Work Text:
The K-Science laboratory stands on its own plane of existence. It exists within the bigger world of the Hong Kong Shatterdome and obeys most of its rules yet it is its own kingdom, its own bastion of caffeine-fuelled genius. The occasional visitor might be tempted to believe that time and space hold different meanings here or that the scientists are always present, one up on his ladder and the other lost in some blue-tinted entrails. In a way the occasional visitor might be right; the scientists live in the lab as much as they work there, having foregone sleep and social lives for the sake of the very civilisation they could never fit in in the first place.
Should humanity fall and the Kaiju stomp through the concrete corridors they might just find Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb still at work, possibly bickering, most definitely ready to scold the monsters for disturbing them on the verge of an important discovery.
Yet this laboratory does obey the laws of physics - and, like any other ecosystem, it is alive: evolving and adapting.
There are rules, compromises, arrangements.
There are phases.
Dr Hermann Gottlieb knows a lot about phases, cycles, and orbits. He knows the exact distance between the Earth and the Moon at any given time; the number of steps between his desk and the nearest samples tank; the speed at which Jupiter’s satellites run their ellipses. In time he has also learnt the rough pattern of Dr Geiszler’s moods.
He knew about them through the letters, of course, before the two men even met. He long blamed them for the subsequent consequences of said meeting: the bitter words, the separation, the three year-long silence.
Whether he had been right in that assessment and how direly he regretted it mattered little when the war brought the two of them back together and forced them to share the same workspace. What did matter was that he never forgot about Dr Geiszler’s little episodes and thus was, if not ready, at least willing to face them.
Whether he has gone so far as to research Dr Geiszler’s condition isn’t the point either, no matter what his browsing history might imply. The point is that the years in this lab have given him an acute instinct regarding said condition and its manifestations.
The laboratory is an ecosystem: every little change, every slight diversion from the norm ripples into shock-waves that can endanger its fragile equilibrium.
It comes as a change in the air, a tickle at the back of his neck. Chalk stick hovering above the blackboard, Hermann holds the half-finished equation firmly in his mind and listens.
He tunes out the pulsating pain in his leg, the humming and buzzing of the machines and the rumours of life floating through the open door. He focuses on the other side of the lab instead, where he surmises that his esteemed colleague is currently slouching over his desk. There is music escaping from his headphones - too loud, always too loud, and it doesn’t help that Newton is often ‘singing’ along - and yes, Hermann thinks, this might very well be the same song on repeat for God knows how many times. Its upbeat tempo does not cover the other sounds in the air: the heavy breathing, hoarse whispering of garbled lyrics, pounding of fingers on the keyboard, frenzied tapping of a foot on the hard-beaten floor.
This is their usual background noise. And yet...
Quickly Hermann writes down the numbers he was working on before running through the usual variables. How many sleepless nights? How much time since the last attack and how much estimated time before the next one? When did they last see sunlight? Did Newton eat anything in the last eight hours and did he drink any water at all? (Medication is an important factor as well, yet it is one that Hermann has not been explicitly told about. Since he does not wish to pry he always considers that Newton might have forgotten to take his daily doses or has not taken them properly, which experience has taught him is usually the case.)
Everything should be in an acceptable, still functional range of unhealthiness. Perhaps Hermann himself is growing weary and this lingering unease is nothing but tiredness-induced anxie-
A crash: the loud thud of a tin can hitting the desk, quickly followed by a string of swear words and the softer bang of headphones being sent flying across the room.
Hermann turns around as his ears register frenetic cursing just in time to see liquid spreading through potentially vital documents and his lab partner trying to soak up the damage with the sleeves of his shirt.
A part of Hermann wonders how exactly he is supposed to save the world in such conditions. Had anyone else been present surely he would have donned that mask of frustration and outrage. These are the words he would later regret, the attempt at diverting whoever’s attention and ire away from Newton. But there is no one else to witness Dr Geiszler, of six PhDs, trying to clean up his mess by holding out a dripping stack of papers in one hand and frantically trying to keep his drink from reaching his keyboard with the other, so Hermann doesn’t say anything and observes instead.
He sees the light shade of red spreading through the white of the documents - an energy drink, then; and there is not one, but two empty coffee mugs among the chaos on Newton’s desk. This does not bode well. Hermann notes the information in a corner of his mind. He has not left his ladder yet. He is still holding his chalk, keeping himself balanced by leaning on an empty spot of the board with his free fingers.
