Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them Imagines

18. Visiting the Louvre

Hello everyone! I cowrote this with my friend Joe, who's @/cottoneyedj0e__ on Twitter. I would also like to clarify that I also post my works on ao3 under the pseud tinasnewt- I promise there's no theft going around! I received a comment pointing that out and just wanted everyone to know that :)
Alternative Title: Voyage of Fools

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He held out his hand, and felt the warmth of hers seep through his skin as they touched, carrying the feelings of a thousand nights - some forgotten, others leaked into little glass vials that he treasured and held dearer than the dirty champagne glasses they once shared. Memories so ethereal he feared he would lose himself if they were consigned to oblivion, or that she would be destroyed if one of them were lost. The air was as close to the feeling of the the sun and the rich gold that poured from her bosom as it could be in that place where they stood. Her smile made it warmer, and the world seemed to glow as her vivid brown eyes sank into his green; and perhaps, in that moment, she was the sun and he was the Earth and everything that roamed there. They were one, creating a universe brimming with endearment and serenity but teetering on the edge of disaster.

Jacob had told them about this place years ago, but he was long gone, and their shouted promises to never indulge in such 'colloquial nonsense' seemed worthless. They wanted to spend their last few months together in a state of euphoria. In their world, they had art - art that spoke of love, loss, happiness and envy in a single brush. It was something they discussed and debated over, ultimately finding too tricky to possibly comprehend. Yet it couldn't be replicated; the very fabric of it was separate and more vibrant and compelling than anything that would stand before them in that gallery - but they walked forward, and they were intertwined with each other and the simple ones that passed them by, all found in that place for a shared, unknown reason. Perhaps it was the delicacy of art that had brought them all together, the intricacy of the words every person had meticulously assembled to form a masterpiece of their own kind. Words had done so much for Newt; he wondered why they weren't strung along the walls like the paintings, yet in the deepest archives of his mind, he knew that words were much too powerful and delicate to be displayed in such a communal way. They had the power to destroy worlds and bring others together.

The couple drifted through the corridors and felt bound to a silence like the rest who went to appreciate old lovers' affections and the violence of their yearnings- and the etchings of those who saw the trees and stretching wheat fields and understood them in the only way they knew - but all Newt and Tina could grasp were naked bodies beckoning to men in the sky, surrounded by other naked people, and there they were, two elderly people, old eyes crimson with laughter, being completely crude in public. It was amusing, though the stories behind the sculptures they marveled at were not. Tales of darkness and emotions they could only try to understand, but wished to never feel: the grief of losing a soulmate, the pain felt as something you'd wanted so dearly was ripped away from you. The day would come for one of them soon.

They walked and walked, and they tried to understand, and they never could. But as they passed countless different outlooks of everything and walked miles deeper in every possible direction, they became drawn to each and were devoured by the little ethereal universes that resided in the creations, the rich worlds sewn in the moments of the artist's deepest despairs or their happiest endeavours. The couple lost themselves in this different kind of magic, time becoming a distant element, warped and altered to match the tempo of which they walked. A tranquil silence accompanied their observations, trailing with them like the ghosts of long-lost souvenirs from stolen days and nights. A younger couple passed them, speaking in hushed tones, their French heavy and incomprehensible. Their voices built an image in Newt's mind, of two young people, their unscathed faces tethered with the horrors of years past, but now frail, hanging on to the last threads of their existence. He smiled at his wife - a smile drenched in a melancholy sort of sorrow. She was admiring the paintings that lined the walls, her eyes glazed over in concentration. He found himself falling in love all over again. There they were, old and fading away in a world they could never comprehend, but at that point, Newt was happy just to be in it with her.