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Hermann had never been particularly fond of parties. He didn’t like crowds, or loud noises, or alcohol, or socialising with strangers where he could avoid it. But, he supposed he could make an exception.
If he was being perfectly honest, Hermann was only still present at this party because, well, what other chance does one get to celebrate saving the world? That, and Newt had practically begged him to accompany him.
Ok, perhaps begged wasn’t the right word. More accurately, after Tendo had offered them both the invitation, Newt had tugged on Hermann’s sleeve and given him a pleading look (through batted eyelashes no less) that he simply could not refuse. A pest of a man, truly.
So here he was, leant against a wall in a secluded corner, plastic cup in hand full of some mysterious alcoholic beverage that Newt had been regularly refilling. Based on his knowledge of Newt’s preferences, he’d hazard a guess that it was something with whiskey.
He looked up from his drink to see Newt leading the conversation in a nearby circle of what he assumed were J-Tech employees. Newt’s hands were flailing about wildly as he spoke, narrowly avoiding spilling the drink he was holding as he no doubt dramatically recounted how he and Hermann saved the world. That’s what he’d like to think he was talking about, at least.
He hadn’t realised he’d been staring until Newt’s eyes met his own, crinkling into a smile as he began to half-stumble, half-jog to where Hermann stood.
“Herms!”
Despite his initial urge to roll his eyes and sigh at the (ridiculous) nickname, Hermann found himself smiling back at Newt’s alcohol-flushed face.
“Yes, Newton?”
“Dude, you gotta come like… talk to people, man. They keep asking about you.” He slurred, waving his hands around, threatening to tip his cup. Hermann fought the urge to grab his wrists to stop the gesturing.
“They do?”
“Well,” he started, now jamming his free hand into his pocket and kicking his feet awkwardly. “More like, I keep bringing you up, and then they ask where you are.”
Hermann felt his face get warmer, although unlike Newt, he was quite sure it was not because of the alcohol.
Newt cleared his throat. “Besides, I’m getting sick of walking all the way over here to give you refills,” he added, pointing to the flask sticking out of one of his pockets.
“R-right.”
They stood there for a moment, Hermann holding his cane in front of him and fiddling with the handle, while Newt stared at his toes.
Neither of them had to say it. Whether it was a side effect from the night before or simply an aftermath of working together for so long, they both knew the other was silently recounting the events of the previous night. Their attempts to tiptoe around what they had discovered about each other (and, quite frankly, themselves) had been successful up until this point, but had reached a tipping point with the aid of the liquor they had been drinking.
The pair stood awkwardly, trying to steer clear of the others' gaze so as to avoid acknowledging their matching bloodshot eyes. Hermann found himself rubbing the base of his left pinky anxiously, unsure of what to say. He remembered awkwardly grasping at Newton’s hand last night. He would like to do the same right now.
“Hermann?”
Hermann let his eyes flick upwards, locking with Newt’s. His mouth felt dry. Maybe he could do with that refill Newt mentioned.
“I can’t stop thinking about… Like, you haven’t even mentioned it, and, dude, it’s driving me crazy. I need to talk about it. We need to talk about it.”
He didn’t need to say what ‘it’ was. After all, it had been the only thing on either of their minds since it occurred.
Their drift.
While his memory of it was mostly a haze of blue, his overwhelming adoration of Newt had stuck in his mind persistently. It wasn’t that he wasn’t aware of these feelings previously, it was simply easier to ignore them when he was quite sure they weren’t reciprocated.
But now they had been inside each other’s heads, and Newt’s mutual fondness of Hermann was somehow even harder for him to deal with than the possibility of rejection. Confronting his feelings seemed exponentially more uncomfortable than the years of pining he had endured.
“Look, Newton, I don’t-“ he began, pausing as he tried to get his thoughts in order. His words were usually well thought-out, but now they felt incoherent - those god-forsaken ghost drift effects, no doubt, remnants of Newton’s short attention span making their home in Hermann’s mind. Irritating, to say the least. He sighed and downed what was left in his cup, grimacing at the bitter taste. These sorts of conversations had never been his forte.
“I don’t know for certain what you saw in the drift, Newton. Whatever it is that you need to discuss with me, you will have to be more precise.”
