Work Text:
Fandom: Pacific Rim
Prompt: “You don’t have to do that.”
- Eat as much as you can of good texture when you have it because you don’t know when you’ll get it again
Newt is a texture eater, okay? If something is a bad texture or even looks like it’s a bad texture, he doesn’t want to try it. He’s had a few too many close calls, too many times he’s almost thrown up in a nice restaurant or even just at a friend’s table because the food he put in his mouth violently rebelled against any sense of decency and he needed it out as quickly as possible.
Most people thought he was just picky. And yeah, okay, he’s not ashamed of that. He likes what he likes and he doesn’t like what he doesn’t like. He’s not actually shy about trying new things and he’s open to liking them, but he’s had some bad experiences.
“Just try it,” his friend’s mom encourages over her minivan-dirt clogs, moving her haircut into place, “you might like it!”
Newt doesn’t even really know what’s in this, and he can’t pass it off as allergies. So he swallows heavily and raises the fork to his mouth.
The instant it hits his tongue his body screams nope nope nope no thank you let’s hop on the Nope Train to Fuck This Shit Ville, uh uh.
It’s horrid and slimy and it feels like a ball of phlegm oozing its way around Newt’s mouth, replacing all his saliva with slippery slime. Newt can’t swallow fast enough. Thank god he’s got plenty of lubrication.
He reaches shakily for a glass of water and manages a watery smile.
“See?” The mom gleefully downs her own forkful of phlegm. “I knew you’d like it!”
Newt steels himself and goes for another. Be polite, be polite.
If he stops being available for dinners at his friend’s house, it’s not related.
When he gets home, he goes straight for his comfort box and just about tears it open, looking for something, anything, that will get the slime out of his mouth. He spots a mini baguette he’d bought and yanks off the wrapper, shoving the bread into his mouth.
Bread is the actual best thing in the world and you will not convince him otherwise.
It’s pretty easy to make—relatively speaking—it’s served pretty much everywhere, and it’s always, always a good texture for Newt.
So if he eats mainly bread everywhere they go, it’s just because he has to. He doesn’t know what else he’ll be able to eat.
- Be low maintenance so eat the food even if it’s a bad texture because you bought it
One of the worst realizations in Newt’s life is when he realized pretzels were a bad texture. He hated it. Pretzels used to be so good! They were pretty cheap and an almost universally adored snack! He would never be criticized for bringing a shit ton of pretzels somewhere because everyone likes pretzels! And they had so much salt which was good because Newt sometimes forgot to stand up slowly and ended up on the floor again!
What?
It’s fine, Newt’s gotten really good at dodging sharp corners.
Where were we going with this?
Pretzels. Right.
It’s such a tragedy! He really really misses eating pretzels because he could just use it as a hand activity so he could debuff himself enough to podcast or stream or read or do things that required braining to work. Plus, opiorphin is a natural substance produced in human saliva, and not only is it up to six times more powerful than morphine, but it doesn’t have the addictive and psychological side effects of morphine and it might also be an anti-depressive molecule.
It’s really fucking cool, actually, it works in the nerve cells of the spine by stopping the destruction of enkephalins which are the body’s naturally produced pain-killing opiates which is super fucking dope—
Right. Hang on. Pretzels.
They’re a bad texture now.
Newt stops with his hand halfway towards his mouth with more pretzels. No, no, why is this happening?
There’s a horrible glob of something right at the tip of Newt’s throat and it’s the worst. It feels like his throat is trying to turn everything into goo and he wants to retch. Maybe—maybe if he shoves more pretzels in his mouth it’ll go away.
No, no, it’s just getting bigger! No, this isn’t supposed to happen, these are pretzels, Newt used to down a whole family-sized bag of these in one week, they’re his go-to, why has he been betrayed?
Maybe water, maybe—
Nope, no, no, definitely not water, water makes it so much worse.