Newton has not looked up at him either. He has now put the wet papers on top of other, formerly dry papers. He has realised that he let the can fall and empty the rest of its content on the floor in a pool of bright pink on the dark concrete. He is looking to the floor, then to the desk, then to the floor again.
But this is not what Hermann is looking at.
Hermann is looking at the light tremor in Newton’s hands, at the way his chest rises and falls to the rhythm of an increasingly shallow breath; at how he closes his eyes, tries to steady his breathing, fails, bites his lips, runs his hands through his hair, lets out a deep breath and clenches his fist around the messy black strand. The tremor is now spreading to the rest of his limbs.
Hermann puts his chalk away and gets down from his ladder.
They’ve gone through this before. Not enough sleep, too much caffeine.
In a way, they’re always going through this. Not enough hope, too much pressure.
Whenever Hermann’s body isn’t failing him Newton’s mind is on the verge of breaking.
Hermann grabs his cane and walks forth. One step, two steps. He stops.
“Newton,” he calls, trying to talk over the music still blasting through the headphones on the floor. “Newton,” he repeats to no avail.
Another step.
Newton still hasn’t looked up to him. He hasn’t moved at all. His fists are still clenched on his head. His eyes are fixed on a point beyond the mess on this desk, where the floor meets the walls, concrete and concrete. His breathing is hurried, unsteady, rocking his body into a quickening rhythm.
They have rules for this sort of thing, processes, plans of action. Arrangements.
Hermann sighs and limps forward. He wastes neither time nor brainpower on salvaging Newton’s belongings: the drink has not reached any electronics and whatever lost data can be recovered later. He does make a detour to close the door of the lab - the moment would be very ill chosen for visitors of any nature; fortunately the other dwellers of the Shatterdome have learnt to knock - and to grab Newton’s phone and headset from the floor. He has to resort to hooking the bottom of the cane under the wire and lifting it to shoulder length in order to bring them in reach, but the immediate relief once he swipes the music to pause is absolutely worth it.
The lab might have fallen to something akin to peacefulness if one forgets Newton’s erratic and heavy breathing but Hermann knows it to be at best short-lived and at worst the quiet before the storm.
“Newton,” he asks again, hobbling back to him. He knows by experience that Newton can hear him even when Hermann shouldn’t expect any answer. “I’m here. Everything is all right. Everything is absolutely fine. Would you like your notepad?”
No answer. No reaction. Nothing.
But the breathing is fastening still, morphing into hisses and breathless sobs.
This is not going well.
This is not going well because at this point Hermann is painfully aware that there is absolutely nothing he can do. He has to wait. He has to wait and talk and hold onto the idea that Newton can still hear him and use the sound of his voice as a guiding light in the darkness currently enshrouding his mind.
And thus Hermann waits and Hermann talks. He talks of how everything is fine, really, how he’d heard that there will be some steamed buns for dessert, and wouldn’t that be nice? He speaks with reassuring words, he speaks of unimportant anecdotes, because it is not what he is saying that matters but that he is saying anything at all.
He talks as Newton’s breathing grows in desperate gasps for air then quietens again; he talks as Newton falls to his knees, still trapped within his own body.
He keeps talking as he grabs a desk chair, takes a seat and lowers it as much as he can, his leg be damned.
He talks and talks and talks; and Newton hisses and stops breathing and hisses again. It lasts minutes, it lasts an eternity. Time dilates in the rasp sounds of Newton’s chaotic breathing. Hermann himself has to stay calm, perfectly calm, as natural as he can. He knows that at that precise moment he has to be Newton’s rock and anchor; he’ll deal with his own discomfort later.
Hermann is still talking when Newton’s fingers slowly untangle from his hair, sliding down to his eyes where bitter tears are gleaming. The tears are a good sign, in a way; they mean that something is happening, whatever it is, and that they are entering another phase of the storm. Now if only he could become verbal again…
“Newton?”
Newton’s hands part and he looks up to Hermann, his body still rocking back and forth. Tears and eye contact, yes, this is good. With a bit of luck, this could mean the end of the shutdown.
“… Herms?”
Yes! Hermann loathes the nickname but he will take anything that isn’t those dead eyes and that lack of reaction. He reaches out a tentative hand. Newton’s eyes slides slowly from Hermann’s hand to his face. The hand. Hermann. The hand. Hermann. His breathing hasn’t steadied yet and he is crying now, properly crying, long rivers of tears burning his flustered cheeks.
