Could - Crewt

Chapter 10

Last chapter, folks!! Thank you for reading and voting, my friends!

March 9, 1927

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.