Re: adrian's room: adrian m/newt p
Darling, [came the gentle admonishment,] you've nothing to apologize for. [Newt knew it was an apology. 'I'm usually better at taking care of myself... I'm sorry I'm failing at that, presently.'] Perhaps we can agree that taking care of oneself sometimes means allowing another to soothe you.
[He smiled. It was flighty on his lips, but not timid.] Of course, [he said of UFOs. They were firmly in his wheelhouse. Though, it was worth noting, wizardkind had never met any aliens either. There were a few possibilities. 1) The little green men were a misindentification, as often happened. Some rare animal glimpsed and deformed by memory. 2) Someone was having a laugh at the expense of Muggles. Or, and this was Newt's favored reasoning: 3) They were, indeed, aliens, and they happened to prefer Muggles, as most encounters recorded were by the non-magic. (Perhaps wizards and witches were too old-fashioned for their tastes. Technology, such as it was, appeared very differently in the separate cultures.) Whatever the truth(s) was, the man with the case, of course, was familiar with UFOs.—He was familiar with Pensieves and diaries, as well.] The risk being they might be read? You're assuming vulnerability or exposure is the worst that can happen to a person. I journal sometimes. Pensieves are certainly helpful in issues of justice and historical accuracy. But, diaries, journals, they're better with personal perspective. They've both got their place, I think.
[Newt wondered about the memory in the sand. When had it been? Certainly, without the contextual terrain of an urban environment, it could be difficult to date. But, Newt hadn't noticed any wristwatches, any hints of modernity that managed to infiltrate even nomadic cultures, when they came into contact with the sedentary.] I don't know. It felt like a long, long time ago. [Which was, perhaps, an odd thing to say. But, for all that Newt was a scientist, he trusted his intuition and emotions.] I'll admit, I wasn't looking about for symptoms of syphilis. [He smiled and touched the shell of Adrian's ear through black hair.
He was aware when another memory visited itself upon his friend, and he waited, silently, without halting the soothing brush of fingertips to cheek and down the side of the man's throat. Adrian exhaled. Newt looked into the darkness of the room. He wondered when his own bit of enlightenment, such as it was, would come down upon his head. But, it was a short-lived wonderment, as Adrian's voice hooked him back to the present, and he smiled.] Tell me what you saw. [He got the words out.
Then came one and two, one on top of the other, and he was far more perturbed this time than he was about the desert visitation. Newt's gentle caress had stopped cold. He tried to steer himself back into the cheer of Adrian's last words, but found the waters murky.] I've... [He didn't curl into himself. He didn't cinch his grip on Adrian. He closed his eyes, black shading over black, and the shadows of furniture disappeared into flatness.] Not sex, [he said eventually with the curl of a sour smile in his tone.] Jack. And torture. Two, separate. [He needed to speak in full sentences, so he took up the stroke to shoulder once more.] There were people, unseen, speaking in a language I've never heard. [He opened his eyes. The shadows differentiated themselves slowly. The adrenaline of both memories swam uncomfortably in Newt's veins, and he shifted where he sat, uneasily.] I would've preferred sex.