#curious creature.... i want to feed it a cheese puff........

[rocketbirdie]

this freaky thing is growing on me

[funkzpiel]

Happy Birthday

In honor of the one-year anniversary of the first chapter of And The Tag Read Simply: Pretty.

“Wake up, Percy,” Newt said, and it was as gentle as it was soft; like breaking dawn. His heart was thick and fond as he watched dark, sooty lashes flutter sleepily against pale cheeks. Downy ears flickered and slowly, brown eyes raised to look at him - squinted and confused. Newt ran a hand through sleep-mused hair and let his palm trail down to trace the contours of a stubbled cheek, smiling all the while. 

Pretty whined softly and burrowed deeper into the warmth of the sheets and the scent of Newt that no doubt lingered, a soft but brave pout on his bottom lip as he took Newt’s hand and tried to gently guide the redhead back to bed. 

He chuckled, the edges of his eyes crinkled and warm.

“Any other morning, I’d take you up on that offer, but I have something special planned for us today.”

Black ears perked, and despite Pretty’s lazy bones, he was too curious to resist. They went about their morning routine first. A shower, a shave. Teeth and skin and clothing. They fed the creatures that needed feeding in the morning and Pretty made sure to greet his little flock of worried Mooncalves. The suitcase was particularly sunny, the grass more green than usual; and every glance Newt caught of Pretty seemed special -- poignant. 

Sunlight in his hair, a smile wide and open on his lips. Grass caught in the fabric of his rolled up shirt sleeves. Ears high and attentive and bold. 

And always smiling. 

When the chores were done, Newt finally led Pretty inside. As was their routine, the dog-earred man moved to settle into the pillows at the foot of Newt’s favorite chair, only to stop when the Magizoologist took him by the hand and smiled.

“We’re going to do something a little different today,” he said, and coaxed him gently to the steps. Pretty’s brown eyes are confused, perhaps a tad worried, but he follows Newt without hesitation up the stairs and out of the case.

It was not his first time in the Goldstein’s apartment, but it was his first time there sans Goldsteins. He seemed to settle somewhat at the sight, however; shoulders slack and ears up the moment he recognized the gentle warble of their favorite song from the record player and the scent of Queenie’s perfume.

“They’re not here?” He asked, and Newt shook his head.

“Not right now. They’re doing me a favor,” was all he said before heading into the kitchen, confident that Pretty would follow. 

Inside the little kitchen sat an island in its center, topped with mixing bowls and flours and sugars and spoons and aprons. Everything Newt requested, all out and easy to find. He made a note to thank Tina even more so -- a bouquet of flowers, perhaps -- and grabbed an apron from the counter. He put it on quickly with deft fingers, eyes on Pretty and adorable look on his face as he watched.

“You see, it’s a bit of a special day,” Newt said, “And I wanted to make something special to commemorate it. I was hoping maybe you’d like to help me? I thought you might enjoy it.”

Pretty’s eyes trailed across the counter, assessing, then flickered back to Newt. He stepped forward to pinch Newt’s apron between his fingers, curious, and tilted his head.

“I can help?”

Newt grabbed his hand and pulled him forward.

“Yes, you can, if you’d like,” he said, “In fact I have a feeling you’ll be quite good at it.”

Pretty smiled, soft and little and pleased.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” Newt responded and grabbed the other apron. It was easy to get the apron onto him, and Newt ignores the way it accents the horrible litheness of Pretty’s hips and torso, the gauntness of his wrists -- but he has gained weight in the time that they have been together and Newt has learned how to pay attention to the victories rather than overwhelm himself with the things that haven’t completely healed yet. The bow of leftover ribbon at the small of Pretty’s back was ridiculous, but he reminded himself it could be worse, and remembered to be grateful.

He led Pretty through the motions of making dough. He stepped up behind him to frame the smaller man’s hands with his own and went about blending the sugars with the flour, laughing when a puff of powder managed to cutely whiten the end of Pretty’s nose. 

Newt’s hands curled around his and ease him through the act of mixing the dough by hand, his chin tucked atop Pretty’s shoulder as he tells him of his mother’s recipe and how this is how she taught him to bake it. 

Together they baked. They shaped the dough, they poured softness and kindness and no shortage of gentle words and laughter and smiles into its making. The dough was wet and warm and full when finally Newt helped him ease the batter into a pan. Everything they did, they did by hand.

Everything they did, they did happily. The kitchen was warm with the heat of the oven, but even without it, Newt felt rightly toasty inside. He looked at Pretty -- at the sheer excitement in his eyes as he peered through the glass of the oven, the way his tail wagged -- and he felt right. As though everything would be alright. 

He took Pretty into the family room while the cake rose and eased him onto the couch after removing both their aprons. He read to him, the two of them curled as though loathe to part. Newt ran his fingers through Pretty’s hair as the scent of baking sweets and oven heat began to thicken inside the little apartment, making the man’s lashes flicker once more.

