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“WOOOOOO HELL YEAH!!! The Black Velvet Rabbits are back in business!!!” Newton abruptly launches himself straight off the couch, causing Hermann to jump half a foot in the air and nearly drop his box of take-out noodles.
“Bloody hell,” he swears, hand flying to his chest from the small fright as he pauses the Star Trek re-run episode they’d been watching with dinner.
“Oops, uh sorry, babe, slight overreaction on my part,” Newton scratches the back of his neck, but loses no time in showing Hermann the DM he just received from his bandmates. “Check it out! Isn’t that awesome?”
Hermann quickly recovers and reads the message properly, then smiles back. “Darling, it’s marvelous. I know you’ve been wanting to get your band back together for a long time, and now that we live in Boston, you finally can.”
“Yeah! The gang’s already scoping venues for the reunion gig. And we’ll see where it goes from there! I mean, who knows, right?” Newton gushes. “Maybe we’ll get some fans, maybe actually get to become rock stars this time around— fingers crossed no more apocalypses get in the way! I could even take a sabbatical, or skip a semester to go on tour!”
His thoughts are clearly going a mile a minute and his focus has shifted fully away from the television and onto his phone as his band mates inundate him with messages. Under normal circumstances, Hermann would be more than a little miffed, but seeing his partner— they’d maintained the label but swapped ‘lab’ for ‘common-law’— this excited, he’s willing to let it slide.
The next thing he knows, Newton’s sitting next to him again and, much to Hermann’s surprise, actually puts his phone away. He takes both Hermann’s hands in his and suddenly looks very serious and almost nervous as he asks, “Uh, so, look… I know punk isn’t really your thing, like, at all, but um… d’you think you might wanna come see me play?”
Hermann doesn’t have to think twice about the answer, “Of course I will, love. I wouldn’t miss it for worlds.”
Without warning, Newton falls into his arms, kissing him.
Ah well. They can always re-heat their take-out and continue the episode later.
He kisses Newton back enthusiastically and they tumble together back onto the couch.
***
Newt kept all his punky, alt stuff from his teens and twenties. Sick of everyone thinking he was some kind of wunderkind science-obsessed dork (he was, but that was beside the point), he’d attempted to reinvent himself. He dyed his hair every color of the rainbow, got his ears and septum pierced and amassed an impressive collection of criminally tight skinny jeans to pair with his combat boots, leather bracelets and endless supply of punk, metal and synthwave band t-shirts.
That was right around the time he’d started playing music too— if you’re gonna look like a rock star, might as well actually be one, right? And anyway, with his piano tuner dad and opera singer mom, music was in his DNA. His dad had taught him piano as a kid, but he picked up guitar on his own (honestly, he was more at home behind a keyboard, but the guitar just looked so badass).
He’d even gotten some tats back in the day too— a bunch of random crap he thought was cool at the time. He’d walk into a studio, point to the first flash on the wall that caught his eye and leave a couple hours later with a fun new ink sticker. It wasn’t until the kaiju turned up and became his life’s vocation rather than his obsession of the week that he focused his body art into a cohesive theme. He’d had to cough up big bucks for a top-tier artist who could do that level of cover work, but it was more than worth it.
Now hauling the box out from under his and Hermann’s bed, he loads up one of his fave retro-wave/outrun/chip tunes playlists and gets ready to uncover his lost treasures and pick out what to wear on stage.
After trying on what feels like a bazillion different outfits and combos, he settles on a pair of skin-tight black jeans with enough rips in them to show off his thigh tattoos and a black shirt covered in a bunch of zippers and rivets. He’ll throw on some leather bracelets, eye-liner, copious amounts of hair-gel and big, stompy boots later, but at the moment, he’s feeling pretty good about his picks.
He’s about to call it a day when he notices a final shirt (actually folded, like whoa) at the bottom of the box that he’d somehow missed. His face lights up as he reverently pulls the article out and holds it up.
It’s an old black t-shirt painted with two rabbit ears over big white letters that spell ‘B-V-R.’
