Chapter Text
Newton Geiszler would be the first to admit that he has good days, and bad ones. One could of course say the same of just about anyone, but when Newton is having a good day, it's fan-fucking-tastic. And when he's having a bad day? Well... it's better if he's around other people; supervised. And so he finds himself going out to a party hosted just off campus by a recent graduate who isn't quite ready to grow up or let go yet, even if he'd much rather be curled up in his bed back at the dormitories.
The doctors don't understand. It's not suicidal tendencies. Not really. Most of the time, even on his worst days Newton doesn't actually want to take his own life. He just wants to stop hurting. He's not suicidal. He doesn't dream of shooting himself, downing a whole bottle of pills, or taking a bath with a toaster. He's apathetic. And on those really bad days when it feels like just about every cell in his body aches in distress, agony, and his anxiety is making his heart pound so fast his chest hurts, the idea of simply laying down in the middle of the nearest freeway and letting the laws of probability do their thing sounds pretty acceptable, even appealing.
Often, and to the great frustration of himself and those around him, Newton doesn't know exactly what interaction or situation has made him sad or angry until he is able to look at it in retrospect, only that once he's reached a certain threshold he's intimately aware of just how much effort may be required to pull him out of the darker corners of his psyche. His uncle- the man who has done his best to raise him along with his father- blames his sister, Newton's mother for it: a child born from the forbidden passion of two artists? A tortured soul was the only possible result. It doesn't seem terribly scientific, but Newton does have to appreciate there's a kind of poetry to his uncle's logic. It certainly sounds a lot prettier, more romantic even than Borderline Personality Disorder, anyway. Because sure, Newton did his time with some of the campus’ school mental health counselors, per the conditions of his admission at such an exceptionally young age. But he’s long since stopped going now he’s logged his hours and is no longer considered a ‘conditional admit’ student. Maybe that sort of talk-therapy works for some people, but most of the time he’d just as soon not talk about his unpredictable and inexplicable mood swings, and he struggled to find anyone to talk to who might be able to keep up with and challenge him intellectually.
It was fine. Well, alright maybe not, but it had been the status quo for long enough it didn’t really come as that much of a surprise. He didn’t really do all that well in most social situations anyway, if he was being honest with himself. Not for lack of trying. The truth of the matter was that he cared a lot more about what people- or certain people at least- thought about him, than he probably should, but it always seemed to end in tears somehow or other. His mouth would get ahead of his head in thinking about all the potential ways someone else might interpret what he said or how he behaved, all the possible outcomes, and he stuck his foot in his mouth at best. At worst his anxiety had him lying awake for countless hours later going over what he did wrong and imagining how it might have gone better and wanting to melt into his mattress and disappear.
The party is both exhilarating, and exhausting. The energy is fantastic. With finals having just wrapped up for most courses everyone is riding the adrenaline rush, drunk on life and the cheap beer someone had provided. The music isn’t exactly the sort that he preferred to listen to, but most of it isn’t half-bad. He hadn’t come with the idea of picking anyone up of course, but it was just a little bit deflating that not one person had done anything to acknowledge he was even there. He is afterall, dressed up, doing his very best to smile, laugh, and convince the rest of the world that today is a good day. On the plus side, he thinks, the effort is sure to be enough to all but guarantee him the ability to fall into an exhausted sleep once his head hit the pillow.
It’s not exactly the most well-thought out of ideas, but Newton can’t remember the last time he got a decent night’s sleep, and he may have indulged in a bit of that beer before leaving the party, so when he passes by a tattoo parlor that still has a few lights on he decides to check it out. He tells the tattooist he’s got a terrible case of baby-face and flashes a convincing, but totally fake ID, and leaves with a fresh bandage over his left forearm starting just above his wrist, and resolves to come back once he’s saved up a bit more to get another one on his other arm. It’s far enough up his arm it’s not immediately visible without him rolling up his sleeves a little, which is surprisingly reserved and well thought out, he thinks later, for not having had all his faculties at the time. But more importantly it’s turned something ugly, the litany of tiny raised scars from untold number of cuts, into a work of art. And that is every bit as addictive as the rush he got from any pain the process had caused. He wants to turn his whole body into a canvas, and devotes a brand new notebook to sketches, clippings, and brainstorms, steadily mapping out how each piece will blend into the next to cover progressively more of his body.
