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It’s well past ten on a Sunday morning when Newt plays his ace card - the ruffled hair-sleepy grin combo - and brazenly appeals to Credence for cuddles, bare arms outstretched, an air of pure delight spread across his face and a squeeing Pickett perched on the soft mess of his hair.
“Come back to bed?” The man has the guts to croon, all puppy eyes, gentle and pleading at the same time, and Credence kind of freezes for a second by the edge of the bed, shirt half falling off his shoulder, his mouth suddenly dry.
There’s a picture in his mind, old, almost ancient, but still very much clear - a child and a handful of wishes held tightly in his heart. The small, shy wish for that one plump muffin on display in the bakery, and a bigger, bolder set of wishes for all the things that only ever came to be in the happy frame of somebody else’s window - wishes for a different body with no weird tricks to hide from the world, a different mother with no scary tricks the world would actually approve of, a different home, a different life, something more akin to affection in his family’s eyes.
And now here is everything, magically squeezed into one fuzzy picture and tucked safely in their bed.
Newt’s arms are inviting, so much more so than any pastry, than any neighbour’s hearth worth envying. They’re here, tangible and warm, open and waiting for him, only for him to step in and bask in their embrace, and the sight alone makes Credence’s heart wrench a little in his chest. It’s so much. So much. More than he could have wished for. A full set of wishes for his heart to make and hold dear.
The funny thing is, Newt seems to read it all in his eyes. His smile takes on a new, softer edge - his eyes glint in the golden morning light like gems on a crown.
“Come join us, love,” he beckons, and Credence complies; climbs gingerly, clumsily back into bed, like the very first time he did so.
“Come here,” Newt urges gently, and Credence seeks his warmth like babies seek their milk, lets those freckled arms wrap snugly around him with an eagerness he can hardly contain, and when Newt’s body folds around his it’s like a shock of pleasure rolling down his spine, echoing all through his limbs.
“There you are,” Newt’s voice murmurs in his ear. His lips press little I love you’s against Credence’s skin, and Credence’s fingers find themselves threading through messy ginger curls. He noses in the crook of Newt’s neck, lips sealed in a secret smile. He has no words for this. No words are needed for this.
But the heavy, lingering scent of their late breakfast settles around them like a sugary blanket, nice and cozy, and for once reality surpasses any and all wishes.