“Fuck yeah,” he says aloud, swapping the first shirt out for the DIY garment. “We are so back.”
***
Hermann is extremely happy for Newton. After everything the man’s been through and survived, he deserves this if anyone does. He’d given up every single one of his hobbies during the war to focus singularly on the kaiju and how to stop them. He’d endangered his own life for a chance at uncovering the key to closing the Breach. He’d gone through an incredibly traumatizing experience on the eve of V-K Day and had, in quick succession, been nearly killed in a solo drift, shot by gangsters, trampled by a panicking mob, eaten by an actual kaiju, nearly killed in a solo drift again (and here, Hermann gives himself a little credit for being the reason that particular incident was avoided) and then put under strict medical observation for 72 hours and released without so much as a proper psych eval.
Hermann truly is delighted for Newton and this chance to take back a part of his life lost to the war. And he wants nothing more than to be there to support his partner in that.
But…
As the weeks go by, if he’s being honest with himself… he’s starting to have a single, minor apprehension. Something so small and silly that he berates himself for giving it even a passing thought.
And, of course, the more he tells himself he’s being ridiculous, the more it bothers him. And the more it bothers him, the more his anxiety builds. And the more his anxiety builds, the more stressed he becomes that Newton is going to pick up on the fact that something's off. And if Newton picks up on the fact that something’s off, he’ll direct his attention towards trying to pry it out of Hermann and not focus on the thing that is now giving him so much joy and a much needed distraction from the fact that he is still working through, frankly, an immense amount of solo drift / gangster / kaiju / bunker / apocalypse-related trauma.
The solution is clear.
He must bury it deep down further and not alert Newton to the fact that anything is on his mind whatsoever. That is, after all, the mature and adult way of handling this sort of thing, Hermann is sure.
And so, he tells himself to buck up, keep a stiff upper lip and get on with it. He glances in the mirror, pleased with his mask of utter and total impassivity. Newton, he is convinced, will not suspect a thing.
He straightens his shirt, exits the bedroom and walks into their shared home office (after so many years of sharing a lab space, they’d done a trial run on separate offices and amalgamated them within a day).
Newton looks up from where he’s typing away at his laptop with the same winsome smile that always greets Hermann. However, it quickly turns to a frown.
“Uhhh, babe?” he says. “What’s up…? And before you say something like ‘By Jove, Newton— my charming, well-endowed, genius, sex-god hunk of a man— I’ve not a single care in the world, tra-la-la,’ you can cut the crap and just tell me what’s wrong.”
“I-I b-beg your pardon?!” stalls Hermann, flabbergasted.
“Nope, no, nuh-uh, we’re not doing this today, dude. Out with it. What’s eating you?”
Hermann is silent for a long time, white-knuckling the handle of his cane as he can feel his face get red and splotchy in that way it always does. He presses his lips together stubbornly before relenting and letting out a protracted sigh.
“Oh darling,” he starts, guilt already gnawing away at his gut. “I-it’s just that… well, I’ve been thinking about the concert, and I…”
The second Hermann says the word ‘concert,’ Newton puts on a brave face and cuts him off. “It’s all good, Herms. You can totally skip it. I know it’s not your thing.”
“No, you didn’t let me finish,” Hermann immediately corrects the error. “I want to go and support you more than anything!”
It breaks Hermann’s heart how hopeful Newton looks. “You do?”
“I truly do. It’s just that…” Hermann falters, hating to burden Newton with his silliness. But it won’t do to try and hide it any longer. So he swallows his pride and admits what’s on his mind.
“It’s just that… I have nothing to wear.”
***
Newt’s always been a problem solver. Internal organs not functioning right? Pioneer ground-breaking research in artificial tissue replication! Giant aliens appearing out of the Marianas Trench to wreck your planet? Invent and advance the field of Xenobiology to study them! Hierarchical military organization won’t authorize your kaiju brain segment drift experiment? DIY a PONS from garbage!
But this is, by far, the most fun problem he’s ever had to wrap his over-active mind around.
