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The photo was one of the very, very few photos Hermann had ever had the inclination to take. The vast majority were of his chalkboards covered in equations. Important notes, to copy, to send, to enter, to remember. There were only a few others interspersed in the sea of green on his photo roll: the exterior of Hong Kong Shatterdome, taken by request by his sister; a perfect, intact orange peel he was especially proud of, sitting on a folded kerchief amongst the papers on his desk in the lab; a spectacular display of mammatus clouds he and Newt had had the privilege of witnessing (‘Hermann! These weird clouds are so fuckin’ cool!’ ’Newton. You know as well as I do...’)
And this photo. A photo of Newt. Just one. Taken on a whim.
--
Newt had barely managed to convince Hermann to join him in an early drink. It was the last day of their trip, the environmental conference having ended the day before. They’d both had breakfast in their respective rooms, and Newt, having finished before Hermann (always), had knocked on the shared door and let himself in, carrying two comically large, bright blue drinks in nearly fishbowl-sized glasses.
“GooOOD morning!”
“What on earth…” Hermann set down his book and spoon of oatmeal and gawked at Newt. “What are those.”
Newt grinned, striding over and setting the drinks on the small circular table before plopping down in the seat across from Hermann. He stretched languidly, his pudgy inked tummy peeking out from underneath the too-short ratty X-Files tank for a moment before disappearing again.
“A Blue Hole! It’s pretty damn good, the bartender recommended it, so I brought you one, too.” He winked and pushed it closer to Hermann, who eyed it warily.
“Newton please, it’s 930AM, I haven’t even finished my breakfast yet.”
“Yeah so? Might add a kick to that gruel you’re eating.” He took a drink of his own, sucking down nearly a third in one sip. “Mmmm, tropical.”
There was a long pause as they looked at each other. Newt chewed on the straw in his drink and waggled his eyebrows. Finally Hermann let out a sigh, picking up the fishbowl and smelling the violently colored liquid in it. His expression went from neutral-annoyed to ‘not bad’.
Hermann hummed in contemplation as he held it away from himself. “This seems like several drinks in one serving… it’s meant for multiple people, isn’t it.” He leveled a look at Newt. It wasn’t a question.
“C’mon Herm, it’s the last day of vacation and you’ve spent it indoors, reading! Live a little, will ya?”
“It is not a vacation, Newton, please stop calling it such. And don’t call me ‘Herm’.”
--
Indulging Newt in his spontaneous ventures had an effect that had only happened once or twice before: a more than slightly intoxicated Hermann. Where Newt had had a fairly sizable, heavy breakfast, Hermann had stuck with his staple and it had not been enough to soak the alcohol. This didn’t stop Newt from picking up a couple more cocktails ‘for the road’ ("hey Hermann, I hope you wanna have some Sex on the Beach with me!!"), barely balancing them with the gear he was hauling down to the shoreline.
“Hermann, you doin’ okay?” Newt called back, making sure his partner was still behind him.
“Perfectly fine, thank you,” Hermann replied. He wasn’t stumbling, or slurring his words, but only because he was using all his focus. At least the planked boardwalk made it slightly easier. The things he let that man talk him into.
“Hella.”
They settled past the grasses, on a couple of adirondacks staggered near the palm trees. Newton put down the gear to help Hermann into the first lounger, making sure Hermann didn’t have to wait to sit and relieve his leg. He shrugged Hermann’s tote off his shoulder and plopped it next to him. Newt waddled the rest of the items and his own bag to the next closest seat, some 5 feet further into the sand.
“Should I…?” Newt wondered out loud to himself. “Eh, nah,” he shrugged, deciding against trying to move the heavy lounger before dumping the armful of stuff on the sand next to it. He sat down, lying back and lacing his fingers together, putting them behind his head, crossing his ankle over a bent knee. He flapped his sandal against his foot annoyingly while taking in the view, kicking them off after a minute to get more comfortable and sighed loudly.
“Ahhh, paradise.”
“Only for someone with such a mundane idea as paradise as you, Newton.”
“Christ, Hermann, take a look around! You’re such a grumpy old man.”
They both continued to talk, sometimes heatedly, about everything and nothing, a conversation continued since breakfast. Their voices rose and fell in volume, the familiar cycle of discussions growing heated and then leveling off once common footing was found. Had anyone overheard them, they'd assume the vacation was going wrong, but in reality, it was one of the most relaxing days the two had ever shared.
--
The warmth from the sun had nearly taken Newt, arm flung over his eyes to block the light.
“This is why I told you to bring an umbrella, or at the very least a hat,” Hermann chided, adjusting his own, the old western wide-brim not quite his style but liking it anyway.
It was one of the only pieces of real Americana Hermann owned, and he actually looked quite dashing in it, though Newt wouldn’t admit it. Not yet, anyway.
“Yeah, whatever, dude,” Newt said, yawning, gesturing back towards the hat.
“You’re going to burn, and the only person you’ll be able to blame is yourself,” Hermann grumbled, reaching a hand into the navy blue grass-woven tote by the side of his chair and fishing around for something. “The least you can do is humor me, Newton,” he said, tossing him a tube of sunscreen. “If you’re going to sacrifice your arm to the sun, you might as well give it some protection.”
Newt had turned in his seat to look back at Hermann, just in time to catch the lotion. Barely. His motor skills were definitely a bit dampened from the libations. “Fine,” Newt handwaved, taking the tube and squeezing too much onto his hand, rubbing his palms together and slathering his legs, arms, neck and face.
Hermann looked over the top of his sunglasses, catching a brief glance of the smattering of freckles on the back of Newt’s neck and shoulders still untouched by ink before averting his eyes. He briefly entertained the thought of helping Newt with this endeavor, but in the end, it didn’t happen.
Looking back, Hermann tried not to regret it.
“Ta-daaaa,” Newt said, waving his hands triumphantly and tossing the tube back to Hermann. “Come at me, UV bullshit, I am invincible.” He flexed.
Hermann squished down the smugness, letting himself feel better about Newton being in the sun. He even found a bit of resigned adoration in the streaks of sunscreen his partner had missed rubbing in, watching the unconscious gestures Newt was making before looking away, blush rising in his cheeks. A familiar warmth began to coalesce in his chest, one that would coincide with Newt, growing in frequency throughout the coming months and years.
--
As Hermann recalled, a comfortable breeze had picked up as the sun started to slide down the sky, past its zenith. The adirondack chair on which Newt was stretched out was finally fully in the shade of the palms dotted along the shore. Lowering his book, Hermann watched Newt’s index finger trace outlines of forms in the distance, as if he were sketching, talking quietly to himself and gesturing. His hair stuck in all directions after fidgeting in his chair all afternoon, old black tank and cutoff shorts looking most uncomfortable to Hermann but fitting for the twitchy biologist. Newt’s chair sat to Hermann’s right, in the middle ground. He was pointing at something in the distance, maybe one of the rock formations, or the waves, or the color of the vegetation. It wasn’t important. The only important thing was Newt. His Newt.
Absentmindedly, Hermann picked up his phone and snapped a fairly middling, too-dark photo of his partner. It barely captured Newt’s profile. He studied it for a moment, and though it was not perfection by any artist’s eye, it was perfect to him, and him alone. Because today was perfect.
“Hey, Herm, how much would you pay me to jump from one boulder to another?”
“Zero dollars,” he slurred, “because I don’t care. Nor should you dare tempt fate.”
There was a beat and then Newt darted to the rocky offshoot of the shore.
Hermann groaned and started lifting himself from his seat. With Newton perfection was maybe a bit more subjective.