Newt has to stop, he has to actually lean back and start his anti-nausea exercises because he feels like any minute he’s going to blow chunks all over his computer. And his computer doesn’t deserve that, it really doesn’t
“Come on,” he whispers, tears of frustration prickling at the corners of his eyes, “come on, stop, stop it, please, I’m sorry…”
It’s not working. It’s really not working and his throat is rolling and his stomach hurts and he feels like he’s going to—he’s going to—
Newt clamps a hand over his mouth and staggers to his feet, ignoring the seasick lurch in his stomach and the slime sloshing around in the back of his throat. He rushes to his box and tears open a bag of chips. The crisp crunch is so much better. He slumps in relief, leaning his head against the wall with a dull thunk.
Well. Maybe he’s just having a day of it.
A day turns into a week. A week turns into a month. When one month threatens to stretch to two, Newt sighs heavily and gets rid of the pretzels. Well, almost.
Before this had happened, he’d bought a giant bag for himself and his family. But they don’t like pretzels nearly as much as Newt does, and they won’t eat them. So Newt has to.
He has a plan. A game plan.
He grabs the bag of pretzels determinedly and a stack of gluten-free cookies his mom bought. He opens the bag and shoves pretzels in his mouth.
Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it.
If he just focuses on the salt, it’ll be fine. He won’t get caught up on the horrible mess forming at the back of his throat. When the salt burns his tongue and his mouth hurts, he stops and quickly takes a bit of the cookie.
His tongue protests at the rapid switch from salty to sweet, but it works. His mouth cleans out and he’s ready for more.
When the salt becomes too much or the slime builds up, he takes a bite of the cookie. He yearns for water by the time he’s three bites in but he can’t. Can’t risk it.
He bought this, after all, he needs to finish it. That’s the polite thing to do and he can’t be wasteful.
- Eat fast because they will leave regardless of whether you’re finished
Newt has a big group of friends he eats lunch with. They’re super interesting people, they’re all interested in really really cool shit that Newt doesn’t have the right kind of brain for and it’s so cool. He gets to just listen to them infodump about things and watching them navigate the rules of social interaction always makes him feel like a bemused anthropologist.
But, uh, he has to eat quickly.
They don’t really eat that much at lunch, they just kinda…talk. Which is fine, and like, Newt can respect that, but…he worries sometimes.
“Well,” one of them laughs, “we can’t all eat like you.”
Newt always packs good-texture lunches and, uh, he has a rule about good textures.
“I’m just not hungry in the middle of the day,” another one sighs, “I’ll just eat dinner.”
Okay, but they still have to make it through afternoon classes and that’s much harder with no brain food.
“…”
Yeah, Newt doesn’t always get heard when he asks things.
And that’s okay, really. If they listened to him he’d want to talk to. And he doesn’t have time to do that. Because his friends don’t really, uh, bother to wait until everyone’s finished eating. They just kinda…get up and go. And if Newt wants to go with, he can’t be awkwardly cramming food into his mouth as they get up. He has to eat fast so he knows he’s gonna be ready when they decide to leave. He’s not gonna make them wait for him, that’s rude, so it’s just better to be ready.
- Arrive on time because they will go in without you
Newt likes to order the same thing from different places because it’s cool how people can put their own spin on things and it doesn’t really ever taste exactly the same which is super interesting when it comes to—
Well. Newt likes ordering the same thing from different places.
Sure, it gets him a few scoffs here and there, but what doesn’t, and it’s nice to know he always knows what to get so he doesn’t have to make anyone wait around for him to decide.
Newt likes arriving on time. It’s polite, you know? If anything, he kinda likes arriving early. It gives that annoying voice in his head—that is very helpful sometimes, like when he’s forgotten to do something or he really needs to focus on an experiment—a little less time to freak out. But sometimes he fucks up! What, he’s human, it happens.
He, uh, read the time wrong and he’s running ten minutes late. He soothes himself by saying that it’s okay, at least one of them is always fifteen minutes late, and if worst comes to worst they know his order.
He pulls up, jumps out, an apology on his lips, and there’s no one there.
Did…did he get the time wrong again? Maybe the date?
He really doesn’t want to have to talk to people, but…
“Uh, hi,” he manages to the hostess, “is there a, uh, party of six here? Name’s Gabriella, I think?”