“Yes, dear,” Hermann says. “Do go on.”
There’s an itch at the corner of his own eye, a burn that won’t quite go away. He files it under the various things that will be dealt with when this is over.
Newton is looking at his hand again. Hermann is waiting. He cannot see the gears running through Newton’s brain but he can imagine them, stuck frozen, and the incommensurable efforts needed to get them moving again. Or perhaps not: perhaps they are turning in a frenzied, desperate attempt to process the overwhelming rush of emotions, physical sensations and feelings currently bogging them down. Whichever it is it takes time, so Hermann waits, hand in the air, fingers slightly parted; open, inviting, welcoming.
What matters most, as he knows, is to be there.
Newton gulps and tries to speak again.
“Dude, I-” The words come in short outbursts, pushing through the blank state of his brain. “I’m not okay, Hermann, this is bad, I am-” He closes his eyes, draws in a long breath, opens his eyes and starts again, hands moving in the air, as if trying to catch the words and put them back in the right order. “I don’t know, I was just, and then the can, and I know about energy drinks, okay, and I know about coffee too, okay, but I was doing just fine, and then my report, the can, it just slipped, it just fucking, slipped, the report, I was doing okay, I was doing okay, I was, I was-”
If for a few blissful seconds, Hermann thinks that this is going to be fine; that the clouds in Newton’s mind are slowly going to part, that they are going to clean that desk, have some tea and resume their work day; if for a mere instant, Hermann thinks things are looking up, his hopes are crushed soon enough when Newton starts hyperventilating.
It is not a pretty sight: words and breaths are fighting for the use of his throat. His mouth is stuck wide open, his eyes widened in panic; he grabs at the collar of his shirt with both hands, losing his balance and sliding to the side. Hermann catches him right as he’s about to fall to the floor. There’ll be hell to pay for the sudden acrobatics - which he adds to the ever growing list of things he will be dealing with later. He hides his pain behind a forced smile; not that Newton is in any state of noticing that now but one is never too cautious.
“Newton! Are you-”
No, he is not all right. Of course he is not all right. Hermann grits his teeth behind his smile and helps Newton with his tie. At last this is something he can do: putting the garment away, opening the first few buttons of his shirt and grabbing his hand before he scratches himself to blood trying to do it himself. Those are simple, concrete steps that Hermann feels he masters much better than the talking; panic attacks are a pain, indeed, but one he has more experience dealing with than non-verbal communication.
Newton's hand is burning in his in a stark contrast to the cold of the floor creeping through the tweed of his trousers. But Hermann tunes out everything - the pain, the cold, the sweat at the back of his neck, the dryness in his mouth, the beating of his own heart - and focuses on Newton only.
"Newton, listen. I am here. You are safe. Can you feel my hand? Newton?"
"I can't breath, I can't breath, I can't-"
"Can you feel my hand?" It takes a few seconds but Newton's fingers eventually twitch and entwine with his, squeezing them with such strength that Hermann has to force his face not to betray his discomfort once again. "Good. You can feel my hand. You are here. I am here. We are both, in fact, very much here." Newton makes a gargled little sound that could have passed for a chuckle had he not been grasping for air. Hermann's smile relaxes slightly. This isn't as bad as it looks; it never is, but still he worries. "If you can speak, name five things you can see."
"If I- dude I can't even- breath, how, how the fuck, I'm going to die I think, how the fuck am I-"
"Five things you can see, Newton, tell them to me."
"What the, seriously, I hate, this, can't we-"
"Five things."
Newton squeezes his eyes shut and forces them open again.
"You, the floor, the desk, the can, you, the chair, shit, where is, where is my phone?"
"You mentioned me twice," Hermann points out. "Nevermind your phone, it’s in my pocket, and focus on me. Five things you can hear."
"Dude, come on, you know I fucking- you know I fucking hate-"
"Give me five things you can hear, Newton."
A pause. Newton has to focus. That is the whole point of the exercise - to push him to step outside the ring of fire, through the ongoing storm and back into reality, one painful step at a time, one grounding exercise after the other.