By the following year it’s a different host, different house, and a not so different party, but a different Newton, even if he’s the only one that knows the real extent of it. He’s always had a kind of love-hate relationship with his body, resentful of the way it always seems to hold on to fat all too easily and vigorously protest any kind of exercise. But the tattoos have expanded now from just sleeves to cover most of his torso, and even down his back, he’s thinking about continuing them down his legs too. They make him feel like a kind of a superhero. If he were simply to unbutton his shirt and peel it back bright splashes of color and intricate lines of his now dozens of tattoos could be his kind of emblem, and are at least as cool as any iteration of Superman or Batman’s. It’s a kind of an armor too, though he would be the last to admit it. Tattoos, afterall, aren’t everybody’s thing, so they can serve as a new reason for any possible rejection he might face. Although if they don’t like them, then they clearly have no taste anyway, because his tattoos are awesome.
...
Hermann sighs, taking a seat in the front row, resting his cane against the edge of the desk and pulling out his textbook and notepad while the rest of the students are milling about chatting with one another, forestalling selecting their seats and the class. It’s probably rude, harboring resentment for a course that hasn’t in fact even begun yet, but he can’t help it. Biology is a waste of time. He’s had health courses, has a basic understanding of the human body- probably better working knowledge than most of his peers thanks to his condition- and he has no intention of making a career for himself in any branch of organic sciences. He could be taking a dozen other mathematics courses, or perhaps completing another independent study for course credits. Much to his dismay, however, and despite hearty and well-researched arguments against it, the university is forcing him to take the same core requirements asked of all their students that he’s done his very best to avoid up to this point. So it seems he will be stuck here in the lecture hall for an hour and a half at a time three days per week, with an additional three hours spent in labs.
He doesn't really pay all that much mind to the student that takes the seat just beside his until the professor begins to pair then all off mid-way through his introductory lecture to learn their names and assign them their lab partners for the rest of the term. A cursory sweep around the room doesn't really yield any more promising possibilities, but the kid next to him seems incredibly young, and appears to be dressed more for some kind of rock concert than a college course.
He doesn't immediately offend his nostrils, but Hermann can't be entirely certain whether his hair has been jelled to look devil-may-care, or is simply that greasy. The bar through his septum can't possibly be anything but dangerous in any sort of respectable lab, and a slightly metallic glint from under his brown untidy locks suggests at least two different ear piercings too. It’s difficult to say whether the thick black square frames that are perched on his nose are in fact necessary for his vision, or yet another item to complete the look. The kid’s leather jacket squeaks a little where it rubs against his chair when he sits up waiting to hear who he will be working with. He slides out of it, resting it over the back of his seat to reveal a white button up that's just a bit too snug around the middle and what has got to be the loudest and poorest choice in an undershirt Hermann has ever seen, until he determines what he's actually looking at are a variety of incredibly colorful tattoos that cover the length of his arms that appear to consist of Japanese stylized flames and sunbursts, and Kaijus.
Fantastic, Hermann thinks; scowling again and turning his attention back to his notebook while he listens for his name. He gets the name of the boy seated beside him instead, at least he assumes that’s why he sits up a little straighter and begins looking around at ‘Newton Geiszler,’ before their instructor is calling out Hermann’s name. Goddamnit.
Newton is grinning, offering an outstretched hand for him to shake like this is the best of any possible outcomes. Hermann scans the room out of the corner of his eye again, two unpaired students in the back row are actually asleep, so maybe it isn’t the worst possible partnership he could have, but he’s still not thrilled about it.
“Aw, c’mon dude, you look like someone just told you Christmas was canceled. Biology is awesome. And we get to be partners, this will be great!”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas, Newton,” Hermann grumbles softly, copying down the homework assignment from the board while their instructor writes it down.
“Oh, call me Newt,” he smiles genially. “Everyone does. So what do you celebrate?”
“Sorry,” Hermann blinks a little confused, god Newton is practically bouncing. Is he always this irritatingly energetic?
“Holidays. You said you don’t celebrate Christmas. What do you celebrate? Kwanzaa? Chinese New Year?”
“Hanukkah,” Hermann replies, before kicking himself for encouraging or engaging him in any way.
“Cool,” Newt smiles, nodding. “Even better, eight days worth of presents, right?” Not likely in the Gottlieb house, Hermann thinks. “Right, well,” Newton stumbles a little uncertainly in the awkward silence that falls between the pair of them. “Um, so do you want to swap numbers or something so we can get a hold of each other, and plan out when we want to meet up to complete the labs?"
“I suppose that would be best,” Hermann acknowledges regretfully, tearing off a piece of a page from his notebook and scribbling down his number on it. “I have classes and studies most mornings, but if you let me know when you have free afternoons or evenings I’m sure we can find a time to complete the labs that would suit us both.”
