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Newt’s know—well, practically since day one? Or, well, whatever constitutes as “day one” for them, the letters or the meeting, or, actually, a decent case could be made that “day one” is actually the Drift? Or, well.
Whatever.
Whatever?
Yeah, whatever, it’s a Thing. With a capital t sort of Thing. But it’s also, like, a thing, lowercase, yeah that totally makes sense. It makes about as much sense as the fact that the buzz of the Drift tastes blue, though, so, yeah.
Back to the point: it’s a Thing. Them. As in, him and Hermann, together, not him and the kaiju, because, well, it would suck. That would suck. Like, being soul-bound or whatever to a species of bioweapons? Would not be great.
“Oh, look,” he mutters, dragging his hand over his eyes and refusing to meet what he knows will be a disappointed gaze in the mirror, “there, I’ve said it.”
Which, now he thinks on it, he hasn’t done before. Out loud. Acknowledged it in real time, out loud, using the precise words “soul” and “bond”, instead of vague allusions and—
Blood drips into the sink, and he stares through the slits between his fingers at it for a few second, partially in confusion, partially mute fascination, before he sighs and tips his head down, pinching his nose, wills it to stymie the flow.
After some indeterminate amount of time, he pulls his fingers away cautiously, relieved when he’s rewarded by a distinct lack of scarlet, coppery-scented blood dripping down his face.
It’ll be all right, he thinks, verging desperation, fingers on one hand white-knuckled on the rim of the sink basin, it has to be. This is typically Hermann’s job—reassuring, that is, even if his version tends to have more insults to Newt’s levels of intelligence. Which.
Where is he? Newt wonders. Probably hiding in his room, away from the party amping up in LOCCENT.
More to the point, however: nevermind his immediate convictions that Hermann is his soul—whatever, he’s not going to say soul-mate, that’s tacky. Life…partner, of some degree, perhaps? Whatever. Anyway, anyway.
It’s been confirmed for him, really, actually, in real time. The very same words written in curling penmanship on the inside of his wrist, visible to only him—which, why do those things work like that? Who knows—is writ By Jove, we are going to own this thing for sure!
Like, can it be any clearer than that? First—they get each other—or, at least, he thinks they do, whatever—two, they’re Drift-compatible, yeah, which should mean something, and three, yeah, that’s Hermann’s writing on his skin, just past where the sleeve on his left arm ends, the very words he said to Newt, an incredulous grin, equal parts reckless abandon and panicked apprehension—how does he even do that?—splitting his face.
He lips cracked lips. There’s no way he’s telling Hermann. He’d be absolutely apopaleptic that the universe saw fit to pair Newt to him. Hell, Newt probably isn’t his soul-whatever, and that would be immensely awkward. So. Yeah.
(He wonders, for a brief moment, who’s words are on Hermann’s skin. Whoever they are, they’re luckier than they know.)
File under: reasons to avoid Hermann.
Which is, why, Hermann sees fit to barge in, then, leaning heavily on his cane—and is that a party hat on his head? What the hell—and announces, apropos nothing, “I cannot bear to be out of your vicinity for one second longer.”
Newt practically jumps out of his skin, hand coming up to the spot on his chest right over his heart, croaks, “Shit, dude, you almost gave me a heart attack. Warn a guy next time, maybe?”
Hermann blinks at him slowly, his face doing an approximation of a high dolphin—and what does that even mean, brain? Your guess is as good as mine, it replies, with a mental shrug—and says, more slowly, “Newton. I cannot physically tolerate it.” He sounds—puzzled about this, perhaps, which, good, because Newt is just as puzzled as he is.
“Um,” Newt replies eloquently. “Okay?”
The other nods at him as if he’s confirming something, and takes a step closer to Newt. Newt takes a step back, and the physicist scowls at him. “Newton,” he says, enunciating clearly as if speaking to a small child. “Newton. Stop.”
Newt lets out a nervous laugh. “Uh, dude, I don’t think that’s the best idea,” he replies, trying to find a way out, but Hermann’s blocking the only viable exit. “Look, um, dude, I really don’t think touching me is a good idea—”
“Why ever not?” Hermann demands, and Newt grimaces.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea, I mean, things are a little bit wonky in my brain at the moment, and—” he makes a helpless gesture—“I would love to, like, hug you right now, man, but, um, I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that that would be highly unpleasant for, if not you, then at least me.”
Hermann considers that for a moment. “Oh,” he says.
“‘Oh’ is right,” Newt agrees.
They stand there for a few seconds, Newt bracing himself against the sink, Hermann looking kind of lost and listing dangerously to one side, before Newt says, decisively, “Look, dude, I think maybe you should sleep?”
“Hmm,” Hermann murmurs, “…perhaps.”
Newt nods. “Yeah. Okay, uh, lets’s get you back to bed before you collapse and concuss yourself, yeah?” he asks—or, whatever you call that. It’s not exactly a question, more of a suggestion, whatever, he can’t English right now.
“Can you ever?” Hermann asks drily, and Newt realises, belatedly, that he’s said it aloud. Scowls.
They somehow manage to get Hermann back to his bed without touching, Newt hovering at his side, not quite sure what he’ll do if Hermann does collapse because physical contact is a glaring, blinking, neon sign of ABSOLUTELY NOT, so, like, it’s.
Not ideal.
Whatever, it’s.
Whatever.
Newt stays to make sure Hermann doesn’t collapse as he climbs into the pathetic excuse for a bed, eyes fluttering shut, then says, to himself, “I’m. Going now. Out the door.”
Doesn’t.
Leave, that is, because, apparently, that Thing of Hermann’s, the proximity thing, is affecting him now too, which is. Weird, because on the one hand he really, really, really cannot deal with human contact but another part cannot stand to deal with being more than like two feet away from Hermann.
He lets out a gusty sigh. At least the floor isn’t the worst place he’s slept.