Re: [Hall Way: Patrick & Newt]
Newt'd always found nature, at large, to have a connection to magic, as it felt to him. Breathing, like I've said. Magic was living, and living was magic. Perhaps it was why he'd always been far more drawn to the outdoors, why he'd found it far safer, far more comfortable hiding in a toppled log out on the fringe of the marshes, than in the walls of the Penhaligon ancestral home. Like the homestead offered a sense of sanctuary to Newt, so did the Hall Way. So did the quaint cottage he'd found, actually, and he'd get them there soon.
The adoring fans, such as they were, were left in the dust of the high street, and Newt was quite pleased, in spite of Patrick's utter prattiness and knob-head behavior, to be, effectively, alone with him. Away from everyone else, in any case. He could breathe down here, the way he couldn't very well when attention was on him like a vise. His enjoyment of the bustle had been trampled underfoot the eagerness of strangers, which, while incredibly flattering, was rather terrifying to someone like Newt. So, he exhaled into the late autumn air and Patrick leaned. He thought of joining him, but he couldn't manage still quite yet. He shifted on his boots, glancing up without the comfortable hang of fringe.
"I'll not," he said of his credit, because he felt like being stubborn, but he smiled into his collar again. He laughed at Patrick's arsehole question, his gaze daring over to catch the sharp snare of the man's smirk. Smugness didn't suit everyone as charmingly and nicely as it did Patrick. He was lucky for that. "You get one for free, of course," Newt answered in the soft, odd fry of his voice, like a frayed wire spitting sparks. "I suppose you've earned." He didn't say how or why, because he was teasing and it was meant to be rather suggestive, and he wrinkled his nose slightly, a gathering of freckles on the bridge.
He smiled warmly, looking at the nettles of the treelet. "Pickett'll like it." And, no doubt, the Niffler would find the ornaments tempting. Patrick asked if he, Newt, might move them along, his face a show of sweetness. Even if he'd felt like being stubborn, he couldn't've denied Patrick then, hm? The ass. Newt smiled with a slight rime of shyness and he walked back up to Patrick, next to where he hoisted the tree, and he took hold of the hand clutching at the tree.—Black, crush, exhale. The cottage. Further in the labyrinth of the magical community, the temporary abode was buried, whitewalled and ancient-looking. Newt thought it terribly cozy.
They'd landed inside, on flagstone floor, with dark beams traversing upward like the arms of trees to canopy. Newt's case, as Patrick'd suspected, was there. On the floor by a small table, golden latches closed. Newt looked about, then to Patrick. "Well."