“The, uh, your voice, my voice, the, that weird klink noise from the fridge, that w-w-weird klonk noise from the fridge, those two count as two, right, I mean, even if, even if they, even if they don’t, I-”
“Focus, Newton. A fifth thing you can hear.” A sigh, a sob, a grasp for air. Newton’s fingers squeeze Hermann’s hand even tighter. This might have been a little preposterous; maybe some water on his wrists would have been a better start but Hermann is not sure of his capacity to get up unassisted at this point.
“M-my, the beating of my heart.”
“Yes. Good. That counts. Now, five things you can smell.”
“Dude, bullshit, you know I-”
“Five things you can smell. Go on, tell me.”
Newton rolls his eyes and chokes on his own spit. Hermann never knew how happy he could ever be of seeing Newton’s look of disapproval. Eye contact, verbal communication and now facial expressions? If things are not technically going well at least they are not getting worse. (It’s tempting to try and push him forward; to say, ‘come on, you have not sniffed so much paint spray in your youth that…’ but Hermann champs at the bit and silences the growing pain in his limbs. It would do no good to lose patience now: experience has taught him that this would be a surefire way for things to worsen quicker than he can catch his own breath.)
“Uh, uh, I don’t know, I don’t, uh, sweat, paint, kaiju b-blue, that’s three, why can’t it be three things, dude, we t-talked about this, I-”
“Two more, Newton. You can do this, take your time. Another two things you can smell.”
“Ugh, uh, nicotine and, and your aftershave?”
“Yes, see? You did it. Brilliant.”
It always feels a little weird to praise him for such a small deed. Hermann has not had many words of kindness towards Newton’s work in the past, even if it deserves much more than an accolade or ten. But these are special circumstances, are they not? This is not Newton as he knows him - or rather, this is exactly Newton as he knows him, all rough and raw and trapped within his own skin; this is Newton as only Hermann gets to see him. Outside they play the parts that they have been assigned, cogs in a machine gearing towards humanity’s salvation; but behind closed doors they can allow themselves to act closer to what they are, or so Hermann thinks. And if he has neither compassion nor tenderness for the loud manchild who used to start brawls in the mess, can’t keep his mouth shut and is wasting his wits away, he has all the patience in the world for one of the brightest minds of this age.
Said brightest mind of this age is currently working through a serie of long, deep sighs, interrupted by the odd grasp for air. His eyes have regained some of their usual gleam and soon enough his breathing falls within an acceptable, somewhat more comfortable rhythm. His hold lessens on Hermann’s fingers before letting go. He sighs, passes a hand over his face and through his hair and his features soften into something akin to a smile.
"Okay. Okay. I'm okay. Sorry, dude, I- sort of lost it back there, but I'm okay now."
Hermann allows himself the luxury of closing his eyes for two whole seconds to bring himself back to reality as a whole, opening himself to the rest of the world that is not Newton.
"No apologies," he mutters, opening his eyes again to the flustered face of his friend. Newton looks positively dishevelled, puffy red eyes and messy black hair; but if he is still out of breath, he seems to be in full control of all his physical faculties. He's getting up now, trying to bring some sort of order to his side of the lab, while Hermann is taking the deepest and most silent of breaths, attempting to will his own body into functioning.
There is always a moment of hesitation here, an instant of wavering, of auto-pilot, where Newton only does things because they're in front of him, but his brain hasn't caught up yet with-
"Oh shit! Dude, your leg!" And there we are. "Shit dude, what the fuck, you should have told me, here let me help you..." Hermann can't find the strength to keep him away, too relieved that he seems to be back to his usual self.
“I’m quite fine,” he lies as Newton scrambles to get him up on his feet, “don’t you worry.”
“No, dude, this isn’t okay, I’ve gone and done it again, I’m the worst-” This is a well-rehearsed dance: Newton bending forward, Hermann sliding his arm over his neck and using him as support as he pushes himself upright through sheer will alone. “-first I lose control, then I forget about your fucking leg, and what…”
Hermann stops listening. He should be paying attention and he should be telling Newton that this is not his fault; that he did not lose control so much as resisted his own brain, and put up quite the fight at that; that his leg is nothing but a common, well-known inconvenience that pain killers can, if not fix, at least make bearable; and a thousand other things that boil down to ‘You idiot, what else was I to do? Leave you to fend for yourself?’… But it takes all his strength to merely move through the pain. His leg hurts something fierce and so do his back, his arms, his neck. He tries to protest still, to cut short Newton’s self-loathing ramblings, but he can barely talk.