“Awesome. Hey, I’ve got a little free time now if you do, maybe we could grab something to eat, get to know each other a little better,” Newt suggests. Hermann bites back yet another sigh. This boy must either be incredibly optimistic and oblivious, or stupid to stubbornly persist as he is.
“I appreciate the offer,” Hermann lies, packing up his things back into his bag, and grabbing up his cane as he stands. “But I am not attending University for the social opportunities it affords. It isn’t necessary for us to become best friends to work together. I can assure you while biology is neither my field nor interest that I have every intention of leaving this class with top marks, and will contribute nothing less than my fair share of the workload whether we get on or not. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some other rather pressing demands on my time.”
He’s not more than a few steps out into the corridor before he hears another of the students from the class consoling Newt on getting stuck with such a grumpy stick in the mud for his lab partner, but it’s not as if this isn’t anything he hasn’t heard before.
...
“So, um, you wouldn’t happen to be related to Lars Gottlieb by any chance would you,” Newt finally works up the courage to ask, while his eyes are glued to the microscope that holds their samples a few days later.
“Congratulations, you lasted longer than I thought you would,” Hermann replies dryly, even as he grips and presses his pencil a little too hard to his paper. He’d known this day would come, sooner rather than later. Most of the time he was just caustic enough the other students kept their distance, but working in such close proximity and for the rest of the semester, it was inevitable that Newton would get to asking more about him eventually, even if he had done his best to assure him he had no expectations or desires for them to become fast friends in addition to being lab partners.
“Huh,” Newt replied, tearing himself away from the microscope, and looking confused.
“I expected to be fielding questions about my father almost as soon as I saw the Kaiju tattoos.”
“Your father is- He’s one of the brains behind the Jaeger program,” Newt manages eyes boggled.
“That can’t really be that much of a surprise if you had enough suspicion to ask about our being related,” Hermann replies impatiently, not looking up from where he is recording the results of their latest lab.
“Yeah, but… Wow. Just- wow," Newt repeats shaking his head. "So are you going to major in engineering too? Build Jaegers with him or something?"
"Mathematics and Physics," Hermann replies with a small inward sigh.
"Oh, well that's neat too," Newt recovers quickly with a smile.
"I'm working on building a program to help run them more efficiently. The Jaegers," he qualifies as an afterthought, in case Newt is still trying to convincingly play the part of being interested in his choice of a more theoretical field of study. "More electronics and seamless operations rather than the analog and nuclear construction of the first generation Jaegers. Easier to maintain, less strain on the pilots," Hermann can't really say why it is he's confiding any of this in his lab partner. For one thing, it would seem a ridiculous hypothesis to entertain the idea that telling him this will get him to shut up, or drop the subject. And for another, it’s unlikely any amount of feigned enthusiasm is going to equate to his lab partner understanding any of his work if he were to share the meat and potatoes of the actual code of the program with him. But Newt had asked about him, about his studies, and for one moment, however brief, it’s nice that it’s about him, and his work, and not his father’s and the large shadow he’s trying his damndest to step out of.
“Seriously,” Newt manages, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his messy hair. Hermann levels him with an unimpressed stare. No I just made that all up, he thinks. He might have known better than to try and attempt to have an actual conversation, it’s really not his area of expertise: interacting with others. “Dude, that’s fucking awesome,” Newt all but crows, startling him from his reverie so abruptly Hermann knocks his cane to the floor with an echoing clatter. That’ll be the next thing he asks about¸ Hermann thinks cynically with a frown, as his partner quickly slides off of his chair to pick it up for him. But Newton just straightens up, carefully setting the cane back up to lean against the table out of the way of their work and reclaims his seat, without a word or question about it. “My lab partner is going to make the next generation of Jaegers,” Newt marvels, a little quieter and more contained now, but still awed in a way that almost makes Hermann feel a slight blush creeping up the back of his neck.
“What are you studying,” Hermann asks finally, partly because it’s probably polite, but also to change the subject, because it’s a tiny bit uncomfortable and completely irregular for anyone to talk about his work, or look at Hermann the way those large green eyes are from behind his square frames.
“Everything I can since I’ve got a scholarship paying for all of it,” Newt replies with a grin, and a small shrug. “But mostly Sciences-dabbled a bit in chemistry, but I’m working on a PhD-Master’s degree track for biology now," he continues, prompting Hermann to look up in surprise. It would probably be rude of him to ask just how old Newton is, but even on the accelerated academic path he’s chosen, his partner seems incredibly young for a PhD. He certainly is, though perhaps that’s where his bias comes from; everyone likes to believe they are special now and again, even if he likes to pretend he’s above it all. They talk a little more, mostly Newton, about their courses, and the results of their lab while they finish their work, before going their separate ways to write their respective reports.
