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He is on fire. Not in the "I did something really cool" way or the "Look at this succession of good things I've done" way, but the way that makes him step lightly to keep his feet from being burned, the way that makes him squirm and roll his sleeves up, the way that makes his head pound and his eyes ache dully behind his thick glasses. He is on fire and it shows in his quickened movements, the slight unsteadiness as he is eaten up, brimstone on his tongue and ash in his throat. He is on fire and God does it burn, it burns him up and eats him alive and his mind dances with each lick of flame, sings with the soft popping and crackling and occasional soft, high whine. It has surpassed oranges and reds, there are no coals or embers to glow and seemingly oscillate, no, there is a blue tinge to each tongue, a green tint outside of that and smoke whirls up, makes him want to choke, makes his eyes red-rimmed and his lungs burn.
He is on fire and he breathes deeper, chest aching for more air, lungs expanding as they're touched by the flame, the soft tissue seared, blackened. He breathes, stuttering, jerky breaths and they only fuel the fire, make it burn and roar and he is a walking inferno, slicing and dissecting the specimens on his slab but it feels like he's slicing into the creatures they come from, the ones on his body, and they howl and cover him in their acidic blood and he fights the urge to cry. (He thinks he hears Job cry for him, in the distant past, littered in the ashes of his home and surrounded by the bones of his family).
His hands are shaking and he drops his scalpel and the noise, metal on metal, rings in his ear and it snaps something inside him and he can't breathe, he chokes on the air and he tastes hell, hears the screaming of the souls and distantly thinks he'd be screaming too, if he could open his mouth, if he could force the oxygen into his burnt lungs and his blood is boiling beneath his skin and he is being scalded from the inside out and he burns himself to death in the middle of the lab and he falls, falls falls-
His knees on the grated floor jolt him to reality, to the way he feels cold, like ice water has been fed into his spine, paralyzed him and turned his world to ice and by God, Frost was right, ice is destroying him every bit as much as fire did and he's going to freeze to death, he's going to shake himself out of his own skin and collapse fully and die on the floor and that's not right that's not good and he hears footsteps rushing toward him and it makes him throw his hands to his ears, cover them because his eardrums are frozen and shattering with each uneven thud--thud clack---thud--thud clack--thudthudclatter--
There are arms around him so shockingly warm it makes him shudder violently and try to buck them off because now he's gonna melt and he's gonna be a useless puddle seeping through the grates and he's gonna mix up with God knows what's down there on its way to be filtered and treated and oh God oh God he couldn't breathe again and he was being pulled against a too-hot chest and he was going to scream he was going to drown in the the water dripping down (he never realizes it was his own tears).
Except he doesn't drown and there is a hand on his chest and a gentle if not strained voice in his ear, talking quietly, calling his name, (Newton, Liebling, I am here, you are alright, breathe with me, please) and there is a skinny, long-fingered hand on his chest rubbing soothing circles and resting over his fluttering heart and there is another hand in his hair, those fingers tangling and gently guiding him to listen to a slightly raised heartbeat, thudthump-thudthump-thudthump-thudthump and he feels that thin chest rise and fall beneath his head and slowly, excruciatingly, he begins breathing with that rhythm, though his breaths sometime hitch and stutter, and he makes soft pained, noises.
When he comes back to himself fully, can see out of his smudged glasses and feels marginally human again, he realizes he's on the floor, cradled back against Hermann's chest, the man's legs splayed out on either side of him and that must be killing him but the older man doesn't once make a complaint about it, he merely rubs his chest (gently, always gently, those fingers occasionally tracing where he knew the lines and swirls of his tattoos were) and strokes his hair, occasionally brushing a small kiss to the crown of his head and distantly Newt thinks it's far more than he deserves because he should be better, he should know how to deal with this by now and he shouldn't need to be coddled and taken care of but God does it feel nice to be able to just relax against his partner in all senses of the word, to just let go and let himself fall with the knowledge someone was there to catch him.
They sit like that for a while because neither of them are quite ready or able to get up yet. They have to eventually though because the world is ending and the Kaiju won't stop whenever Newt's personal world decides to end for a little bit. Before they do, they kiss, a soft brush of lips because Newt can still distantly taste ash on his tongue and Hermann knows, he always knows. Then they begin the painstaking process of getting up, the biologist groaning a little as he stands first and carefully helps the mathematician up and he winces in sympathy when Hermann's leg gives out and hurries to get him a chair. Apologies fall on deaf ears on both parts and they kiss gently once more before returning to their work.
Later, they will retire to their shared quarters and there will be a hush over them because they don't need to talk, not really, not after that. Hermann will climb into bed first and Newt will worry over him and flutter his hands until he's sure everything's okay. Then he'll crawl into bed on the other side and curl up in those arms that had held him when he had shaken apart, and he'll rest his head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat and they'll fall asleep together, just like that, and for a little while, nothing can go wrong.