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There’s still the feeling of something foreign in all this; in the dimly lit and dust-drowned taverns and the creaking signs swinging above heavy oaken doors; in the happy crackling fires and glinting embers and dark drapey cloaks; in the hazy pubs and lazy wands flicked for mugs and coins, the lively chatter of some and the tight whispering of most, as if every breath was a secret and every crumb of cake and sip of liquor a treasure to guard.
It feels like stepping into one of the books back at the old library - well-worn and best-loved and rimmed with faded gilt, the pages strong enough to hold world and wonders and carry so many young hearts, and yet fragile enough that they had to be kept from coming apart for too many worshipping hands - and the child curled up at the bottom of Credence’s heart still holds his breath every time.
It’s in one of those ancient-flavoured, smoky-looking pubs that a frothing pint of something is first set before him by a snorting waiter, seemingly offended by the excited twinkle in Newt’s eyes taking him in from across the table.
Credence’s eyebrows arch. The liquid in his mug glints golden like pixie dust, topped with a foamy little cloud slowly bubbling down over the side and old Merlin be blessed, his fingertips itch to touch it.
“What’s this?” He asks Newt’s wide, sparkling eyes and they’re smiling before Newt’s lips can even perk up.
“Butterbeer,” he all but chirps, ginger hair a charming mess and on his lips a grin that begs to be kissed. “It’s nice and hot,” he attempts a wink here, freckled nose crinkling most delightfully, “try it.”
Credence’s fingers curl around the mug, just shy of the sticky bits, and warmth seeps in instantly, trailing goosebumps on his forearms. He brings the drink to his lips and blows gently on the surface, causing the froth to dance and part around ghostly wisps of vapour.
The scent rising from the golden depths is sweet and buttery, like Queenie’s cookies were when she and Jacob last came to visit with their own Newt-approved case of wonders, and it makes Credence’s mouth water.
He meets Newt’s gaze over the brim of the pint and the wizard absent-mindedly licks his own lips, pink on softer pink, moist on dry, ready to open up again in a white-toothed smile.
“It’s good, I promise.”
And Credence trusts him, because why on earth wouldn’t he, and because it’s still the easiest thing he’s ever done in his long, long twenty years.
He takes a sip and after the ticklish foam, in rushes the warm, thick mouthful of Butterbeer and oh, it’s rich and sugary and heat spreads like wildfire in Credence’s limbs, down to the very pit of his stomach, bringing tingles to the nape of his neck. He finds himself completely drawn in, eyes shut and lips latching on - and whatever this stuff is, it tastes exactly like what Credence imagines childhoods are supposed to be, happy and sun-kissed and bursting with life and flavour, and it burns just a little bit in the back of his throat.
His eyes flutter open after the second- the third sip, his body blissfully heavy, his cheeks blissfully hot. He finds Newt’s gaze never left him, and Credence’s heart beats with the sweet thrill of it.
“Is it good?” His companion asks, delight hidden in the corner of his mouth - a spark lit in his amber eyes, dark, adoring - and young Mr. Barebone knows that he’ll never get used to this.
Sure, he can get used to slobbery graphorn kisses and surprise Douglas hugs and the tickle of his silver fuzz shoved up his nostrils, why not. He can get used to Pickett’s goodnight smooches and his cuddle-demanding squees in the morning, and actually anticipate them; he can even get used to dragon eggs hatching in the most inconvenient of places and setting a good half of his and Newt’s pockets on fire, but this? He’ll never get used to this. To Newt looking at him as if the world’s biggest wonders were all held in the palm of Credence’s hand, etched in the delicate handicraft of his features. Oh, never.
He swallows thickly then, the aftertaste of Butterbeer still fuzzy and lingering on his tongue like a binding spell.
“Delicious,” he croaks at last, his voice a hoarse murmur, and the all-encompassing weight of Newt’s gaze is so vivid on his lips, Credence could swear they just kissed without so much as a touch.