Hermann definitely does not Google Newton when he gets back to his room later that evening. And he certainly doesn't avoid his laptop for the rest of the evening to prevent himself from doing so, because that would just be ridiculous. Why should he care? He’s certain if he wanted to he could just ask his questions and have his ear talked off by the young man himself, but more importantly he doesn’t give a damn. Newton is… Well, Hermann is forced to concede now they’ve been working together for a few classes and hours in the lab that he is in fact quite brilliant when it comes to the applied sciences, but that doesn’t make him any less annoying. He’s all too often loud-both in volume, and his choices in attire and body adornment, bouncy in his what must be boundless and almost frantic energy, brash, and seems to have a tendency of blurting out whatever thought crosses his mind without bothering with filtering it first. He seems at times, almost more like an obnoxious younger brother he cannot shake than a lab partner. Was Bastien this bad, he thinks trying to remember, it has been awhile since the last time he has seen or spent a significant amount of time with his younger brother, but he thinks that if the youngest Gottlieb had shown any proclivity towards Newton’s kind of hyperactive behavior their father would have been quick to stamp it out of him.
There’s a flicker of an emotion there, just for a moment, which accompanies that thought that Hermann can’t quite classify. Newton is a bit irritating to be sure, Hermann doesn’t like him, and he has no reason to suspect that that will change. They don’t seem as though the two of them could be any more dissimilar from one another, and he meant it when he said that they didn’t need to be friends to work together. Hermann doesn’t have friends, and even if he wanted any it’s not as if he has the luxury of time for them. There is a war going on, a fight for the entire human race, and he’s already spent too long on the sidelines learning and training so he can be useful, he doesn’t have the time for friends. But however much he may disapprove of certain aspects of his new lab partner, he doesn’t actually hate Newton, certainly not enough to wish his father on him.
Newton on the other hand has barely made it back to his floor before he’s pulling out his phone to do some research on his new lab partner. Not that he had any qualms asking Hermann questions, but his lab partner didn’t seem to be nearly as talkative or forthcoming about himself. He’s only a year older, which comes as something of a surprise. Hermann doesn’t look nearly old enough for the kinds of clothes that he wears of course. Actually a lot of it looks just this side of ill-fitted if Newt is being honest; as though perhaps (and some of them are certainly worn enough to be) they are hand-me-downs borrowed from someone better suited for them. But there’s a certain air of authority in the way that Hermann carries himself too, not just because of the cane or generally grumpy looking expression, which demands he be taken seriously and gives the impression of a much older soul. Newton would have been tempted to dismiss him as stodgy before this evening’s conversation. Hermann certainly hadn’t done much to hide his disappointment when they had been assigned as lab partners. But even in the little pieces of information he’s managed to worm out of him, it’s clear Hermann, or his mind at least, is anything but dull. If Newt can just learn enough about him, find a way of navigating a conversation without annoying or pissing him off every five minutes, he’s sure they could in fact get on well, whatever Hermann’s stubborn insistence that they don’t need to be friends to be lab partners.
Hermann Gottlieb is a transfer student from Europe, and based on what he was talking about with his program he’s helping create to improve the Jaegers, it seems likely that he’s done so to have a better chance vying for a coveted spot in the Academy up in Alaska once he’s completed the last courses for his own PhD. The PPDC doesn’t take anything less than the brightest when it comes to their elite research division, but even without having seen or really understanding all of his partner’s research, Newton thinks Hermann’s probably got a good chance of making the cut even without his surname. It’s impossible of course to search his name without being flooded with plenty of results about Lars though, and Newt thinks fleetingly that maybe that was why his partner had seemed a little grouchy (well, more grouchy than usual) when he had brought him up. Sure what his father had done was cool, world-changing and life-saving, but Newt could see where that would be difficult to live up to.
Hermann doesn’t seem to have any sort of social media presence, which, admittedly isn’t really that much of a surprise, but it is a little bit of a disappointment. For all that Lars Gottlieb became something of a household name two years ago shortly after the first Kaiju attacks started; there is very little information about the rest of the Gottlieb family, and no photos. By the time he’s beginning to feel the siren call of his pillow and sleep, he’s learned surprisingly little more about the young man he’s to spend the rest of the semester working with. Hermann has two brothers- an older, and a younger- one elder sister, and lost his mother a little less than a year ago. Newt wonders briefly if the two of them were close, but isn’t sure of any way to go about asking without stepping on another one of the hidden landmines that seem to surround the mystery that is Hermann Gottlieb. Still, Newt thinks with a yawn, snuggling under his comforter, there’s plenty of lab hours left in the semester to puzzle him out.