Exhaustion washes over him. Everything he has pushed to the back of his mind, everything that was to be dealt with later demands to be acknowledged right away. One step, two steps, three steps. The pain, the fatigue, and the concern whirlwind under his skull and he can barely keep his head straight on his shoulder. Four steps, five steps, six steps now.
Newton has stopped talking. Hermann looks up and tries to focus but Newton’s features waltz into a blur before his tired eyes.
“… beg your pardon?” He mumbles.
“Yeah right, you’re not okay at all.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“ ‘F course you are. That’s why you’re barely standing on your feet; really, never seen anyone as perfectly fine as you, dude.” He scoffs. Newton might have a point. “… And I don’t know if you’re aware you’ve just said that out loud, but dude, you almost admitting I’m right is, like, I’d rather have a Kaiju attack, right here, right now, I’d be less terrified. So. Shower, tea and nap time?”
Hermann sighs. There’s still work to do - there always is - but he can’t focus through such a high level of discomfort; and were he to take the strongest of his pain killers now, they would send him into a daze. It would be blissful but absolutely counterproductive. Shower and nap it is, then.
“Very well. Lead the way.”
_ _ _
There is a small room adjacent to the lab. When the Hong-Kong Shatterdome hosted a proper Research Division, with several teams and a budget, it was used as a kitchen and break room for the scientists. It was first reconverted as a storage room after fundings were cut and their former colleagues left for greener, better paid pastures; they now use it as, well - they started using it as a temporary arrangement, a place they might sometimes need to take a nap in when work was too much, but as they became the entirety of K-Sci by themselves this really became a permanent provisional solution, a den, a nest.
In their quarters, that they haven’t seen for days, they might have books and posters and pictures and clean clothes and reminders that the world extends beyond the door of the lab, beyond the badly lit corridors of the Shatterdome; but here there’s a mountain of pillows and they can close the door and pretend, if only for a few hours, that they are not at war.
This room is, much like the lab, divided into two parts of equal size. Order and chaos, mess and cleanliness - and a bed in the center. Hermann can’t remember who ever suggested hauling it in there but it was probably Newton’s idea. He mentioned it once, massaging his neck after yet another nap on that antiquity of a couch, man, I would just kill for a proper bed in here, and Hermann, who was not feeling much refreshed himself, Hermann had nodded before grumbling something about the stupidity of their quarters being two floors away from the lab.
He had no idea how Newton could and still does get so many people to owe him so many favours - they are both aware, with various degrees of affliction, to how popular they are within the Shatterdome - and yet seventy hours later or so, he had run into the Tang Wei brothers on their way out, leaving in their wake a Queen sized bed in the middle of what was technically a food preparation area. Someone from Logistics came and gave them bedsheets, provided they did their best not to notice that they were very obvious rejects from a local factory and had absolutely horrendous designs. Pillows appeared frankly out of nowhere and Hermann firmly made absolutely no comment whatsoever when he realised that someone had painted glow-in-the-dark constellations on the ceiling.
At that point he had brought in his spare electric kettle and silenced his doubts concerning the legality of this sort of arrangements. Whoever had written the PPDC sanitation regulations had obviously never tried to work with Newton Geiszler… Which is why Hermann had only protested out of habit when his partner had started using the attending decontamination shower regularly. It made sense, in a way. It was closer than their quarters, it did the job as well as the communal shower stalls with the added benefit that it was not, indeed, communal. (Hermann, whose disability has granted him the use of a personal bathroom, is still enough of an introvert to see the appeal.)
He is quite content to disregard so many rule infringements right now; the mere thought of having to limp back to his own quarters seems to add strain to his already limited movements. Instead, he lets Newton steady his steps as they make their way to the - well they still call it the storage room, don’t they?
“Wanna take your meds first?” Newton asks, pushing the door open before grabbing towels and other necessities with his free hand.
“No, perhaps the shower will be enough to relax my muscles this time, and then-”
“Oh, are we doing this again? My name is Hermann Gottlieb and I can chase my pain away by the sheer strength of my wishful thinking?”
“Shut up, will you? I will take them before going to bed.”
“As you wish, Herr Gottlieb.”
“Doktor, if that’s the same to you.”
“Whatever.”