“We have a party of five under that name,” she says as she clicks through her display, “but that’s a complete party.”
“Oh, I must have my dates wrong! I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay,” the hostess says with a kind smile, “you enjoy the rest of your day now, okay?”
“Y-yeah! Thanks, thanks so much, uh, you too.”
Well. That could’ve gone worse. He didn’t trip and stutter this time, anyway.
You happy, little punk-ass that I care about very deeply in my head?
Then as he’s walking out the door he hears Gabriela’s laugh. He looks.
There they are.
Five of them. Not an empty chair in sight.
He, uh, doesn’t really wanna go over there. He knows what’ll happen.
They’ll pause awkwardly. One of them will smile and say they’re glad he made it. Another one will whisper that are they, really? There will be some kind of awkward shuffle, they won’t really know how to go back to the conversation they were already having, and Newt won’t know how to order what he wants without making everyone wait for him.
He leaves and goes home. Adds another thing to his little list.
- Bake because of debuff and friends that it will get you, forget that it means you’re eating more and it’s very very lonely when no one wants your things (and if someone is better at it you will be replaced)
Baking is one of the best debuffs and no, you will not convince Newt otherwise.
It’s so good, you have the satisfaction of following and executing instructions, you have the dopamine boost of doing something all the way to completion, you have time to work up an appetite for whatever yummy thing you’re making, and, if you’re like Newt, it debuffs you enough to brain for things!
It also has the added benefit of getting you people to exist around.
Newt loved baking for a lot of reasons but he loved seeing people’s faces when he brought things in. Yea, he ate a lot of his things too, he made them, he’s allowed, and they’re good textures. We have a saying around here about good textures.
Newt will never forget the day he first brought in oatmeal cookies and half the class went ‘oh, no thanks, I don’t like oatmeal cookies,’ only to then try and hoard the whole box after having just one. It was very viscerally satisfying.
No, there are no raisins, who the fuck wants a dry shriveled up grape in their cookie?
Newt understands, and like, you’re valid and everything, but you can do that in your cookies.
Here’s the thing though.
That’s a lot of cookies.
That’s a lot of dough.
That’s a lot of reminders that it’s only good for that.
It’s only good when there are people to share it with.
It’s only good when people want to eat your stuff as much as you do.
It’s only good when it’s your thing, no one else’s.
When someone else brings things in, everyone coalesces around them. Their stuff. Newt’s boring cookies aren’t interesting so he sits by himself, the tin in his lap, just…slowly eating his oatmeal cookie. He…he knows this was just a temporary thing, okay? He gets it. He knows he was basically bribing them to tolerate his presence with baked goods. He knows they don’t really see him, just an easy way to get sweet stuff.
It’s okay. Really, it is.
Newt still likes his cookies, at any rate. He just…needs to learn how to make smaller batches.
+1. You don’t have to do that.
Raleigh’s cleaning out the kitchen when a piece of paper flutters down from some hidden place next to Newt’s box of snacks. He frowns, picking it up and making to put it back when he accidentally catches a glimpse of what’s on it.
It’s Newt’s signature scrawl, listing out five different rules on this old, yellowing piece of paper. But it’s not quite Newt’s scrawls, in some places, it’s shakier, less confident. Did…how long ago did Newt write this?
“Hey, Tall Dark and Blond!”
Raleigh’s head shoots up to see Newt rounding the corner, head buried in some book.
“Did you get the…” Newt trails off when he spots his list in Raleigh’s hands.
“Sorry,” Raleigh says quickly, “I, uh, I just knocked it off, I didn’t mean to—“
“Whoa, big guy,” Newt laughs, putting his hands up in a placating gesture, “it’s okay, I’m not mad. You just knocked it over. And it’s not like it’s a secret or anything.”
Raleigh nods, relieved Newt’s not upset, but…still disturbed by the contents of the list.
“Newt,” he asks slowly, “what is this for?”
Newt shrugs, setting the book aside. “For rules, dude. Helps me remember them if I write them all out, you know?”
“…who told you these?”
