In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
In the nose. Out the mouth. In, then out, and in, then out, and tonight will be over and you'll settle down to sleep.
Except Hermann never slept on problems. He thought about them. And thinking propagated thinking, propagated dwelling, propagated obsessing, propagated lying wide bloody awake at half past three in the morning.
Twice he covered his head with the pillow. Once he longed for a bath. He entertained the notion in passing of a heist on Pentecost's quarters, to see if whatever he kept in that pill box could make a man drowsy. Anything to stop with the breathing exercises.
He wrote it off as soon as it had hit him. Absurd. The kind of thing his colleague would come up with. But as he kneaded his hair and lay back against the sheets for the twentieth time, he veered away from calculus.
His colleague.
Hermann frowned. What about him? Still in the lab, he supposed. He sat with the stillness of the room for a minute and found it… for once… disquieting.
And lonely.
Not alone. Lonely.
Only one thing had worked before, and he would take it to his grave. Desperate measure. Desperate time. Either this or the insomnia would kill him.
The worktable rattled under his weight as he got to his feet. He searched for the light - switched it on - good. His red bathrobe from the last Shatterdome hung beside the door, limp like an old tea towel.
It took him all his strength to stumble forth, sling it over his shoulder, and stumble back, and he capsized into bed beside it. When the blood stopped pounding in his ears he reached over - turned the light off - and tried to situate himself.
On the back. No, wait. On the side. He slipped under the covers and cushioned his bad leg in the fabric.
And his hand began to wander. Cup his face. Feel his throat. He looked the other way as it drifted down his neckline, across his breastbone to touch at the sensitive spot he found there. Pleasant - but not arousing - so he unbuttoned his shirt, running curious fingers into the valley of his stomach.
The cold tingled on his chest, and he curled into the robe for protection. He swallowed hard and whispered, small and anxious:
"Hello, Newton."
No answer. He pushed through his nerves and pecked, one, two, where a forehead should have been. Another for the temple and another for the cheek, before he threw his arm around himself and tipped his head in for the kill.
Ugh. Terrycloth. He tried to keep it out. But his mind took off to elsewhere, to wet lips and warm breath, good for something for once besides jeering at him.
"Ahh," he continued, burying the collar in the side of his neck - "Newton, please!"
Conjecture, he realized. All conjecture. He could handle a little conjecture. He thought of eyes, big and eager, hungry, perplexed when the glasses came off. Scratchy chin. Tousled hair. Those kaiju on his arms that in the daytime seemed so aberrantly awful but tonight, tonight, what a bad boy, how thrilling, he kissed faster and harder and his nails dug into his back and -
Oh.
He fell back to earth and found himself… wanting.
A footstep echoed outside and startled him. He scanned the room between paranoid blinks and fingered his waistband… the drawstring…
Oh, god, just do it.
Humiliation burned in his ears. His hand closed around his shaft.
He stroked slowly at first. A pull of his palm. A brush of his thumb. He rolled onto his back and imagined being pushed - scaled - mounted. His free arm dragged the robe onto his chest and it became Newton again, squirming, holding onto Hermann's shoulders for dear life as he said… what would he say?
He found the stretch of skin underneath and it came to him.
Fuck me!
The thought made him greedy. It filled him with ideas, one lurid image after another. He hissed and favored the spot in time to rocking hips, rubbing flesh, moans stockpiled from the last time Newton concussed himself, teeth in his clavicle oh and pressure in his groin ahh and there it was, he heard it again, faster faster oh Herms fuck me good, a flash in the pan of bitten lips and bruised knees and soon he found himself gulping, gasping, once, twice, oh, god, he almost- breathe, breathe, no noise Hermann, mouth in the breastpocket, silence, silence, mnh, mnnhhh as his bad leg cramped, oh, Newt, I can't, not much longer, his knuckles white and his cock red and now slick and now pearly and -
His back arched. His eyes screwed shut. He held a lungful of air as he spilled into his grasp, eight weeks of need draining from his toes.
His vision cleared. The world settled around him. He let the robe slip off his chest and melted around it, working his hand out so as not to stain the blanket.
Now what?
A foggy bliss in his frontal lobe told him to experiment. He held his pinky to his tongue - closer - almost licked it clean - before shame seized his gut and sat in it like lead.
You dirty fool.
He searched the bedside for a handkerchief and made himself decent.
The door hatch clanked. He froze. His head dove under the blanket as it opened an inch at a time.
"Psst!" The dreaded voice spat. "Hermann!"
He feigned newfound consciousness. "What?"
"You awake?"
"I am now."
"Got me a caudate liver!" The voice raised. "Wanna check it out?"
"What I want is to sleep."
One beat… two… and the door did not close.
"Were you jerkin' it in here?"
Hermann heaved to the other side. "I was not-"
"'Cause, 'cause, I mean." Newt backpedaled. "That's fine!" He held up his hands in surrender. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." He descended deeper and deeper into snickers. "Or a… dweeby virgin's gotta do what a-"
"Newton!"
Newt started... then shrugged.
"Whatever." He grabbed the hatch with both fists. "Rub one out for victory, man, I'm gonna look at livers!"
The voice faded as it babbled all the way down the hall. Hermann resumed his position and retreated into himself, fingers folding over his shoulder blade and the small of the back of the robe.
And after a hesitant moment he murmured, face pressed to the lapel:
"Good night."