Despite the way Hermann had scowled when Newt flamboyantly yelled, “MAKE-OVER!!!” (in retrospect, probably not his most socially aware moment), to the guy's credit, he seems to be going along with it now with only an itsy-bitsy amount of grouchy grumbling.
It’s T-minus three nights until the concert, not exactly a ton of time— and Newt’s days are mostly taken up with rehearsals, so going shopping is kind of out. But Hermann actually agreed to seeing if there’s anything in Newt’s wardrobe that might work for the occasion.
If Newt’s being honest, he’s kind of vibrating with excitement at the thought. Not just of Hermann wearing something cool and punk rock (though to be honest, a romantigoth look would probably suit him better), but for some reason Newt can't explain, he’s genuinely stoked to see Hermann wearing his clothes. Sure, Hermann steals Newt’s faded old MIT sweatshirts on a semi-regular basis— the man’s eternal quest for “coziness” is as endearing as it is hilarious— but this is somehow different.
Newt’s bouncing his leg and buzzing with anticipation as he sits on the bed, waiting as Hermann gets changed in their en-suite bathroom. The man’s insistence on “sorting himself out” before letting Newt see the outfit is yet another one of his quirky yet adorable qualities.
But honestly, the amount of time the guy’s been in there is starting to get ridiculous. So Newt calls out, “Hey, Herms?”
“...”
“Hermann?”
“...”
“Babe?”
“...”
“Sweet cheeks?”
“...”
“Love of my life?”
“...”
“...Nerd?”
“OH FOR THE LOVE OF— What is it, Newton?!”
“Are you, uh… gonna come out and let me see, or…?”
He’s clearly been ready for ages; fussing or hesitating or just generally Hermanning; because without another word, he steps out of the bathroom at last.
Newt has to actively work to stop his jaw from dropping fully onto the floor and getting big hearts in his eyes like a problematic 1940s cartoon wolf as he takes in the sight of his partner.
Hermann’s wearing a pair of Newt’s tight black skinny jeans. Owing to Newt’s slightly stockier shape, the pants are hanging low on the other man’s waist and his hip bones are jutting out above the belt loops. But they do fit (well, other than the fact that they’re way too short in the leg, but nothing a good pair of boots can’t fix) and more importantly they look good.
Newt’s about to actually make an ill-advised wolf whistle, but before he can open his mouth, Hermann preempts him. “I don't know how you wear trousers like this. They are just so, er… constrictive.”
“Yeah, but that’s the point, man! They show off the goods! And anyway, you didn't seem to be complaining every time you snuck a peek at my butt back in our lab days.”
Hermann's cheeks instantly go bright cherry red. “I did no such thing!”
“You're not as sneaky as you think you are, dude,” Newt chuckles harmlessly. “Anyway, for once, this isn't about how good my butt looks! Herms, you look incredible! I’m talking seriously hot!”
Nine times out of ten when Newt compliments Hermann’s looks, he gets a scowl and a cranky mumble of protest. This is the one time in ten when Hermann instead raises his eyes and asks in an uncertain voice, “You truly think so?”
“Yeah, man!” Newt says, “I really, really do. They show off your long legs and supermodel waist.”
“Oh stop,” Hermann says, but there's no ire behind it. “Such foolishness.”
“Anyway how do they feel? Do you think you could wear ‘em for a whole night?”
Hermann shifts his weight from one leg to the other, looking a tad uncomfortable. “Er… do you have any other options?”
“Yeah, man, I have a pair of…” Newt swallows hard, “uhhh, leather ones if you’d like to give those a try?”
“Absolutely not,” Hermann deadpans.
“Okay, okay,” Newt’s hands fly up in a gesture of defeat. Probably for the best anyway. If Hermann was wearing leather pants, there’s no way they’d actually make it out of the house for the gig. “Not today, I hear you.”
“Not ever, Newton.”
“That's what I said!” Newt grins not-at-all-innocently. “Okay, what about these?” He passes Hermann a pair of punky plaid pants.
A few minutes later (and some mild swearing as Hermann clearly struggles to get out of one pair of tight pants and into another), he reemerges.
