creeping cold

Rating: T
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Summary:
"there's a time-limit to this, but Newt's trying his hardest not to think about that; carpe diem and all"


September

There's a chill in the air; barely there, on the edge of a breeze; the leaves of the trees still green, mostly, though there's red and golden brown creeping fingers up and out, and at night, it drops low enough to leave Newt shivering without any extra layers.

"Put on a sweater," Hermann says; and gives a pointed look at his own; over-large, tucked into his pants, the soft material of the sweater-vest shifting as he turns a page in his book. The patterning of it is chequered gold and black; Newt bought it for him a few years back.

Newt rolls his eyes. "Dude," he says, "it's not even that cold."

It is, though; almost; and they both know it. So Hermann gives him a half-scowl that's more exasperation than anything and says, "Oh, alright, come here," and pats the space on the couch next to him; pulls back the quilt over his lap a bit so that Newt can get under it.

"Love you, babe," Newt murmurs; smiling softly, and cosies up next to him; presses a chaste kiss to the other's cheek.

"Shush," Hermann says; but beneath the quilt, his hand sneaks into Newt's.

October

The leaves crunch beneath his heavy black boots; the twilight settling in already, and around him the street lights flicker. Some houses are decorated for Hallowe'en already; some have gone lowkey while others have multiple pumpkins, lights, fake cobwebs, and ghosts.

"Cute!" Newt says, pointing to one house that has animal "skeletons" cavorting on the lawn.

Hermanan, by his side, gives a long-suffering sigh; hand clasped in his, and says, "Newton, spiders haven't got any bones—you're a biologist, for God's sake; you know this."

"Cute," Newt repeats, and squeezes his hand in his. "By the way, I think the grocer's is finally carrying eggnog—"

"It's barely halfway through October!"

"—so I'm gonna pick some up when I go," Newt continues. "Oh—and some canned pumpkin. I'm gonna make some pies. You wanna help?"

He turns his head; watches Hermann's lips purse; more show than anything; he already knows the answer. "Oh, alright," Hermann says; and pretends it's a hardship. As if he's not the one who insists they make two pies so he can satisfy his need to eat it multiple times a day. "Dork," Newt says, and grins.

"Oh, God, shut up," Hermann groans, and kicks up some leaves, but Newt can see the smile; hidden in the half-light, quiet; and he smiles too.

(He wishes he'd never given in to the urge to take that third Drift; wishes he'd never given in to the urge to chase after the rumour of a kaiju brain being sold on the black market—a whole one, somehow; only three-quarters or so of a secondary brain of a Cat II, but still; enough.

It's almost laughably easy; it'd be funny, almost, if it weren't happening to him; would almost be funny to watch himself fall under their control, were he an outsider; to see how quickly it happens. All it takes is one unfortunate Drifts too many, and bam! He walks right into the trap they've set him.)

November

The cold is seeping into Hermann's bones; Newt can feel it; the achy wet-cold at the end of the day that digs its claws, vice-like, into Hermann's leg, especially after long days spent standing to teach.

He tries his best to combat it; buys a new hot water bottle and draws a bath at the end of the day because he gets home an hour before Hermann and it's the least he can do, really; and the way that Hermann smiles at him—tired, yes, but loving—is worth more to Newt than nearly anything.

"I miss you," he murmurs; once, sitting on the tile of the bathroom as Hermann sits in the tub; hand over his knees to hang over the rim, dipped into the water to grip Hermann's. He says it unthinkingly, almost; the sadness seeping into it; wistful and mournful, and he doesn't realise it until Hermann makes a confused sound.

"What are you on about, Newton?"

"I—just miss you during the day," he says; quickly, maybe too quickly, and his voice catches, just for a second; but Hermann doesn't notice; must be too relaxed, because he just blinks at Newt slowly; hums.

"I miss you too," he says; and smiles at Newt softly, and Newt thinks, suddenly: Oh, god, this isn't fucking fair, but he smiles back anyway; painfully.

(They give him until New Year's; the irony of it, he suspects, doesn't escape them; giving him a date that's supposed to be for new beginnings and forcing him to

Leave.

They want him to leave—everything.

His job, his life.

Hermann.)

December

There's mugs on the counter; Hermann's sitting on a stool, watching the snow falling outside. He's got bedhead; adorable, Newt thinks, fondly, and watches the soft light halo the other; watches him pick up his mug—it's the one with the Hanukkiah on it; a gift ages ago, back when Newt was pretty sure Hermann hated him—and take a sip.

"Morning," Newt says, softly; wraps his arms around the other's shoulders.

The other starts; tenses, for a moment, before he relaxes. "Newton," he greets, "good morning, darling."

"Morning," Newt says; again, and smiles widely; tries not to think too much about the fact that this happiness has an expiration date. "Hey, dude, did you know I love you?"

Hermann sets his mug down; turns his head so Newt can nuzzle his neck. "Mmm," he says, and Newt can feel the smile in his voice. "You may have said it, once or twice—though perhaps it bears repeating."

Newt grins. "Love you, Herms," he says, "lots 'n' lots, dude."

The other laughs; softly; quiet, and they're there, silent; in the warmth of the kitchen, for a moment, the snow falling peacefully outside and Newt fucking wishes he could preserve this moment in amber forever and god, god, he's so fucking in love and this is the perfect tragedy, isn't it?

(It's almost funny how afraid they are of Hermann. They know he's stronger than Newt, know that he's smart as a whip; know that if he gets even the faintest inkling that something's going on he'll pursue it like a bloodhound until he figures it out.

So; they give him two choices: either end things with Hermann on his own, or...or have them end it.

And they give him the fucking New Year as the due-by date. God; it's so fucked up.)

January

"Alright," he says, and glances at his watch, "I'll be in at ten, Doctor Shao."

The line clicks silent; and they pocket his phone; give him one moment to look back at the apartment before they slip his fingers into the handle of the suitcase with what little possessions they've allowed him to take.

Goodbye, Hermann, he thinks; wretchedly; and then: please don't follow me.