of concrete that offers little protection from the mud on either side, but, as of a week ago, it’s yours. You follow it up to your new beige front door. After fumbling with the keys, a set of three for the three ways in, you push open the door to a silent house.

You step inside with a sigh, letting the door swing shut behind you as you contemplate the long hours of restlessness that lay ahead. You haven’t been sleeping well since the move. There’s a tree branch outside your bedroom window that screeches against the pane if the wind hits it just right, and the floorboards here make no noise, quite unlike the ones at your old house that would warn you if anyone was passing them. There are no mice running through the walls, but there’s also no lone owl that sits outside your window and sings. There are no char marks on the kitchen wall, no memories of dancing in the main room, no remnants of anything.

A clean slate, or, at least, that’s what Evelyn calls it. “You need a clean slate, a fresh start, and this is it.”

You follow the wide hallway to your kitchen, eyeing the blank walls and trying to imagine what might look good hanging from them. Your frames sit in a box somewhere in the main room, waiting to be unpacked like nearly everything else you own. You’ve only bothered to take out the essentials so far: clothes, some dishes, and a black box you’d promised Evelyn you’d toss.

It sits where it did in your old house: under your bed, pressing up against the wall. That’s where it belongs.

Stepping into the kitchen, you pull open your pantry door, searching the bare shelves for something warm, something to cheer you up. There’s nothing there, though, nothing but a box of crackers and a package of tea left behind by Evelyn when she came to see the house. You decide to make the tea, craving a warm drink and praying it helps you unwind from the stress of work and the move. You listen for your neighbors as the tea brews. Your old house sat in a busy neighborhood, one where everyone was constantly bustling around, talking, shouting, little kids playing in nearby yards, tourists scratching their heads and knocking on doors asking for directions. Here, there’s nothing. Not a sound from your neighbors. They’re all locked in their houses already, reading, you assume, or perhaps knitting or playing family board games. All while you sit here in front of your stove, alone, wondering how long you’ll be lying in bed for before you manage to fall asleep.

The thought surrounds you like the steam from the pot on the stove, more and more joining it every second, and you can’t drive them away, can’t wave away their suffocating implications, their promises that it all meant nothing in the end. Your hope, your days spent next to the window, your jittery excitement as day after day passed right after you sent the letter: It had all been for nothing. You slowly slide down onto the kitchen floor, arms wrapping around your knees as you hold back tears. Newt doesn’t care and, Merlin, you know you shouldn’t either, that after this many years you should be okay with that, but you’d honestly believed he would show up at your house, come in with a grin and open arms and his cute warmth that no one can resist, but he hadn’t. Your front door rested, silent, the entire year after the letter disappeared from your hand. As quiet as your voice when Evelyn asked you if you were all right the day before you moved. As quiet as the house had been the morning after you tore up his letters.

As quiet as your life may as well have been since then.

You’ve traveled, seen the world, gathered experiences most people only write stories about, but it doesn’t matter because you’ve never truly lived them. You’ve made friends, but none of them are friends that understand you like Newt did, that know what you’re thinking before you do, that understand how you tick without having to work at it. He knew you in a way no one else ever could, and you know now that you let that go, pushed it away.

You drop your head onto your knees, small whimper leaking from your lips as two tears drip down your face. How could you have let that go? How could you have given up on him that way? He was all you wanted, not all you had but all you cared for, and you let him go over another woman. God, if you could just go back and take it all back, give him that watch without cursing, hug him and tell him that you love him more than anything, tear Leta from his arm and send her anywhere else in the world, you’d do it. You’d do it in a heartbeat.

Which would be rather quickly, given how your heart slams against your ribs right now as you cry quietly to yourself, tea completely forgotten. You ache to remember the warmth of his hugs, and the way his freckles dotted across his nose, and how he always knew when to bring you a chunk of chocolate. The argument was a silly fight, a battle of pride you never should have given in to.

You stand, wiping away your tears, trying to convince yourself that you believe it’s his fault. He was the one lying to you, he was the one that ditched you, he was the one that gave you reason to push him away.

You find a small comfort in realizing that a small part of you believes that, accepts that some of this is Newt’s fault. The typical anger follows this revelation, a familiar, comforting anger you know you can easily welcome. You can accept it, embrace it, make this all Newt’s fault.

But it isn’t. That would be a lie, just like believing he would show up was a lie, and you’re sick of lying to yourself.

You pour your tea into your favorite mug and hold it in both hands, leaning against your counter as you consider everything from the past few years. The initial betrayal, the way your heart tore when he looked down at Leta, the look on his face when you cursed at him, then the feel of the wood under you as you sobbed over him and his choices. Then finding that box filled with the letters, all fixed, something you’d never expected, never thought would happen, watch and key safely snuggled atop them with a simple note telling you he’d forgiven you. You fiddle with the mug. He’d never replied to your own message of regret, a sign you take as proof that he left his note as a sign of moving on. He doesn’t want to be your friend anymore, doesn’t want to risk the awkward conversations and sad memories. You swallow your grief.

Then you let him go, let go of the old memories, let go of everything you hold for and against him. You turn him into nothing more than a regret you’ll leave in your past. That’s all he can be for your sake.

The sun dips under the horizon, leaving a murky blue blanket behind. A cue to head upstairs. Your new job as a magical creature caretaker starts early enough at eight, a full night of sleep will help.

You walk through the empty hall again, ignoring the spots that stare at you, begging for a picture.

You’ll have to find new ones to fill the spaces.

