He does it slowly. There is no rush. He takes the coin purse out of his pocket and unshrinks it on the floor of the main room and opens it and starts pulling things out, one at a time, while Malik sits on the windowsill and watches. He puts his books on the empty shelves along the wall. He puts the kettle on the stove. He drapes his mother's quilt over the chair by the window. He hangs his cloak on the hook by the door.
He is placing the last of his tea tins on the kitchen counter when Malik stands up from the windowsill and crosses to him and slides his arms around Newt's waist from behind.
Newt's breath catches.
Malik's hands are warm through the fabric of Newt's shirt, flat-palmed, splayed across his stomach. His chin settles onto Newt's shoulder. His hair falls forward over Newt's chest and Newt's hands stop moving. He is holding a tin of chamomile. He has forgotten what he was doing.
"Hi," Malik murmurs.
"Hi."
"You've been busy."
"I'm almost done."
"You could be done now." Malik's mouth finds the shell of his ear.
Newt's knees do a small traitorous thing. He tightens his grip on the tin of chamomile.
"Malik," he says.
"Mm."
"I'm trying to unpack."
"You're doing a great job, love."
"You are not helping."
Malik's tongue, warm and deliberate, traces the rim of his ear, and Newt's whole body goes warm in a way that spreads down through his belly and pools somewhere lower, and the tin of chamomile gets set down on the counter with slightly more force than is strictly necessary.
"Malik—"
Malik's hands slide lower. Find the hem of his shirt. Slip underneath, warm palms flat against the skin of Newt's stomach, and Newt makes a small involuntary noise that Malik hums at, low and satisfied, against the side of his throat.
"Leave them, Newt."
"Okay."
"Good boy."
Newt goes crimson. He goes crimson from his hairline down his throat into his chest, and the heat of it roars up throughhim so fast he is dizzy with it. The noise he makes is small and humiliated and Malik's hum, behind him, deepens into something closer to a growl.
"Oh," Malik says, quietly. "Oh, I didn't know you liked that."
"I don't—"
"You do."
"I—"
"You're the color of a tomato, love."
"Malik."
Malik turns him.
He turns him by the hips, gently, until Newt is pressed against the counter with Malik crowding into the space between his knees, and he lifts Newt—lifts him, as though Newt weighs nothing, as though he is a book Malik is moving from one shelf to another—and sets him on the edge of the kitchen counter. Newt's shoulder blades hit the cabinet. His hands fly up to Malik's shoulders on instinct. Malik presses between his thighs and kisses him.