And hot damn, they look just as good as the black ones did, if not better.
“Oh hell yeah!” Newt enthuses approvingly, already mentally drawing eyeliner on Hermann and gelling his choppy bowl cut into a kind of faux-hawk to complete the look. “Those look great too! What do you think? You wear plaid all the time, so...”
Hermann doesn't seem convinced. “Yes, but it’s not the same. These trousers are bright red and have superfluous zippers all over them. What is even the point? There are no pockets, Newton, these zippers lead to nowhere.”
“Um, it’s called fashion, dude.”
“Ah, yes, right, I see… and precisely what percentage of your wardrobe do you estimate is from Hot Topic?”
Newt emits a surprised laugh at Hermann’s sudden saltiness. “Woooooo, down boy,” he snaps his fingers from side to side, “are you throwing shade right now, king?”
“It's a simple question, dear,” Hermann says, but the twitching grin at the corner of his lips speaks volumes.
“Pfft, yeah, well,” Newt sputters, “what percentage of your wardrobe was actually made before the 1950s? Or like,” he throws his hands in the air, “the 1850s?! You literally wore a nightcap to bed in the Shatterdome! A nightcap, dude!”
“Well, it was bloody cold,” Hermann claps back with a sniff but he’s smiling widely. “At any rate, we could bicker all night…”
“GodIloveitwhenwebickerallnight…”
“You’re incorrigible, Newton, and I would advise you to stay on task here, or we’ll never get through your immense mall goth wardrobe.”
“You are the worst, man, the actual worst. I don’t know why I put up with this razzing from you, seriously,” Newt laughs. “But— and it pains me to admit this— you’re not wrong. Here, catch!” He tosses a pair of pants towards Hermann who, to his credit, actually manages to catch them mid-air. “Give these a try then, jackass.”
The customary cussing spree follows, but Hermann comes out a couple minutes later wearing a pair of pinstripe pants. They fit a bit looser than the previous two pairs, so Newt’s hoping he’ll feel a bit more comfortable in them. “Sooooo… what do you think?”
“Hmmm,” Hermann looks down at them, “they are not… terrible I suppose.”
“You know what? We’ll take ‘not terrible’ for now,” Newt says. “Okay, so let’s put a pin in the pants then. See what I did there? Because they’re pinstripe?”
“Yes, love, very clever,” Hermann rolls his eyes.
“Whatever, I’m hilarious. Anyway, let’s move on to shirts.”
“Lord help us all…”
Newt blatantly ignores the running commentary. “Okay, first question, how do you feel about band shirts?”
Hermann furrows his brows. “I feel neither here nor there about them really, but… isn’t it strange to see a band wearing the shirt of a different band?”
“Huh? No, dude, not at all!” Newt says, then gets an idea to make this go a little smoother. “Okay, how about this? I’ve totally played all of these bands in the lab before—”
“And sung along loudly, no doubt…”
“You betcha,” Newt agrees shamelessly. “Anyway, instead of you trying on each of my billion band tees, I’ll start naming bands, and you stop me if/when you hear one you know and like. Sound good?”
“Fine by me,” Hermann says. “But feel free to skip the heavy metal bands, I’m sure I won’t know any of them.”
“Yup, okay, fair enough,” Newt says and starts going through his mental list of all the non-metal band t-shirts he owns (the joys of having a photographic memory to leverage with one of his many Special Interests).
“Here goes,” he says, and leaves a beat after each one so Hermann can interject. “The Sex Pistols… Iggy Pop & The Stooges… The Buzzcocks… The Damned… Tears For Fears… The Clash… Devours… Joy Division… Siouxsie and the Banshees… Joan Jett & the Blackhearts… Seeming… Scandroid… Gunship… Covenant… The Creepshow… New Arcades… Duran Duran… My Chemical Romance… The Kinks… VNV Nation… Gürl… Bad Religion… Billy Idol… The Ramones… The Cure…”
“Oh!” Hermann interjects (finally, Newt was starting to lose hope), “I do quite like that last one. They do that ‘Friday I’m in Love’ song you always play.”