This was, of course, a lie. Hermann knew exactly what Newt wanted to talk about, but he was not prepared to steer the conversation in that direction. Part of him hoped Newt wouldn’t either, allowing Hermann to stick with what he knew, to continue to ignore his feelings in favour of more practical notions; channeling his repressed emotions into statistics and figures, perhaps. His usual method of dealing with such unwanted sentiments was yet to fail him.
“Hermann, c’mon,” Newt whined, swaying slightly. “Stop being so weird about it. We’re, like, two grown-ass adults, we can talk about feelings, and shit, like adults or whatever.”
Hermann raised his eyebrows at the noticeable slur in Newt’s voice, despite feeling pleasantly buzzed himself. He’d usually have less than kind words to say about his inebriated state, but… glass houses, and whatnot.
“Fine, Newton, we can talk about our… feelings, I suppose. But maybe here isn’t the most suitable place,” he remarked, gesturing to the swarms of people all around.
“I guess, man. But next time-“ Newt pointed a wobbly hand at Hermann, “-next time, you’re socialising more.”
-
Somehow, in the midst of their bickering over how to get Hermann to talk to more than just Newt at the next event they went to (which Hermann hoped would not be soon), the pair had managed to agree to head back to Hermann’s quarters. They had linked arms, and Hermann had taken to leaning heavily against Newt instead of using his cane, which was now tucked under his free arm. Under normal circumstances, Hermann would never engage in so much physical contact, but that last swig of whiskey seemed to have relaxed his inhibitions by a considerable degree.
Neither of them were particularly invested in their argument. Hermann was far too focused on walking in a straight line to pay close attention to Newt’s ramblings - something about how Hermann simply must meet some of Newt’s new friends (of whom he had only himself met that night, and Hermann was quite sure Newt had forgotten most of their names).
“I’m telling you, dude, those J-Tech guys would love to meet- hey, that’s your room, right?”
Hermann started, realising he’d almost walked past his own room. Embarrassing, really.
“Yes, yes, hold on, let me just,” he stammered, removing his arm from Newt’s and searching his pockets for his key card, almost dropping his cane in the process.
“Want me to hold that?”
“No, Newton, I’m fine,” Hermann insisted, adding under his breath, “I swear, it’s here somewhere”
“Here, let me look, man”
“What do you-“ Hermann began, before freezing as Newt reached a hand into his breast pocket of his coat.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck as Newt fished the card from the pocket, brandishing it with a smirk.
“How did you-“
“Um… Lucky guess?”
Hermann snatched the card from Newt and quickly turned around to unlock his door, hoping he’d managed to hide the blush creeping onto his face.
Unlocking with a beep, Hermann pushed the door open and motioned for Newt to follow. He tried to ignore the embarrassment of his usually pristine living environment being threatened by an unmade bed in the corner to the right of the door, and a small pile of unfolded laundry peeking from behind the doorway to the bathroom. Drifting with Newt had already ruined his reputation for cleanliness. Typical.
Newt immediately collapsed onto Hermann’s bed, much to his disdain, apparently unaware of the messy state of the sheets. Or of the fact that the bed was not his, and that if Hermann were less inebriated he’d be chasing the man out with his cane nipping at his ankles.
As it were, Hermann was far too exhausted
“Newton, get up, the bed is unmade.”
“I don’t give a shit, dude, just sit down,” He replied, sitting up and scooting towards the end of the bed, patting the space next to him.
“I really don’t know why you’re inviting me to sit on my bed,” Hermann grumbled, although he had already leant his cane against the wall and was beginning to shrug off his jacket. He hung it over the back of the chair that he kept next to his bedside table, and distantly thought that perhaps he should hang it on a coat-hanger and place it in his wardrobe. Alas, he was too tired and a little bit too tipsy to care. He let out a defeated sigh and followed Newt’s suit, sitting next to him on the crinkled sheets.
“So,” Newt began, fiddling with the ring on his left pinky, transfixed on it as if it were the most interesting object in the world. Hermann found himself staring at Newt’s left eye, pupil too dilated for the well-lit room, the sclera an unsettling pink from damage to blood vessels under the surface. Beneath his eyelid was a deep purple, the bags under his eye more noticeable than they’d ever been - quite the achievement, considering Newt’s penchant for all-nighters fueled by caffeine.
