Newt almost laughs. It comes out as a small wet noise somewhere between a breath and a sound. "Malik, there'sno point. Mathilde is going to—she's going to take you back tomorrow, there's no—"
"Cast something for me."
"Malik—"
Malik reaches out. Takes Newt's wrists, both of them, and places Newt's palms flat against his own chest.
Newt inhales.
Malik is solid under his hands. Warm through the thin cotton of his shirt, the fabric soft where Newt's fingertips press in, and Newt can feel his heartbeat thumping against the heel of his right hand. His face goes pink. He feels it go pink, feels the heat crawl up his throat, and there is nothing he can do about it.
"Something small," Malik says. His thumbs are stroking the undersides of Newt's wrists, so lightly Newt isn't sure whether he's imagining it. "Light the candles on the coffee table."
"That's—that's dangerous if I lose focus, that's—"
"You won't lose focus."
"Malik, I always—"
"Cast the candles, Newt."
Newt closes his eyes.
He reaches for his magic the way Malik has taught him—not grabbing, not shoving, just opening—and he feels the familiar thrum rise up from the center of him, warm and eager and relieved, because his magic loves Malik, his magic has always loved Malik, it behaves for Malik the way it never behaves for him. He lets it pool in his palms. He lets it settle. And then he thinks of the candles, three of them, the cream-colored ones in the iron holder on the coffee table, and he pushes the thought of flame out through his fingertips and into the warm solid wall of Malik's chest.
The candles light.
Newt opens his eyes. Glances past Malik's shoulder. Three small flames, burning steady and clean, no higher than they should be, no lower. He exhales.
"Good," Malik murmurs. "Now lift them. While they're lit."
"That's a bad idea."
"You can do it."
Newt bites his lip. He reaches again. The magic comes easier this time, like a muscle that has remembered what it's for, and the candles rise. All three of them. A careful foot off the surface of the table, the flames wavering but not extinguishing.
"Spin them," Malik says.
Newt's focus catches—just for a second, because Malik has begun, very quietly, to work the buttons of his shirt open one at a time.
"Malik—"
"Spin them, Newt."
"You're—what are you—"
"I'm getting comfortable."
The first button comes free. Then the second. Newt can see the faint bronze of his skin in the widening gap of his shirt, the shadow at the hollow of his throat, and Newt's magic jolts and one of the candles drops two inches before he catches it.
"Focus," Malik says, mild.
"I am, I am focusing, I just—"
The third button. Newt can see the line of his sternum now, the smooth tan of his chest, and his hands—which are still on Malik, still pressed flat to him—twitch, helplessly, against the slowly uncovering skin.
Malik undoes the fourth button. And the fifth. He parts the shirt. Leaves it hanging open on his shoulders, and Newt is looking at the long bare torso of him, the flat hard planes of his stomach, the definition of his hipbones where they disappearinto the waistband of his trousers, and his magic simply gives up. The candles falter. Flicker. One of them guts out.
