salt and drunken confessions
Rating: T
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Summary: "Post-Drift, Newt is possibly slightly inebriated, but when Hermann needs him, he's there.
(He'll always be there for Hermann.)"
"Hermann!" The floor tilts sickeningly, and Newt braces against the door in an attempt to stay upright, shouts again, "Hermann! Hermann, open—" The door's yanked open, and Newt lurches forward, barely catching himself before he face-plants on the floor.
Or—apparently, doesn't catch himself; rather, stumbles against—into—a wiry, lean frame, brings them both crashing to the ground with a shout, a hiss of pain, the clatter of a cane against the floor, and Newt realises that he's hissed the pained sound as well, the bolt of fiery pain that races through his leg bringing him up short.
He scrambles to his feet, blinks down at Hermann, who's bent at an odd angle, lips pursed and white, and murmurs, half-heartedly, guiltily, "I just wanted salt for my fries."
"Oh, yes, of course," Hermann bites, pulling himself up, nostrils flaring—is that blood on his lip? The pain in Newt's own, the phantom sensation of teeth, says yes—"yes, that excuses it, of course, banging on my door at an ungodly hour—"
"Shut it," Newt snaps, anger flaring suddenly, "we canceled the apocalypse—how can you possibly be sleeping, now, Hermann?"
"Exhaustion," Hermann says shortly, "waits for no man. So either be silent, or I will silence you. Goodnight, Doctor Geiszler."
Newt reels back. "Doctor Geiszler?" he questions incredulously, then, anger crackling in his words, "are you fucking kidding me? Now? After—that? You just, what, want to go back to—"
"Leave, Geiszler," Hermann says, quietly, but his tone is dark, sharp, and it's worse than a slap, leaves Newt feeling stripped bare and laid for judgement.
"Hermann, I—"
"Leave," Hermanns snaps, strides forward, looming over Newt despite only having a two inch height advantage, and Newt backs out the door; the instant he's over the threshold, the metal door slams with a clang.
"Okay, then," Newt says, falsely upbeat, and promptly runs into a wall when he turns around.
Hermann scrubs a hand over his face, gazes at his reflection, the red ringing his iris. In truth, he hadn't been sleeping as he told Newt—sleep is both elusive and horifying, makes him jolt awake with a scream on his lips, the need for blood, to kill destroykillthemallwewillcome—
He blinks rapidly, the blue-white of the drift that's settled like a film over his vision briefly lifting. His knuckles are white on the basin of the tiny sink, and he ignores the protests of his leg.
Why did he snap at Newt? He's not even quite sure himself, as loathe as he is to admit, and that—scares him. He can admit that, at least.
It's just—the proximity is too much and yet also not enough, the need to be one again both intoxicating and revolting. He wonders—is it him? Or is it Newt?
The buzz in the back of his mind pulsates, and, morbid curiousity his only excuse, he prods it—
[are we…
…one
Newt and Hermann—no Hermann no Newt just—
us]
He gasps, eyes snapping open. He's on the ground, the white-blue lifted, and, in an ironic twist, Newt's gripping his shoulders, a concerned expression—fear and something more bright in his eyes. "—Hermann!" he calls again, and Hermann weakly reaches for the hand on his arm.
"…'on," he croaks, "Newton."
The other lets out a sob and, without warning, drags him into a tight embrace, and, for the first time, Hermann doesn't resist it, just slumps against the biologist, lets out a deep breath, eyes flickering closed.
[safe]
