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He doesn’t have a word for it. He doesn’t really want there to be a word for it- he’d tried to search for it once, online, when he was younger and desperate, and he found quite a lot of information that didn’t appeal to him at all. He’s sure it’s fine for those people, and that it makes them very happy, but he likes what he has just fine.
When Hermann has a very bad day- his leg hurts, he couldn’t get any work done, or worse, they lost another jaeger -he returns to his room, strips out of his clothes, and takes a hot bath, with bubbles that smell like lavender. He soaks for a long time, letting the warm water relax his aching leg, letting the smell of the bubblebath help him get in the right headspace.
He changes into pajamas after the bath- not his usual pajamas, heavy and proper, but softer, younger, blue and comfortable. The trousers have little cartoon rocket ships on them, and sometimes he feels embarrassed about that, but he needs them. It’s all a very important ritual.
Hermann fetches Oskar- an old stuffed lamb, from when he was a child, a treasured friend -from his spot on a shelf and sits him on a pillow. Then he takes his books out from under the bed- not his maths and physics texts, but his Books, special and secret. He reads them out loud to Oskar, in a quiet, careful voice.
Good Night Moon first, translated into German- adult Hermann finds it insipid, but it’s comfort, just like the rest, and what’s comforting to him now is more important than what he finds foolish in the light of day. Then Frog and Toad Are Friends, which makes him giggle. He thinks Newton would like it.
(Sometimes, he imagines Newton reading it to him the way Hermann reads to Oskar. He tries not to. He gets embarrassed and upset and it ruins his night.)
Finally, he reads The Little Prince. He doesn’t always finish it, because sometimes he gets too sleepy, but he likes it, likes how it makes his heart feel.
He wants more books, more things that can help him feel little, but when he’s big, he feels ashamed enough of what he has. He’s lucky big Hermann hasn’t thrown it all out in a fit of self-loathing.
It’s important. He’s felt like an old man all his life. Being young is special, and he missed it, with hospitals and tutors and bullies and advanced mathematics. He needs to be little sometimes, even if it’s only for a couple hours once a week, maybe even once a month.
He turns off the light, kisses Oskar’s soft, fuzzy head, and whispers, “Good night,” before he falls asleep.