You’re halfway up the staircase when you realize you forgot to lock the front door. You heave out a long sigh as you turn around, plodding back down the stairs, steps heavy.

A small window near the top of the door offers you the chance to peek out to your front stoop, which has so far been rather useless since the only person that stops by is Evelyn. You freeze now, though, still a quarter of the way up the steps when you see a shadow moving outside.

No one should be here, not at this hour. Evelyn should be at home with Dorothy, reading her stories and tucking her into bed, and you haven’t told anyone else your new address yet.

A burglar. Your hands shake and you bend down slowly, eyes never leaving the shadow, to place your mug on the step, freeing both hands. Your wand appears in your hand with a wordless spell, and you steel yourself for a potential fight.

Then the intruder knocks.

You blink. You’ve never heard of a burglar knocking. Perhaps… perhaps it’s a neighbor, asking to borrow something or invite you to the neighborhood. Weird time, but then again, your neighbors seem kind of weird.

Stepping slowly, you approach the door, wand still ready if it’s necessary.

The room falls silent as you rest your hand on the knob, lip between your teeth, debating whether to open the door. Figuring you should have the upper hand in surprise, you yank it open, stepping to the side with the door in case the person lunges for you.

You look up. All the air rushes from your lungs as you stare up at familiar, green eyes.

“I, um, have a housewarming gift.” The green-eyed man procures a bundle of daisies from behind his back, freckles hidden in his flushed face, hands shaking slightly.

Your wand clatters to the ground as you throw your arms around his shoulders, wrenching him down to your height.

Newt hesitates, arms out, letting you hug him for a few seconds before he wraps his own around you, holding you against him. You don’t care that he waits, that he paused. You just hold him tight against you, breathing in his smell, reveling in the musky scent and the scratch of his jacket against your cheek. He’s back. Newt’s back.

You laugh against his shoulder, squeezing him tighter and tighter until there’s no space between the two of you, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. You just hold him, eyes watering in exhilaration and elation. Newt’s back.

He doesn’t waver in his own grasp, something that surprises you, given that he’s never been very fond of hugs. He grips you as tightly as you grip him, though, not letting go until you’re a teary mess and step back, wanting to see him, take him in fully.

A new, white scar crosses the bridge of his nose, and black crescent moons hang under his eyes. His hair is a long mess, unkempt curls grazing the middle of his neck. He’s pale, too, as though he hasn’t slept well, which only emphasizes the black circles.

You don’t consider that this should be awkward, should be uncomfortable, should be full of apologies and stuttering. You just reach up to poke the scar.

“What’s this from?”

Newt laughs breathlessly once, still trying to accept that you’re there, in front of him for the first in five years. “Niffler attack.”

You scrunch your face up in confusion.

He shakes his head. “Don’t try to take an emerald necklace. What about you?”

His hand raises to trail over a long scar carved across your temple close to your hairline.

“Horntails don’t like chicken.”

His smile quirks up as his hand drops to his side. “You tried to feed a dragon chicken?”

You shrug, glowing at his smile. You’ve missed it oh so much. “It was my lunch break.” You bask in his warm laugh.

Newt glances around the front hall, eyes stopping on your mug. “Decorating seems to be going well.”

You snatch it up, making a face at him. “It doesn’t usually sit there.”

“No?” Newt says, holding back another laugh.

“No.” You pause, fiddling with the cup, spinning it and watching the liquid vortex inside. “But if you’d like some, I have another glass.”

Newt stills, not breathing, knowing the entire future of your friendship hangs on this answer.

“That’d be lovely.”

You heart starts beating again and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, smile becoming shy as you nod toward the kitchen. “It’s just down this way.”

Newt’s own smile brightens as he nods, swooping down to grab your wand. “Your weapon.”

You roll your eyes at his smirk. “You could have been a burglar for all I know. Does a single person living alone in this town seem completely protected to you?”

Newt’s smile softens as he follows you into the kitchen. “With you being the hypothetical single person? No, I suppose not.”

You fake a scowl at him as best you can with the happiness bubbling from your chest. “Who said I have to be that person?”

The skin around his eyes wrinkles up as he lays the flowers still in his hand on the table. “Experience.”

“Whatever.”

He steps past you, grabbing a tall glass and filling it with water. “You are the one that nearly stepped onto a moving staircase as it was shifting away.”

“An accident, completely.”

He drops the flowers in the makeshift vase as you pour more tea into another mug. “It’s still proof that you’re the least safe person I have ever met.”

You take the flowers, noticing a tag around one stem that says To a Wonder, From a Fool. He takes the mug, not noticing your pause, and you meet his eyes, a weight you’d carried for five years lifting from your shoulders as he sits at the table and continues talking, teasing you, acting like nothing happened between the two of you. He explains that he received the address from Evelyn, who stopped him outside your own house. It had taken him a week to earn her trust enough to receive it, but now he’s here and he’s glad. He’s so glad. You grin at him, sipping your tea, telling him you’ll thank Evelyn the next time you see her. Then you ask about his long hair, teasing him about the mess it has become.

You both said your apologies multiple times over throughout the past few years in notes and actions. There’s no need to give them now, no need to worry if the other harbors resentment. Not when Newt’s jacket sleeve droops down to reveal the heavy watch and your black box sits upstairs under the bed, Newt knowing you never tossed it.

You don’t need to worry about becoming friends again. You just need to worry about remembering every great story from the past five years that Newt hasn’t heard yet.