Eventually, Pretty fell asleep. It was easy, once the timer rang, to slip from his embrace. Newt snuck into the kitchen on feet sure and deft, and pulled the pan from the oven. He peeked into the family room only once or twice to ensure Pretty still slept until the cake was cool enough to ice, and when it was, he iced it. Chocolate covered in cream cheese icing, thick and decadent and what he had told was Graves’ favorite. 

And when finally it was done, he rose Pretty from sleep for the second time that day -- this time with a plate in hand, a slice of cake upon it.

Pretty blinked.

“What is it?”

“It’s what you helped me bake,” Newt said. “It’s cake.”

“Cake?”

“Yes. Birthday cake.”

Pretty tilted his head, ears soft and akimbo, and Newt wanted desperately to kiss that confused frown away.

He didn’t.

“Remember I told you it was a special day?” He asked, and when Pretty nodded, he continued. “I was told it’s your birthday today, Percy.”

“Mine?”

“Yes. Do you remember?”

He shook his head, and because the word held no meaning to him, he didn’t seem particularly upset. But it hurt Newt to see the absence of feeling in those brown eyes. To see he didn’t know what he had been robbed of.

Newt set the plate beside them on the couch and said, “A birthday is a celebration of the day someone first came to be. It’s an anniversary of the day a person was born. And you were born today, years ago.”

Pretty seemed to consider that, then looked to the plate beside them.

“And birthday cake?”

Newt chuckled, the sound thick where it escaped the tightness of his throat.

“It’s a part of how we celebrate the day. I... just have a hunch you’ll like it.”

He dipped the fork into the softness of the cake, icing and breading splitting easily upon its prongs, and slowly held it up between them. Pretty looked from it to Newt and back again before he finally eased forward, the pink of his lips splitting to open around the fork and take the little morsel in. 

His mouth fell shut around it. His teeth dragged against the fork. He pulled back, and he stilled, and his eyes went wide with childish wonder. He made a little noise, sharp and shocked, in the back of his throat and his hand shot up to flutter trembling fingers atop his lips. 

“Do you like it?” Newt asked.

Pretty nodded quickly, immediately, and Newt laughed.

“Swallow, Percy,” He said gently, and laughed even more when the man seemed to remember himself and did. They passed the treat like that: the fork switching between them as the devoured the slice of cake. 

Somewhere deep -- where Newt would not acknowledge the thought -- he had desperately hoped the flavor of his favorite cake would wake Graves. Somewhere deep -- where Newt would not acknowledge the thought -- he was grateful he didn’t.

And when the last bite of cake was gone, Pretty leaned into him, his head tucked beneath his chin, pleasantly full and loved, and said, “You made that for me?”

Newt held him tight and murmured into the softness of his hair and ears, “You helped me.”

Silence, soft and pregnant, and then: “Your mother made lovely cakes.”

Newt stilled. He held Pretty a little tighter.

“Thank you,” He said. “She would have been so flustered to hear you say that... She... She would have loved you.”

“She’s gone?” Pretty asked, whisper soft into the hollow of Newt’s throat.

“Yes,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

Newt kissed the temple of the man in his lap and said, “It won’t due to think of death on a birthday. You should make a wish instead. Bugger -- I should have lit a candle for you...”

“A wish?” Pretty asked.

“Yes. Every year on a person’s birthday, they get to make a wish. And sometimes, if you’re very lucky and very good, it comes true. It’s usually with a candle, but--”

A hand tightened around Newt’s, fierce and sudden, and Pretty said, “I wish whatever made you stop smiling sometimes would leave you alone.”

Outside, New York rumbled with life. Cars passed and people walked the streets. Somewhere out there, Grindelwald was waiting. Somewhere out there, the man responsible for all of this was grinning. 

But here, in the apartment, silence fell upon them like a heavy blanket. Newt held Pretty tightly, as he had been, but was sure the man could feel his sudden tremble. 

I wish whatever made you stop smiling sometimes would leave you alone.

He thought of Graves’ smile. He thought of his laugh. Of the surety of his stories, of the bravery of his decisions, of the calmness of his heart. He thought of Graves, laughing over the rim of his whiskey glass at the table that night they shared dinner.

He thought of Graves, small and shivering and bleeding in the corner of the bathroom -- the knife glinting at his throat.

I wish whatever made you stop smiling sometimes would leave you alone.

He thought of Pretty. Of his steadfast trust in the goodness of people. Of his smile when he romped with the Mooncalves in the meadows. Of the night he awoke in his stool to find the man had left the bed to fall asleep at his feet, chin on his thigh. 

I wish whatever made you stop smiling sometimes would leave you alone.

He thought of both of them, of their selflessness, of their kindness, and another crack spread across the dam holding his heart together.

He threaded his fingers into Pretty’s. He kissed their knuckles where they joined. He waited for his voice to find its legs.

He thought of the man who did this.

He kissed Pretty’s temple and buried his lips into his hair.

“You’re supposed to wish for something that would make you happy, Percy,” he said softly.

“That would,” Pretty said simply, as though it was obvious, and Newt swallowed.

“Happy birthday, Percy,” he said, and when he repeated the words, he repeated them in his heart like this: happy birthday, Mr. Graves, and makes a wish of his own.

I wish I could save you both.