Work Text:
Hermann is going to fucking kill him. Newt holds back the urge to start screaming out loud, and flops onto his rolling chair. What the fuck is he supposed to fucking do? He'd gotten up hours later than he was supposed to due to a hangover from drinking himself into a stupor the night before, and Hermann had glared at him as soon as he'd walked into the lab. That was fine, he had plenty of practice at ignoring Hermann's ice-fucking-cold stares. That was fine.
Hermann had left the lab to get lunch in the mess hall. Newt had stayed behind, trying to catch up on shit he'd missed that morning. That was fine. He'd done that before, too.
Less fine, however, is the mess that Newt has gotten himself into while Hermann has been out. Kaiju blue is sprayed all up one of the chalkboards on the opposite wall, bubbling and steaming as it eats away at the surface. It is- was- covered with chalk scribbles of mathematical calculations, probably important to Hermann though Newt wouldn't be able to make sense of the numbers and symbols if he had all the time in the world. Fuck. It had already been a bad day, Newt's head had already been throbbing like hell, and then of fucking course he had to hit a gas pocket in the specimen he had on his dissection table.
Newt stands back up, grabs a towel from a cupboard, and starts walking shakily across the room to try and save something from the mess, when the doors of the lab push open and Hermann takes a step in before abruptly stopping. Newt stops, too, three steps over the line of fucking demarcation that Hermann had set years and years ago, towel in one hand and a glove partly fitted over his other. He can't even bring himself to give Hermann an apologetic smile, or even an apologetic look, which would normally be a standard reaction to such a mess. He sees Hermann's lips tighten, and his pounding headache gets worse in preparation for what would surely be a shitload of yelling that Newt isn't particularly prepared to deal with. Hermann starts talking, but Newt can't bring himself to even start listening to the words. He bites his trembling lip and finishes the last few strides to the partly-ruined chalkboard, snapping on the other glove and wordlessly scrubbing at the hissing blue streaks.
The towel starts getting holes only 20 or 30 seconds into the cleanup, but Newt doesn't notice until the corrosive liquid starts eating at his not-completely-helpful gloves. He ignores it and continues scrubbing, and then his hand starts burning and he can't bring himself to stop until the towel falls apart in his hands and suddenly every sensation comes crashing back in on him and God, his hand fucking hurts and the lights are too bright and Hermann's raised-but-not-quite-yelling voice is too loud, and his head won't stop fucking throbbing even though he took painkillers just 2 hours ago, and he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against a non-contaminated spot of the chalkboard until he notices that his legs are shaking and he slides down to the ground miserably, not much more than a heap on the bare concrete.
"I'm sorry Hermann, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles over and over, weakly picking at his now-useless glove that he's not sure why he even put on in the first place, and he's resolutely trying to keep the tears in his eyes from spilling over even though his face is hidden by his knees anyways. At least the lights aren't so bright when they're covered by his legs.
He didn't notice when Hermann had stopped talking, but now Newt can feel him rolling the gloves off his hands, and then he's dabbing at his sharply burning palm with a cool, wet towel until the pain subsides a little. Newt shudders violently, and when Hermann places a hand on his shoulder his tears finally overflow and make wet trails down his cheeks and drip onto his black jeans.
"I'm sorry," Newt chokes out again. Hermann doesn't respond, just sighs quietly and sits down beside him on the floor so close that he's pressed against Newt's side. He hesitantly puts an arm around Newt's shoulders, and Newt leans into him. "I've just had a- a really bad fucking day," he hiccups. His voice is shaking and he's putting a very valiant effort into not letting his teeth chatter from the sheer amount of adrenaline in him. "You can, you can yell at me or, or whatever, but, uh, do me a favor and, and, bottle it up until, until tomorrow, yeah?" Newt laughs weakly, non-humorously. Hermann sighs again.
"That... will not be necessary. Are you okay, Newton? That is, are you having a shutdown?" Hermann's voice is far steadier than Newt's, and gentler than he expected from the man who he had just destroyed probably hours' or even days' worth of work of. It should be comforting, really, but instead it just makes the lump in his throat grow bigger and he no longer trusts himself to speak without sobbing the words. So he slowly nods his still-throbbing head instead, and screws his eyes tighter shut. Some dark, nostalgic part of him half-expects Hermann to get mad at him for it like one of his old high-school teachers had, but the other man only takes his non-injured hand and starts rubbing gentle circles into his knuckles. The repetitive motion soothes Newt enough to bring him down from hyperventilation, and his breathing starts to sync with Hermann's slowly rising and falling chest that Newt can feel pressing against his side.
"Would you like me to turn off the lights?" Hermann murmurs after some length of time that Newt can't quite pinpoint.
Newt takes a long time to put together a response, brain fuzzy.
"I would rather you, you, just stay here," he mumbles. He almost whimpers when Hermann removes his arm from around Newt's shoulders, but he replaces it after a few seconds sans coat, which he drapes around their heads to block out the florescent overhead lights. By consequence, it also dampens their quiet buzzing, which Newt only now realizes he had been compensating for by pressing his wrists to his ears.
Newt removes his head from his own lap and leans it onto Hermann's shoulder, and the other man shifts to be closer pressed against him. He gently strokes the back of Newt's neck and through his hair, long overdue for a cut as it is.
"Aren't you mad at me?" Newt asks quietly, after a long time sitting underneath Hermann's coat.
"I... was. I was. I care for you more than I care for my mathematics, though, and I think my chalkboards can take more of a beating than you can right now." Newt sniffs and puts both arms around Hermann's shoulders, who stiffens for a flash of a moment before leaning into the hug.
"Thanks, Herms. I...” He swallows. “Thank you." Newt has a thousand thoughts and no way to put them together, so he settles for the simple statement. His voice is still a little shaky, but his eyes have finally dried and the lump in his throat is gone. "D'you think I should go to see medical? Hand hurts like all hell." Hermann lets out an exhale that Newt can't decide is amused or relieved, and nods.
"Yes, I suppose so... Let us go, then." He carefully moves the coat, and together they leave the lab.