“Huh?”
“These,” Raleigh says firmly, setting the list on the counter, “who told you them?”
“Oh,” Newt hums, turning away, “no one did. I just picked ‘em up. You know me, my grasp of social norms is not the best.”
“These aren’t social norms, Newt.”
“Sure they are.”
“No,” Raleigh corrects gently, taking Newt by one arm and turning him to face him, “they aren’t, Newt. It’s not okay for other people to force you to eat something you don’t like. It’s not okay for them to put you in situations where you feel like your food is under threat.”
“Dude, you make it sound like people are trying to steal my food,” Newt laughs nervously.
“Newt, if someone told you you could only write with a pen that was half-dried, would that be okay?”
Newt frowns. “No, that’d be a dick move.”
“What if someone told you that you could only write while other people were writing?”
“But that’s none of their business, what does it matter if…”
Realization dawns on Newt’s face and Raleigh quickly steers him to lean against the counter, coming closer with a concerned look on his face when Newt starts to go pale.
“…oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh,’” Raleigh says gently, careful he’s treading in dangerous waters, “it’s okay, Newt. You don’t have to do that.”
Newt swallows, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. “Can, uh, d’you mind if I, uh, get a second opinion?”
“Of course,” Raleigh says, still speaking softly, “wanna call Mako and Hermann?”
“Yes, please.”
“You want me to go get them or—“
“No,” Newt blurts, shaking himself out of Raleigh’s grip, “I can—I’ll do it.”
Raleigh watches as Newt hurries off, hearing a few doors open and the hushed concerned tones before Newt’s back, Mako following behind him and Hermann in tow. Hermann leans his cane against the counter and peers at the list. Mako reads it over his shoulder.
“Raleigh,” Hermann says after a moment, “Newton, would it be alright if Raleigh gave you a hug?”
“Uh...sure?”
Raleigh doesn’t hesitate, sweeping Newt into a tight embrace. Hermann taps his fingers on the counter.
“Now, Newton,” Hermann says quietly, “I would like to ask you a question, please.”
“Okay…?”
“How long have you had this list?”
Newt’s head rolls back into Raleigh’s shoulder as Raleigh turns him around, keeping a tight, grounding grip on his waist. “Maybe since I was like…thirteen?”
“Thirteen-year-olds,” Mako murmurs, “are the scariest people I have ever met.”
“Quite,” Hermann hums, “but I think my point still stands.”
“Wait, what point?”
“That Raleigh is right, Newton,” Hermann says gently, “you do not have to do this. It is alright for you to eat what you want to eat when you want to eat it.”
Newt squints at him. “I recall both of us growing up with mothers that would die on the ‘finish your plate’ hill.”
“Our mothers also insisted we would go blind if we stared at our computer screens for too long,” Hermann deadpans, “I do not think they are the most…reliable of scientific sources.”
“It is okay, Newt,” Mako says softly, coming forward to rest her hand on Newt’s shoulder, “and if you need us to remind you, that is okay too.”
Newt just kind of…freezes in Raleigh’s grip. His head thunks back against Raleigh’s chest like he’s a wall and Raleigh watches his eyes flutter shut.
“I think…” Newt mumbles, “I think I knew that…ages ago. I just…it…”
“It is difficult,” Hermann finishes when Newt shakes his head, unable to get his words out, “to unlearn a thing that has helped keep you alive.”
“…yeah.”
It’s not easy, that’s for sure, but they’re all patient.
They don’t shame Newt for keeping his comfort box of snacks.
They make sure to ask him to talk, like they always do, whenever they eat.
They all show up on time when they go out.
They don’t shame him for eating the same thing over and over.
They bake with him when he wants and they’re always there to help him finish whatever delicious thing he’s made this time.
They tell him it’s okay if he doesn't like something, he’s not being wasteful, he’s taking care of himself.
And slowly, slowly, he’ll get better.
The day Raleigh comes into the kitchen to see Newt’s list pinned to the fridge with a Star Trek magnet and the words ‘You don’t have to do this’ written in big, bold, Sharpie, he smiles.