“Yeah! Yeah, exactly! Okay, good stuff!” Newt grabs his ‘Cure’ shirt and tosses it to Hermann, who disappears and reappears much faster than when dealing with the pants.
When he comes out, Newt has to catch his breath. All his band tees are tight (back in the day, practically painted-on pants, a band tee and waaaaay too many leather bracelets were his go-to going-out outfit), so the shirt, frankly, fits Hermann like a slap in the face. Not only that, but it shows off his arms! Newt realizes belatedly, he’s never actually seen Hermann wear a short-sleeve shirt, not even during that horrible, awful, no good summer when the chiller broke in the lab.
“Wow, Herms, you look incredible! What do you think?”
Hermann is sizing himself up in the mirror, but his brows are scrunched together. “Yes, it’s fine, Newton, in fact, it doesn’t look bad at all, but…”
“But…?”
Hermann turns around, obvious anxiety painted across his features. “But I don’t really know their music very well… only the songs you’ve played before and… what if someone tries to start up a conversation with me at the show and I only know the one song…?”
Newt can see the palpable worry this causes Hermann, so he gracefully (hey, he can be a gentleman when he wants to be!) agrees that a band tee probably isn’t the right way to go. “Ok, no music t-shirt, got it. How about one of my Godzilla—”
Hermann doesn’t let him finish. “Absolutely not. No kaiju, real or imagined.”
“Fair, okay, right, so, uh… let’s go with something without a print on it then.”
He jumps up and starts looking through the other box of shirts.
“Wait, hold on… ohhhhhh fuuuuuuuck yeah!” he says, holding up a treasured garment he forgot he owned.
“Don’t cuss, Newton, it’s unbecoming,” Hermann says (totally hypocritically, by the way, after what Newt heard coming out of him earlier). He looks on with apprehension. “What have you got there?”
“HermsHermsHermsHermsHerms, how much do you love me?”
“Far too much, apparently.”
“Then I’m begging you, please please please you have to try on this shirt,” he pleads, then adds unnecessarily, “for me.”
“Er, Newton, I believe it’s been destroyed by moths or some other damaging element. It’s full of holes.”
“That’s cuz it’s fishnet,” Newt explains helpfully.
Hermann sputters, “There is no way on god’s green earth I’m wearing a fishnet shirt to a—”
“I know, I know, I know… but maybe… privately? Um… at home?” Newt sticks out his bottom lip, and tries his damndest to pull off some semblance of puppy dog eyes.
The other man shuffles his feet and Newt loves that after all this time together, he can still make Hermann blush at will. “Well, perhaps… some night at home we could work something out…”
“Sweet!” Newt takes the win and moves on quickly before Hermann has a chance to dwell too much on it. “Okay, what about this one?”
It’s a simple black button-up that doesn’t have any random rivets, D-rings, zippers or chains. Remembering he usually pairs it with something brightly colored or boldly patterned, he asks, “Do you want a tie to go with it?”
“That depends, do you own anything more substantial than those absurd 2-inch skinny ties you wear?”
“God, you’re such a square,” Newt chuckles.
He passes the shirt to Hermann, who comes out moments later looking a bit less uncomfortable than he has up to now.
The shirt mostly fits him (it’s a bit short in the sleeves but that’s a given) and paired with the pinstriped pants, the outfit shows off his tall, lithe figure. Newt stands up to approach Hermann and get a better look.
“Is… is it all right?” Hermann asks with just a trace of uncertainty.
“Wow… all I have to say is wow, Herms,” Newt says and wraps his arms around his partner. “Seriously, it looks amazing on you. You look super awesome wicked hot…” he takes in a breath, “and I don’t think you should wear it to the concert.”
Hermann pulls back from the embrace, looking confused and more than a bit startled. “You don’t?”
“No, man. I think you should wear your most comfy sweater, or your fave dress shirt and sweater vest, and whatever the hell baggy-ass pants you want.”
