Work Text
Newmann bittersweet slice of life apropos of nothing
It’s
after
the bad pain days, usually, at least it is when Newt notices. Hermann’s body and mind -- previously flooded by the kind of pain which burns and flays, right under the skin -- freeze altogether. Hermann gets more withdrawn, less snappish, doesn’t take Newt’s obvious argument bait.
Newt wouldn’t say it’s his
job
to thaw Hermann out, any more than it’s Hermann’s job to be Newt’s anchor when he’s floating too high, smiles too broadly and says foolish things because he’s terrified he might be in a dream.
The jagged edges of the Drift fill Newt with Hermann’s resigned suspicions, the belief that from care springs resentment, the painful conversation at the end of each failed relationship, different yet the same. The idea that anyone could make Hermann feel like a low return on high investment makes Newt want to cry. So his husband is remote sometimes; so is the sun, but it isn’t cold for it, it is constant, and it gives
life.
"What do you want for dinner?” Newt asks. Hermann is sitting in his wheelchair, eyes bleary from exhaustion and pain medication. He blinks and tries to focus.
“I’m sure,” he mutters, and sighs. “Whatever you decide will be adequate.”
Too open-ended a question to consider when your body has just put you through the wringer and your mind is benumbed, Newt thinks stupidly. Hermann rests his head in his hand, and Newt kneels beside him, strokes his hair until his hand settles on the back of Hermann’s head.
“
Are
you hungry?”
Hermann shakes his head.
“Maybe later,” he says dully, and Newt nods. “Newton?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Never mind.”
“Hey,” Newt says. “We don’t have to talk, you know. We can sit right here, as long as you’re comfortable.”
Hermann nods, and Newt realizes he’s crying.
“Hermann?”
“Forgive me,” Hermann chokes, but his face just crumples more. Newt doesn’t say anything back (
there’s nothing to forgive, I need you to share this with me)
, just pulls Hermann’s face to his chest so he can cry in peace.
“I think it’s going to be sunny tomorrow,” Newt says into the nape of Hermann’s neck. “We could go to the lake and play some chess if you’re up to it.”
Hermann makes a wet, assenting noise, and his hand bunches in Newt’s sweater.
“I’m going to throw some sheets in the dryer,” Newt says after a long while. Hermann’s shoulders have stilled, and his eyes are half-closed. “Warm bed might be good for the old bones, huh?”
“You know my bones aren’t the trouble,” Hermann sniffs, still lacking the pith which emerges when Newt’s unpeeled him successfully.
“
My
bones, Hermann,” Newt corrects, stands and laughs when his knees crack in concert. “See? Not getting any younger.”
Hermann manages a tiny smile, and honestly, if this, all of this, isn’t a wise investment then Newt is just as big a fool as they say he is.
“Thank you,” Hermann says later, while they’re both lying under warm sheets and blankets. Newt chucks Hermann’s head under his arm so he’s halfway lying on his chest.
“Of course, dearest,” Newt says, using a very Gottliebian term of endearment that he’s come to adore almost as much as its source.
“I’m sorry it’s not… easy.”
“I don’t do anything because it’s easy. But it is extraordinarily easy to love you.”
“You don’t mean that,” Hermann shakes his head.
“Don’t tell me what I mean,” Newt says, sticks his tongue out, but gets serious when he sees Hermann’s expression. “And don’t think you could ever push me away unless you wanted to, all right? ‘Cause I’m not going to get sick of you, of this. You’re stuck with me, not the other way around.”
“Ridiculous man,” Hermann mumbles.
“That’s me. Your ridiculous man.”
Hermann smiles at this, eyes closed. He’s fully asleep soon after. Newt shifts so Hermann won’t wake up with a crick in his neck, and closes his eyes.