It's a testament to how lonely he really is that he doesn't even notice it until he's alone again. New York had been an adventure he'd not forget any time soon. He'd spent a little under two weeks in the city, and yet it had made a larger impact on him than any place he'd ever been. And he had been all over the world.
As the boat had made its way to London Newt spent his time taking care of the creatures in his case. He'd kept himself busy as the journey had dragged on.
Theseus greets him at the docks. He welcomes him home with a tight hug and a pat on the back. He takes him home and they eat dinner together. He wants Newt to be his best man at his and Leta's wedding. He tells him he's proud of him and wishes him good luck on the book. Then he leaves for the night.
And suddenly Newt is alone again.
He gets to work on his book, looking through his countless notebooks full of scribbles and messily written notes. Months and months worth of research. He spends hours upon hours every day.
When he's not writing he takes care of his creatures. Feeding them, treating their injuries, and studying them.
At night, when every time he closes his eyes all he sees are the malicious eyes of Percival Graves as Newt writhes pathetically down on the train tracks - every part of his body screaming in pain - he stares up at the white ceiling of his bedroom. Heart pounding in his chest.
It's when it's pitch black outside and the silence in his flat is so quiet his ears almost start ringing that he feels it the most. The pressure pushing down at his chest, making it hard to breathe. The ache in his heart. The one that doesn't ever quite go away, but had lessened in New York - and then gets even worse at nights like these.
The crippling loneliness.
Suddenly his creatures aren't quite enough. It's not quite the same, and now that he's had it, losing it had been so hard.
He falls asleep after what feels like an eternity, and wakes up the next morning with the sun shining in through his curtains, and dry tear-tracks on his face. He doesn't dwell on it for long. He has a basement full of magical creatures that needs taking care of.
He puts it in a small box and stores it away for later. (But later doesn't come. It never does.)
Theseus talks to him at the Ministry. Asks him how the book is coming along and makes all kinds of small talk that Newt hates. He invites him to have dinner with him and Leta, but Newt declines.
Every time.
(When he gets home again, to his quiet, empty flat, he wonders why he did it. He never has a good answer. He can't even remember why he started saying no in the first place.)
Sometimes, when Theseus is talking to him - about the most casual of things - he'll zone out. The world around him disappears entirely as he stares blankly forward, a faraway look. Theseus will stop talking, and when he comes to again he hears the snapping of fingers, and he sees Theseus' concerned face in front of him.
They never talk about it, but the older Scamander brother gives him worried glances at him from time to time. Like he wants to say something, but isn't sure how - or even if he should.
Part of him wishes he would. (Just push a little harder. Prod a little more. And maybe then Newt would finally break apart and tell him everything.)
("Newt," her voice rings out from the other side of the door. "Why don't you come out? You've been holed up in your room for days."
Newt stares at the floor, lips pressed into a thin line. He's sat against the wall next to the door, knees drawn up to his chest. Around him, his bedroom is an untidy mess, more so than usually. The curtains are drawn, blocking most of the sunlight out.
