Work Text:
Hermann can hear the vibrations of Newton’s ridiculously loud music before he even steps into the lab, and he’s mentally bracing himself for some form of terrible rock accompanied by Newton’s off-key warbling. Instead, it’s surprisingly… “Opera?”
Good opera too, the soprano’s voice full of trills and leaps, bright and golden in the air.
“Have you finally decided to develop a good taste in music, then?”
He expects Newton to reply with some quip, snappy remark, or whatnot, but instead, when Newton lifts his head to meet Hermann’s gaze, his eyes are oddly watery.
“It’s my mom”, he says, and Hermann blinks. He knows about Newton’s mother, and Newton’s feelings on the matter, but, well. He’d thought it was one of the things they didn’t discuss, relics from the letter age only brought up when one of them wants to score a particularly devastating point in the arguments.
“She’s very good”, he says awkwardly, for lack of anything better to say, but it appears to be the right thing to do, or at least not the wrong thing, because Newton perks up at that.
“Oh, yeah. Wish I’d inherited her voice.” Hermann wishes that too. Oh, how he wishes that.
“Wish she’d stayed.”
Newton’s voice is very small, and on the recording, his mother crescendos as she sings of love she had to leave behind, and it’s all so terribly maudlin that Hermann feels a surge of aimless anger. He clacks across the room with more force than is necessary, screeching the chalk across the board. As he writes, he half turns to speak to the despondent Newton.
“I’m well aware of your abandonment issues. Is there a particular reason you’re choosing today to wallow in them?”
Newton bristles at that, as Hermann had expected, but Newton angry is far better than Newton miserable.
“She didn’t send me tickets, you ass.”
With his back to Newton, Hermann allows himself to wince. Another reference to an era that lay buried like a minefield between them, Newton consciously assuming knowledge gained from a time Newton is generally more than happy to pretend never existed. If he keeps talking like that, they’ll have to talk about what ended that era, and Hermann desperately wants to avoid hearing exactly how pathetic Newton had thought him at their first meeting. But nevertheless, he knows what Newton means. His mother had sent him tickets for years, still did, as far as Hermann had known, though Newton had never gone, the distance of the venues always insurmountable. Privately, Hermann had though she had known that, had sent the tickets to keep up the pretense of wanting to see him without the obligation of actually having to. He had never said that to Newton, though. He’ll admit to himself he’d been saving it to throw at him during one of their nastier battles, but even when he wants to hurt Newton, he seemingly can’t help the anger when someone else does.
“Ah”, Hermann says, and then, “would it be too far away to bother?”
Newton laughs bitterly at that. “She’s in Hong Kong. So no, not really.”
Hermann supposes that’s that theory confirmed. Still, he understands why Newton might be feeling a bit wounded. That’s no excuse for what he says next, though.
“Go anyway.”
Newton stares at him. He really does look awful, hair unwashed and sticking up in all directions, ridiculous tie draped over one shoulder in a way that Hermann longs to fix, shirt sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned to the point it’s sliding off the other, brightly colored shoulder. Hermann should really stop staring at Newton’s shoulder, before he accuses him of being a Victorian maiden undone by a flash of ankle, as he has in the past.
“I know you’ve got vacation time and money saved up from when they were still paying us more than pennies. Just go anyway. It’ll save me from having to listen to your moaning.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I can do that! I'm gonna do that.”
“Wonderful”, Hermann replies, and proceeds to scrawl the next line of equations so hard that he breaks the chalk.
He’s granted two days of peace and quiet without Newton, but on the third, he once again opens the door to the mournful sounds of opera. Newton is laying on the lab couch, staring blankly at the ceiling as he idly tosses a pen up into the air over and over. Hermann snatches it mid toss as he passes, turning to examine his lab partner.
“Hey,” Newton says, voice rough as it only gets when Newton has been singing or crying. Hermann isn’t sure which one he’d prefer right now. Well. He knows, but he’s hardly going to admit it.
“That’s my pen”, Newton protests, and Hermann examines it.
“No, it’s my pen, you just took it. Like you constantly do.”
Newton just sighs, and looks back up at the ceiling.
When Hermann has been working for nearly two hours and Newton hasn’t moved from his position, he resigns himself to talking about it.
“Did it not go well?”
Newton laughs. “She didn’t recognize me, and then she said she hated my tattoos, not for any, like, Kaiju reason or anything, she just hates tattoos. Apparently. And then she offered me an autograph.”
“You haven’t seen her for years, what did you expect?”
Newton sighs again. “Something? Anything?” Another sigh, long and sad and irritating. “She wouldn’t stop calling me Doctor. ”
Hermann pokes him with his cane.
“Get off the bloody couch and stop moping.”
Newton rolls off the couch, and onto the floor, and remains there. He does not stop moping.
Hermann considers hitting him with his cane again.
Instead, because unlike some people, he happens to be capable of self-control over his baser instincts, he makes some tea. There’s only three bags of chamomile left, and Hermann wrestles with whether or not to make Newton a cup as well. On one hand, calming is exactly what Newton needs. On the other, he’s undoubtedly going to not enjoy it properly, drink it far too fast, and then throw away the bag when it could be good for another three or four cups. Kindness wins out, but only barely, and Hermann proffers the cup at the still prone Newton with a certain aggressiveness. Newton blinks up at it. Hermann thinks that if that blink had been utilized on someone who actually cared about Newton, it would have been quite fetching, but as it is, it merely makes him look like a demented cow.
“I don't like chamomile”, Newton says, and Hermann nearly does hit him with his cane.
“Drink it anyway”, he snaps, and Newton does as Hermann sits down on the couch. It’s still a slightly odd angle, but much easier on his joints than standing.
When the silence drags on past what even Hermann can tell is reasonable, he starts talking, though he’s still got no idea what he’s saying.
“You barely knew her, she only sent you tickets to places she knew you couldn’t go to, and no, Newton, I am not saying that to be cruel, I am saying it because it is true, and we both know it. I am sorry she did that, and that she left, and sorry she didn’t pass down a single ounce of her musical talent. Mostly sorry for myself about that one.”
That finally drags a genuine laugh from Newton, who gives him a shaky smile that makes Hermann feel rather odd.
“Now will you please stop being despondent, turn off that music, and get some damn work done?”
There’s a beat, and then Newton stands, now grinning down at Hermann.
“Your pep talks suck, dude.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
And more importantly, Newton works, and turns off the music.
Sometime that evening, Newton asks quietly, while Hermann is so engrossed in his theorems he barely hears him.
“Hermann?”
“Mm?”
“Are, uh. You gonna leave? Because I’m kinda getting attached to the smell of chalkdust, which is like, probably stockholm syndrome or whatever, but still.”
Hermann swallows. There’s some kind of emotion building in his chest, but it’s too strong to identify.
“Well. Someone’s got to keep you from blowing yourself up.”
“Heh. Yeah. No promises.”