“I don’t understand…”
“This has been super fun playing dress up and I appreciate you doing all this. Like… really, really, really appreciate it. But at the end of the day, I just want you to be… well, you!”
“But… won’t I look out of place?”
“Dude, the most punk rock thing of all is not giving a fuck what anyone else thinks about you and just being yourself.”
Hermann drops his head. “It’s just that… you always put such effort into your appearance and you carry it off so well and look so terribly handsome. Sometimes I…” he draws in a slightly unsteady breath, “sometimes I worry that perhaps you might want a partner who… is more, well, aligned on these things than I am…”
“Date a hot punk guy, you mean?”
Hermann winces but then nods slowly.
“Are you kidding me? I would never date a carbon copy of myself! I'm insufferable!”
“Well… at least you’re self aware,” Hermann grins.
“Hey!” Newt chuckles. “I thought we were playing nice here!” He then takes Hermann’s hands in his own, gives them an encouraging squeeze and says. “Look, you don’t need to dress alternative, or like anything, really. You’re super hot the way you are, and I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to change a single thing for me. The fact that you’re coming to the show means everything and I just want you to be comfortable there, you know?”
Hermann lets out a long sigh of relief. “Oh darling,” he says. “I do love you, you know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Newt grins and looks down at where their hands are clasped. Then his eyes sparkle for a moment and he looks up at Hermann excitedly. “Hold up,” he says. “I’ve got an idea!”
He wrenches off the skull ring he always wears on his pinky finger before grabbing Hermann’s hand and sliding it into place on the other man’s pinky. It slips a bit.
“Hmmm… you’ve got skinny fingers, dude, it doesn’t really fit, hold on…” he pulls it off and switches it to the ring finger. It slots into place perfectly.
He grins down at his handy work. “There! Now you’ve got just a teensy tiny little element of punk rock so you don’t feel awkward. Ten outta ten solution, amiright?”
He looks up to see Hermann’s reaction to his totally awesome plan only to see that his partner’s gone bright red. Not exactly the feedback he’d been expecting…
“N-Newton…” the other man stammers “i-it’s, er, w-well, ah…”
Newt cocks his head in question. “What’s wrong?”
“W-well, it’s just t-that it’s my r-ring finger…” Hermann clears his throat, “on my left hand…”
Newt scrunches his brows in confusion before his eyebrows shoot up in realization. “Oh… OHHH!!!” he clues into the significance belatedly but before he can stop himself, says “Heh, I mean, I guess it was bound to happen eventually, right?”
He looks up to meet Hermann’s eyes to gauge his partner’s response to what he’s just said. Hermann’s flush has deepened impossibly but his gaze is steady.
“Do you mean that, Newton?” he asks, voice serious.
Newt doesn’t even have to think about it for one single second. Of course he wants to marry Hermann. He’s pretty sure he’s wanted that since, like, letter number four or five or something back in their pen pal days.
He shuffles his feet a little then says, “I mean… would you be, uh, like… adverse to, um…?”
“Not in the least, but I will insist that when you ask me, you do it properly.”
“Fair enough,” Newt grins, and he feels like this might honestly be the happiest he’s ever felt… well, probably in his entire life, if he’s being real. He can’t help it, he starts laughing, and all of a sudden Hermann’s lips are twitching up too and now he’s laughing and then they start kissing and it’s so, so awesome and Newt feels like his heart might explode in the absolute best way possible.
He thinks the night can’t possibly get any better until Hermann breaks the kiss and looks at him from under long, brown eyelashes and says, voice quiet and low, “Newton, er… why don’t you hand me that fishnet shirt and the leather pants and then wait for me on the bed…?”
Newt’s eyes go wide and he falls over himself to comply. “For real? Are you being serious right now, Herms?”
“Oh, very,” Hermann purrs.
Turns out the night can get better— Newt loves it when Hermann tries to prove him wrong on stuff.
He calls after Hermann right before he disappears for one, final wardrobe change. “I love you so damn much, dude.”
Hermann smiles back at him before vanishing behind the door, “I know, darling. I do too.”