Bickering as they go - maintaining an illusion of normalcy has always been one of Hermann’s assets, if he dares think so himself - they reach the decontamination room. Here he cannot help but tense up, no matter how drained he feels. He tries not to think of what’s ahead, to lose himself in the motions. It is like a dance, after all, one they’ve been through countless times before: Newton kicking the door open, Hermann protesting, Newton chuckling the complains away, Hermann rolling his eyes and pretending he is only annoyed and not mortified.
It's got to do with pride. A little. It's also got to do with a lifetime of starving for touch and yet being told that this body, this wrecked carcass of scar tissues and degenerating muscles would never be seen or touched, not after the trials and errors of his teenagehood. But mostly, it's got to do with the fact he never expected to be naked in anyone's vicinity, to be helped out of his clothes as he tries to glare the blush away. Or rather that he did not expect that it would be like this, intimate and soft, with anyone he’d share something more than a transactional, medical relationship with.
They used to suffer in silence, Hermann thinks. They used to be bitter and lonely and trapped in prisons of their own making, where asking for help was a disgrace and any received comfort a charity; and now they have… this; this thing that is not a relationship and yet is a relationship; this thing that is not love and yet is so absolutely loving; this bond that frees them from loneliness and pain, a sense of commitment that goes beyond the compass of friendships while not being fully akin to a sense of found family ties. It is what it is - queer, platonic, and a relationship.
It is also much easier to reflect upon than registering how his skin comes into contact with the outside world and, even worse, into Newton’s field of vision. Observing his surroundings work wonders as well.
There's a broken tile on the upper left corner of the stall and a long crack that runs in the middle of the ceiling.
Shoes, blazer, sweater vest.
The temperature is pleasantly lukewarm and the bitter aftertaste in his mouth barely noticeable.
Shirt, undershirt - that he can do himself.
Newton is rambling. Trousers, socks, underwear.
Newton is always rambling. It appears that it helps. (Who the rambling actually helps the most, Newton or Hermann, is still up to debate.)
Then he sits on the stool, leaning back against the cold tiled wall, still trying not to think. He is, if he must say, doing quite the admirable job so far. Without a doubt the pain, the force of habit, and his current state of exhaustion are all very conclusive factors.
And Newton is talking. As always, Newton is talking. He might have been mentioning something about a comic he'd been reading earlier but he's now lost somewhere between the Feynman lectures and gluten-free cookies. No, not lost, not really. Newton is rarely lost in his own thoughts; it's his interlocutors that cannot always grasp the connections between one idea and the next. Hermann can keep up - most of the time. (Right now blood is pounding in his head and observing the way the flickering light plays with gleams and shadows on the tiled floor feels like a much safer alternative to pondering the sheer vulnerability of it all.)
A ball of black and white flashes before his eyes. Newton might leave Hermann's clothes neatly folded on the provided shelf but no amount of gentle prodding, snickering teasing or frank scolding will get him to take any care of his own belongings at all.
Newton is still talking. Roaring kaiju dance before Hermann's eyes as Newton fumbles with the faucet and looks for the soap - they have exactly one bottle of shower gel, the stall is not that large, how can he lose it every single time? - yelping in delight when he eventually finds it tucked in the corner (where Hermann remember him leaving it last time), like an excitable puppy who has dug up a long-forgotten toy.
Is this a smile that flickers on Hermann's lips?
It might be, it might very well be.
Newton is talking. Awkward words of comfort and silly nonsense, but as long as he keeps talking, what else matters, really? Phonemes and syllables merge into a high-pitched cacophony, both familiar and soothing, soon to be drowned in the warm water pouring from the showerhead above them. Hermann closes his eyes and lets the water wash away the grime of the day. This, right here, right now, is perfect bliss; for a mere handful of seconds, he can forget everything and let himself be one with the water; there is no more pain, no more shame; no more work, no more concern; only the water drumming down his skin to the beating of his heart. Steam rises and warmth spreads all over him. All is peaceful and all is calm…
Two warm hands reach for his shoulders, spreading silk and foam over his skin and bringing him back to reality. Hermann hums his discontent and opens his eyes to a quiet smile and a tattooed chest.
“Shh, old man. Lemme take care of ya.”
“If you insist,” he hums again but already he is melting into the touch, leaning forward as Newton moves to soap his back. His hands are always warm and soft whereas Hermann’s are always - well, neither warm nor soft. He sighs when fingers dig gently but firmly into his muscles, untying knots he was not conscious of.
