Log, the B&B: Jack & Newt P
Newt was in the process of setting his phone aside amid quite of a mess of papers when he heard the knock on his door. At the sound, which came rather quicker than he expected, he twisted his wand-wrist and swished the instrument through the air. The papers picked up as if by wind, swirling in an unorganized cyclone, before stacking themselves (albeit haphazardly) and shoving beneath a set of (Muggle-written) biology encyclopedias. After all, Jack didn't know about the magic now, and Newt wasn't certain he wanted to come out about it. (He knew he didn't want to come out about Adrian or his own sexuality either. No. Absolutely not. Jack was from fifteen years in the past, which was a... less elevated time.')
The man was already going to be a shock to his brother, was he not? Simply by virtue of the fact that he was, indeed, a man. Newt had always taken after their mother. Or rather, moreso than he did their father, in affectation and appearance. His personality seemed to come from neither. The child-becoming-man younger Jack knew at fifteen had grown from a curious, quiet, but excitable thing that rather wore more dirt than clothes, to a curious, quiet, but excitable young man that adopted bow ties at around ten and never looked back. He'd always grown apart, hadn't he? Newt Penhaligon. He was always rather odd, off in his own little world. He'd grown as a weed in cracks of concrete, wild amid the hard corners of what was proper, bringing himself up in the garden as those trapped between walls fought. From infancy to adolescence, he had a tendency their father detested of avoiding eye contact (perhaps the consistency of this habit would be comforting to Jack) and, even at fifteen, he didn't let himself be touched by most people. When he was still quite young, the few times Jack was actually home, at the hall,—and when no one was shouting or rowing, Newt would bring him all manner of small creatures, thoroughly expecting the older boy to experience all the joy and curiosity he did when presented with such life. That habit wasn't maintained in adolescence, not with the same open enthusiasm. Still, Newt'd cared in his quiet way, even if he spent time shut up in his room or about on the grounds where he could do as he liked. Perhaps you can now see why, with all of the other variations and changes, it'd be a bit much to slather on top of it all the magic and the homosexuality. Yes, Newt decided, it was best to wait this out.
Of course, he was curious to meet Jack. This Jack. And it was 'meeting,' wasn't it? He only known this man as a child. Now he was 29, due to be 30 in a few months. He wondered what he might see now that he didn't see before. His memories of Jack of 22 or so weren't plentiful. Jack had been off to university, meeting Jen, flying about the world. And Newt'd been entrenching himself deeper in the wizarding community, where, though he was still apart from most, he felt more affinity.
Newt's present curiosity, however, didn't negate his worry. Oh, it wasn't as Jack said, that he was worried about Jack getting him into trouble. He was worried something might happen to Jack. That ominous prison in the Capital had been collecting 'special' people for some time now and Newt couldn't help but fear that, should Jack be found out, he might be brought to such a place. That drove him to comment on his brother's post. Then, Jack said he was coming down the corridor in three minutes, which turned out to be about 80 seconds. Still, Newt allowed himself to take his time, to make certain anything incriminating or questionable was tucked away, to adjust his bow tie, before he opened the door to his small space. Waistcoat was off, but the room was tidy. His hair was the same mess it'd always been. He was taller now, perhaps his cheekbones had sharpened, he'd some lines on his skin amid a wilderness of freckles. But, he was still Newt, and when he opened the door to let his brother in, his gaze began about navel height, before beginning its circuitous trek upward. "Hello, Jack."