Hermann hadn’t slept well last night, his thoughts consumed by flashes of memories; a mix of Newt’s, the Precursors’, and his own, but especially Newton’s. Memories of writing letters to himself, of waiting eagerly by the mailbox on weekday mornings. Memories of meeting himself for the first time, of shouting, going home humiliated, of dumping years of letters into an unused drawer and slamming it shut. Memories of seeing himself in person for the first time and being utterly flustered. Perhaps Newton’s night was plagued by the same sleeplessness, memories he lived though but from someone else’s perspective.
Was Newt now aware of Hermann’s memories of these occasions? Did he now know that his apparent disdain for Newt was not fueled by hatred, but repressed affection? Their cards were held too close for him to know. Drifting gave them a chance to catch a peek of the other’s hand, but only a glimpse - as though he’d seen the suit of a card but nothing else.
“Herms?”
Bugger. He’d been staring again, although he had mostly zoned out. He blinked as his eyes refocused, noticing that Newt had turned his head to face him now. His hands were still fidgeting in his lap, but his mismatched pupils were locked onto Hermann’s eyes.
“Um,” He started, trying to fill the silence. “Did you, you know, do you still wanna talk? About that stuff. That’s, uh, why we’re in your room, right?”
Hermann’s eyes darted to the floor. “Yes, I suppose we can.”
“Cool.”
Hermann didn’t respond. Instead, he tapped his foot anxiously, right hand fidgeting with the seam of his slacks. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Newt again. He was fearful of him- fearful of rejection, or mockery, or some other more likely response than reciprocation. It didn’t matter that the drift had told him otherwise. A decade of repressed feelings and a lifetime of questionable self-esteem had left him quite sure Newton would never think of him the same way that he thought of him.
He heard Newton move before he felt him, and he felt him before he saw him. A slightly clammy hand resting on his own, stilling it’s fidgeting.
“Newton. What are you doing?” He asked cautiously, although he made no effort to move his hand away.
Newt breathed in shakily, his thumb lightly stroking the top of Hermann’s hand. “Listen, Hermann, I really like you, man. Like, I’ve-been-crazy-about-you-for-as-long-we’ve-known-each-other sort of like you. And, dude, I think you might like me too? When we drifted, and- I’m pretty sure you might maybe like me back? And just the possibility of that has been killing me, man, I just need to know for sure.”
Swallowing thickly, Hermann stared at Newt, mouth slightly agape.
The confession shouldn’t be surprising. After all, the drift was not 48 hours ago, and he could recall every memory he re-lived through it in perfect detail. He felt how Newton felt about Hermann, and knew that Newton had felt the same about himself. But hearing the words, seeing the blush spreading over Newton’s cheeks as he cast his eyes downward, had rendered Hermann more speechless than the drift had.
“Newton.”
It was all he could say. His mind was too busy reeling over Newton’s confession to possibly have time to translate his own feelings into words. Newton said nothing, but squeezed his eyes shut and curled his shoulders in, as if trying to fold in on himself. His hand didn’t move from where it rested on top of Hermann’s, but the stroking of his thumb became more unsure.
“Newt.”
Newt whipped his head to gawk at Hermann, the corners of his mouth slowly turning into a small smile.
“That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Does that… does it mean anything?”
Hermann couldn’t respond in words. He settled for leaning in and planting a light kiss on Newt’s cheek, lingering slightly longer than necessary, moving only when Newton threw his arms around him to pull him into a hug, resting his chin on Newt’s shoulder. Newt was smiling into the crook of his neck, stubble scratching the soft skin.
“Ten years,” Hermann said, as he turned his head to lay his temple on Newt’s shoulder.
“What’s ten years?”
“How long I’ve been enamoured by you.”
Newt let out a small laugh, and pulled Hermann in tighter. “Should’ve known you were a hopeless romantic,” he replied, before adding, “Though I think I’ve loved you since the first letter.”
I love you too, Hermann thought to himself, although he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. Instead, he settled for turning his head to place another kiss on Newt’s cheek.
They’d saved the world. He had plenty of time to tell Newt he loved him.