the purrrfect date

Rating: T
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb

Summary: "or: the one where Owen eats Hermann's plants and Newt offers to buy him dinner because he feels guilty and unwittingly goes on a date with his crush."


Newt doesn't find out about it until half way through the year; in his defence, he's a bit over-worked, busy grading and grading and more grading, god, how many tests are there to grade?

You're the only one to blame, since you teach the class, points out out his brain, annoyingly logical.

"Oh, shut it," he snaps aloud, throws back the rest of his coffee, eyes sweeping across the living room, and frowns. The flash of dark fur he's grown so used to seeing is missing—odd, since Owen is usually up and whining at him for breakfast by now.

He shrugs. Oh well—he's probably just out on the balcony.

When he gets back from work, Owen is lazing on the couch. "Oh, who's a good kitty," Newt grins, scrubbing his fingers through the cat's medium-length fur, chuckles when Owen narrows his eyes and makes a grumble of protest—

And recoils as the cat sneezes, spraying him with mucus. "Eeeeeew," Newt whines, "oh my god you little bastard, you did that on purpose didn't you!"

Owen licks his nose and starts grooming his paw, staring at Newt innocently. Newt sticks his tongue out and flees to the bathroom to wash his face, because cat snot? Gross.

Except then, a few days later, he finds Owen on the balcony, which, you know, wouldn't be a big deal if he weren't nibbling on the prized plants of Newt's neighbor, one Hermann Gottlieb, PhD, bane of Newt's academic life, who Newt has maybe a teeny-tiny crush on.

Hermann, Newt's oldest friend who kind of maybe hates him, whose balcony is apposed to Newt's, where Owen is currently calmly munching on—something, Newt's not sure what, but he knows Hermann is going to be pissed.

"Oh, shit," he murmurs, staring at the dark feline, slightly in shock, and then again, with more feeling, "oh, shit."

This is, of course, when the door on the other balcony slides open and Hermann, in an adorably comically oversized sweater-vest, hair in what is barely moderate kemptness, leaning on his cane slightly, deigns to step out.

For a second, they're both frozen, gazes locked on Owen, who's moved on to one of the ferns, before Hermann hisses, "Geiszler!", snakes forward, lightning-fast, and tosses Owen over onto Newt's balcony. He draws himself to his full height, face stormy, and hisses, again, "Geiszler—" and stops, apparently at a loss for words, casts a mournful look at the plants before fixing Newt with a glare. "You—"

"Oh, fuck," Newt exclaims, cutting the other off, grabs his fucking cat—trash goblin bastard—and bolts inside his flat, slamming the balcony door behind him.

After a few hours pass—mostly with him pacing and scolding Owen, in alternates—he collapses onto his sofa, stares at the ceiling, and groans, "What am I supposed to do?"

The ceiling, being a ceiling, doesn't answer, and Newt scowls at it even more petulantly.

The next day, he studiously avoids the math building and spends over an hour at the plant nursery looking for new plants for Hermann, which he carefully arranges into a box, setting it in front of Hermann's door, and rings the bell before disappearing back into his own flat.

Still, even though Hermann's previous frostiness thaws, Newt still feels guilty. It's then, a few days later, that he hits upon a way to fully apologise to Hermann: dinner.

"Dinner?" asks Hermann, voice pitched oddly, sounding a bit strangled. "Dinner—with you?"

Newt rolls his eyes. "Yes, me, Herms, do you see anyone else in the vicinity?"

Hermann purses his lips and makes the face he does when he's deliberating something intensely—which, why? It's just dinner—before he says, "Well, alright then."

"Great!" Newt beams. Hermann returns it, though his expression is indecipherable.

The place they go to isn't anything fancy, and Newt laughs at Hermann when he places the napkin in his lap. Hermann, in turn, mocks Newt for his borderline-obsessiveness with needing to eat his sandwich in a precise way, but it feels—light-hearted.

Fun.

The realisation hits Newt partway through, and he freezes momentarily, because he's known Hermann for years and years and their arguments have been many things—intellectually stimulating, aggravating, steady, but fun is new.

It feels, oddly, fragile.

"Pass me the salt, please," Hermann requests, and Newt snaps out of—whatever that was, grabs the salt and hands it to Hermann. Their fingers brush momentarily, and Newt, for reasons unknown to himself, freezes.

Hermann doesn't, and looks at him quizzically. Newt shakes his head, trying to dispel the mysterious feeling and gives the other a weak grin. Hermann returns it with one of his own—small, the barest uptilt of his lips, but it's genuine.

It makes Newt warm, and he clears his throat, trying to covertly tug at his collar, and says something he knows will incite another round of bickering, and by the time it's over, Hermann slightly out of breath and flushed, it's been forgotten.

When they get back to the building, they stop in front of Newt's door first. "Well," Newt says, awkwardly, "this is my stop. Uh…see you tomorrow? Maybe?"

"Er. Yes," Hermann says, not meeting his gaze, bites his lip. "Well." There's a moment of stillness, and then Hermann moves forward, wrapping his arms around Newt, and then strides down the hall, leaving Newt slack jawed.