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Newt looks in the mirror and he sees someone he used to know, and he hates it. He runs a shaking hand through, soft, still-damp hair, and pulls a little too hard a little too fast, so that it jerks his head backwards awkwardly. Hermann next to him raises an eyebrow, mouth full of toothpaste and hand full of toothbrush and a steadying grip on the sink.
Newt shakes his head, letting his hand fall a little too loosely, and saying, "Just thinking about cutting my hair. Maybe dying it. Bleach it first, or maybe not bother with the dye. Haven't decided yet. I want to do something, though."
And it was true, but only in part. The truth was that he looked in the mirror and saw the same face he had for years and wanted to drag claws he didn't have down it, wanted to smear it in blood or lipstick or car-paint, wanted to tear his very skin from his very bones and then grind his bones into a paste and rebuild his body from that. He imagined the pain of it and everything went red and blue, sharp and torn and jagged and blood and bile, and that was when he had tugged at his hair too hard.
He is just a man, just a human being in a human body, small and fragile and the same one he has been living in for 30 years, and every second he hates it more. He does not feel like himself.
"Well," Hermann says, spitting blue foam into the grey basin, "Your clippers are under the sink in your room. Just mind there isn't hair on the floor before you let me in, please."
"Will do," Newt smiles, and kisses him on the cheek. "I think I'll bleach it first. Then maybe do it again. Then I'll dye it. Then I'll cut it. Get the most use out of it before it's gone, you know?"
"That sounds like a good plan, love. Turn the light off before you get in bed, please," Hermann gives him a soft smile, the kind Newt has been dreaming of for years, but it all feels so distant. He feels like maybe he has the wrong number of limbs, or eyes, or too few mouths, or something. Something is wrong.
He smiles back, and repeats, "Will do," and Hermann goes to bed. Newt thinks about going for a run, just a quick one, just 30 minutes and then home again, and then he thinks about curling up in a ball on the floor and letting the metal grating leave marks on his skin that bruise for days, and then he thinks about brushing his teeth for a whole minute before he picks up the toothbrush. He counts to 30, then 60, then 120, then 180, and he never does that, but he's not sure he remembers how he used to do this. He washes his hands up to his elbows afterwards, counting to 20 and then just letting the water run over his hands until they're completely numb.
Yeah, that feels better, he thinks to himself, though he has no idea what he means.
The bedsheets cling to his shoulders when he climbs in, and he doesn't understand why until Hermann grumbles quietly about him still being wet.
"Sorry. Thought I dried off."
"You did not," Hermann replies.
"Sorry."
"There's no need to apologise," Hermann lightens his tone, taking Newt's arm and guiding it around his waist.
"Sorry."
"It's quite alright, darling."
"I-" Newt starts, reaching for the thought that's been in the back of his mind for days. It does what it always does, and fades into the dark because it was acknowledged.
"Hmm?"
"Nothing. I dunno. I'm sorry."
"Newton, it's alright. You haven't done anything wrong," he gives Newts hand a squeeze, and when Newt squeezes back he feels he's wearing someone else's skin, like he's piloting this body the way Jaeger pilots do, but from somewhere far, far away.
"Thanks," he whispers, and then drops his voice even lower, choking on the words but he needs to say them, he needs to get them out, there's a shadow behind him and there is something pulling his mind away and he's in so much danger, all the time, and he can't loose himself to the dark without making sure Hermann knows, "I love you."
"I love you too, Newton," Hermann says, a smile in his voice. He's smiling so much tonight.
Does he know? Does he know I'm not who he fell in love with, and I'll never be again? Does he know that I was dead when he found me in the lab? Fuck, Hermann, do you know who you're in bed with? Do I?
No one says anything, after that. There is the sound of their breathing, in tandem, and the rumbling of the pipes and the air conditioning system, and sometimes sharp, clipped footsteps going past the door. Newt tries not to flinch. He tries not to feel afraid. He tries to feel something else, finds nothing, and then tries to feel anything, at all. He is so, so tired; tired to the marrow of his bones, tired in every synapse and every too-alert nerve-ending and every cell dying and dividing, he thinks he can feel every single one, every one of trillions, all aching and going on functioning though they desperately want to rest.
There is no rest. He will sleep and this heart will go on beating in this chest, these lungs will go on pulling oxygen into blood which will keep moving, ceaselessly, around and around, and everything is in perfect, haphazard working order, and it will all keep functioning until it doesn't. There is a lot of life left in this body yet.
Lying there, warm and numb in the dark, with Hermann's fingers intertwined with his, Newt makes himself a promise. Tomorrow, he will bleach his hair, and the next day, he'll do it again, and then he'll dye it in oranges and greens because he's had quite enough of reds and blues and violets, and then when even that starts to look familiar he will cut it all off, and he'll burn all of his clothes every month and buy new ones over and over, or he'll make everything himself, or he'll just wear whatever of Hermann's he can fit in, and he'll keep living and keep changing until whatever it is that's reaching for him can't follow him anymore, couldn't pick him out of a crowd, until this stomachache doesn't recognise his body well enough to know to come back, until it's been 7 years and not a single cell in his body has been in that bunker, that buffet line, has been chased by Otachi or her baby or has been on the floor of the lab, bleeding, seizing.
And though he's convinced, lying there, in the dark, hiding his face in Hermann's shoulder, that even 7 years won't make him feel clean, won't make him feel safe, won't make him look different enough to possibly express the monumental, cataclysmic shift inside of him, he's going to make it. He's going to make it to 7 years, and 14, and 28, he's going to make it as far as he can if for no reason other than to piss off those bastards who tried to kill him and everyone he loves. He's sure he'll find other reasons along the way. He's sure he'd like to see what the streets of Berlin look like when he's holding Hermann's hand, or Boston, or London, or that little village that Hermann's favourite cousin lives in. He doesn't know if he's the kind of man who can go to Berlin, or Boston, or London, or that village anymore. He supposes that he'll find out when he tries, when he steps off of the plane because he probably can't take ferries anymore and sees the fields of sunflowers between the airport in that city and their hotel in the next, he'll find out if he's still the kind of man that likes travelling.
Some version of him is going to survive this, and some version of this body is going to become home, however long it takes.