“I watched this awesome youtube vid the other day, want me to massage your leg later?”
“Mmh,” is all he can manage.
His forehead comes to rest on Newton’s chest and his brain tunes out again. Hands run on his back, his arms, his head, his chest. He lets them. He is now past insecurities, past inadequacy and past shame; for this also is peaceful and calm, this is also a space where he can just be. It has taken months, years to slowly build that trust between them, and it was founded on the letters - without that glimpse, that hope that Newton had once understood him and could perhaps understand him again, Hermann would never have let him in. He would never have let him help, he would never have let him see anything deeper than the hints of German accent, the old-fashioned clothes and the perpetual frown.
He could not have imagined anyone wanting to have anything to do with what was beneath; he had spent too many years trying to ignore how lonely he felt.
He could not have imagined that he would one day let him rinse his hair, dude, your undercut’s all overgrown, lemme buzz it off for you next time, or help him out of the water and into a bathrobe.
He could not have imagined such nice things, let alone that they would happen to him.
He can’t say that he regrets it now.
Yes, this is nice. This is quite nice indeed.
He slowly comes back to reality while Newton makes quick work of his own shower, mostly because it is impossible to keep oneself in a contemplative state of any kind when that man is currently butchering Queen’s classic Bohemian Rhapsody within hearing distance. There is something to be said about his attempt to singlehandedly hit every single note, namely that it is… endearing in a way and infuriating in many others. Fortunately at that point Hermann is still floating in a cotton-wool-like haze, the sort that comes easily to him after a long, hot shower. His leg is still pain made flesh but his mind is relaxed and he may or may not have to turn his head to hide a smile and silently mouth along the chorus.
With each passing second the world becomes a little bit more real. Hermann opens himself to physical sensations, his brain finally gearing out of its usual over-analysing ways.
There’s the soft touch of towels and the low humming of a hairdryer, as they take turns drying each other’s hair. Newt is deadly once armed with a towel: he ruffles Hermann’s hair until it sticks up in all sorts of odd directions, paying no heed to his half-hearted protests. That matters little; Hermann gets his revenge when he gets within reach of a comb and styles Newton’s hair to something flat and almost, almost decent.
He steps back to admire his work but Newton is already moving about, suddenly remembering that wet towels can be twisted and slapped at mirrors. (What he is exactly doing being in such close terms with a twelve year-old, Hermann will never know.) In a twist of fate that would not surprise anyone but himself, he steps up forward a little too soon, gets tangled up and falls on his face.
“Stop laughing! You’re just jealous of my moves!”
“I am not laughing,” Hermann lies, steadying himself on his cane to help Newton back on his feet, “and I am not jealous. Be careful not to trip ag-” Too late. Hermann looks down to a mess of limbs and linen that takes the approximate shape of his lab partner in the middle of passing his pyjamas on. “Third time makes the charm?”
“Shut up,” Newton pouts, throwing Hermann’s own pyjamas to his face. The fabric is soft in his hands and glides like silk on his skin. He is still warm and relaxed from the shower; yet the sirens of sleep are singing to him and it is high time he takes his medicine. The pain he has steadily been ignoring for the past few minutes is creeping through his consciousness, spoiling the pleasantness of the moment.
Newton sticks out his tongue at him, tip-toeing to mess with his nicely combed hair with a grin. He makes a run for the bed but not before Hermann succeeds in slapping his arm, absolutely not yelping but definitely calling him a nasty pest. Hermann wouldn’t dream of - he would die on the spot were anyone to know about this - but here, in the storage room, where the stars glows in fluorescent paint on the ceiling, he finds that he simply doesn’t care.
They will take a light snack. Hermann will complain about crumbles in the bed and Newton will bribe his indulgence with tea and sweets. They will take their respective medicines, bickering and bantering, hoarding pillows and blankets, until their voices will grow weak and slurred as they fall into restful sleep.
All will be quiet, if only for a few hours. Crisis will have been aborted and the equilibrium restored.
_ _ _
The K-science laboratory stands on its own plane of existence; life within its concrete walls runs in parallel to life in the bigger world of the Hong Kong Shatterdome. Yet even here the laws of physics apply: energy ebbs and flows, decreasing and increasing as Newton’s mind bursts and Hermann’s body falters. Always it fluctuates, sustainable and enduring - their very own homoeostasis.