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It was bound to happen eventually. Newton just hoped he'd have more time – or that maybe, just maybe, it would happen when Hermann was away. The man already thought he was crazy, he didn't need to know the extent.
But fate has never favoured him and as he looks down into the muscle tissue before him the colours flare like fireworks, bursting and roaring before his eyes. The world brightens, the colours sharpen and he is all energy, fingers tapping out a staccato beat in the ocean of blue on the table. It's moments like this, he knows, moments he shouldn't live for, because any moment now he's going to fall off the mountain he's just raced up, breaking and bruising and bleeding but for now he's in the cold, clear air of discovery and he knows. He scrabbles for a pen, sending entrails spilling on the floor but when has he ever cared about that? He needs to write, needs to write it down before he trips and the moment is...
The scritch-scritch-scritch of chalk echoes in his ears, clashing with clock chimes and the refrigerator hum until its scritch-tick-hum-hum-tick-tick-scritch and who cares because he adds another layer of sound, pen marks on paper and he can feel his knees bouncing like they don't belong to him and everything is light and sound and his pulse is racing, keeping time with the chalk - or is it the pen? And everything is so loud, it's too loud and he keeps his hand on the page and keeps writing.
Colours blare like horns before him, and he feels bile rising in his throat. His left hand makes time like a conductor thinking one-two-three-breathe-one-two-three-breathe but it's not working because his breath isn't listening to the hand it's listen to the thoughts racing through his skull, lightening flickering in his brain, and his lungs are aching under the pressure, the speed.
Newton leaps from his seat, hands before him like a conductor, breath coming in shaky gasps and the scritch-tick-hum pounding alongside his pulse. Not now not now, he thinks, just breathe just breathe just breathe and oh gosh he's looking at you he knows he knows shit Newton just count count one two three four one two three and he's still looking at your but the chalk has stopped and oh god that humming that humming I want to break it but he'll know if I break it and don't let him see don't look at the blue don't look at the blue don't look at the blue stop it stop it stop it breathe breathe breathe it doesn't hurt there it's not so bad it doesn't hurt it doesn't hurt it doesn't -
He feels hands grabbing his own and tension races up his arms, motion unwilling to be contained. He flexes his fingers, and his foot starts the count on the floor and the humming is still there, still - “Newton!” Someone's laughing and he's pretty sure it sounds like his voice only higher, and slightly more hysterical.
“You never call me that,” he says, and suddenly everything is very close and he feels very small and he doesn't remember the last time he ate, which might explain why he seems to be heading towards the floor and you are a terrible person, Newton, how the hell is Hermann supposed to catch you when he has a cane for his own weight? Get up no I don't care that it hurts get up then he's sitting in a chair and he's not entirely sure how.
“Look at me.” Newton looks at him. “Stay there.” Newton watches as Hermann stands up, and walks over to his own side of the room. He'd never really looked at the chalkboard in detail before but the black-white contrast is simple and he reads it, reads it until his mind is concentrating on sounding out the numbers aloud, refusing to listen to any of the other things screaming for attention. Then he feels a mug pressed into one hand, and some biscuits in the other.
“Eat those.” His stomach is aching now, so he does what he's told and tries to count how many little triangles are on Hermann's vest because if there's one thing Hermann's right about it's that numbers help, numbers are perfect and numbers don't lie because he can see thirty already and he's still counting.
“Newton?” Hermann says after a while, and Newton looks up. He can still feel the burning in his lungs but the storm in his brain is dying down, only the fading thunders of a summer shower remaining.
“Hermann,” he starts, and Hermann raises a hand.
“Finish your tea.” He downs the mug, and places it on the table, his fingernails still tapping out a regular beat on the side.
“Hermann – I...thank you. I'm sorry. I...it's hard to – sometimes I just – it's like my brain just clicks in and I just – I hadn't eaten today, I forgot to, sometimes I...I'll buy you some more biscuits, I promise, I didn't mean to eat them all and I'm sorry I made you catch me and...”
“It's alright, Newton.”
“What?”
“It's alright. Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't...you already thought I was – you would have though – you always complain about me and I didn't want you to complain because then they'll make me talk to them about it and I can't I can't do that yet.”
“I won't complain.”
“Really?”
“Not about this.”
“Oh.”
They sit, silent for a while, Newton's motions slowing growing smaller and smaller until he finally looks up to find Hermann still sitting across from him. “I, uh...that was embarrassing, wasn't it?”
“Nonsense.”
“And you're really not going to complain?”
“I'm not.”
“Okay. Thank you. I...I am going to deal with it. Just...not yet.” Hermann reaches out and takes hold of his hand, drawing away the last of the shaking.
“Whenever you're ready.”
It's another year before that day comes, but when it does, Hermann is next to him, a hand on the small of his back and a packet of biscuits in his pocket.
“Thank you,” Newton whispers as they leave the meeting room. Hermann just smiles, and then launches into a spiel about how wrong Newton's current theory is, as if to say – it's okay, nothing will change.
Newton insults him right back.