try again?

Rating: T
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Summary:
"it's never too late to wipe the proverbial slate clean. (they never hated each other anyway)"


When the kaiju die, it is—

Anticlimactic.

When Newt connects to the brain, it is—partial. Incomplete. Really fucking painful, too, actually, holy shit fuck Newt is really regretting it now, like, ow, ow, ow. Hermann was so right. He was right and Newt, for once, is willing to admit that.

When they connect to it together—when Hermann offers to go with him—it is…better.

Well; kind of. It's still really uncomfortable—he's talking trying to shove a giant hivemind into terms that humans understand, here, it's going to be uncomfortable. But it's…more. Even after, when they're in the helicopter, Newt can feel it; the thousands of beats of hearts and minds on the fringes of his mind—faint, but ever-present. Hermann can feel it, too, he knows; he can feel that.

And even thought the kaiju are, well, prefabricated killing machines that are part of a hivemind, they…they're really very much individual, too. They have thoughts and emotions and—not connections, exactly, to each other, but…they feel. When one dies, they all feel it, and Newt thinks they…mourn it. No; he knows they mourn it. They're mourning Otachi, now, in the backs of their minds, tucked away from the Precursors.

The Breach closes.

The kaiju are—

Gone.

Newt gasps; the sound lost in the cheering, and he stumbles; off-kilter from the sudden absence in his mind; and they've only been there for barely a day but—

Hermann feels it too, he thinks; not as much, but the look on his face shows that he gets it, and he lets Newt lean into him; lets him hide his face in his vest with a soundless keen; because even though the kaiju have been trying to kill them Newt is in pain at their passing.

"Newton?" Hermann asks, the sound only audible because, in a way, it is not Hermann who is saying it but also Newt who is saying it and, wow, okay this is confusing. "Do you need a moment?" and this time they both startle because that sounds just a bit Geiszlerian.

"M—maybe," Newt hisses, "that'd be rather nice, if you don't mind."

They make it up to the lab. Barely. The sofa is not very comfortable, but it's more comfortable than either of their beds, which might as well be a layer of bricks with a thin matress on top of them, so it'll do.

"Shoulda done this earlier," Newt says, half to himself as Hermann leans against him. "It's nice."

"Cosy," Hermann says; though whether or not he means what Newt does is kinda unclear. His head is on Newt's shoulder, and his hair is sweat-slicked against his forehead, and his skin is almost clammy. They're both filthy.

Somehow, it makes Newt think about their first meeting.

What a year.

He went back to his hotel in tears after biting them back for over an hour. To be fair, it wasn't Hermann's fault, solely; Newt was a massive dick too. They were both massive dicks.

Hermann shifts. "You were more of one," he says, and Newt wonders if he said that aloud or if Hermann just heard him thinking it. He stares at Hermann's fingers instead of asking that. Huh. Hermann has very nice fingers.

"That," Hermann says, "is one of the oddest things you've said to me in a while."

"Shut up," Newt says.


There were letters.

Or.

There will be letters. There are letters. The letters are there and not there and gone and not gone all at once. Time is finicky when you Drift with beings from an alternate universe. The Anteverse runs a bit differently time-wise.

There were the first letters, of course; these they both remember. The academic ones. Newt picking apart Hermann's theories and enthusing about them all in one, and Hermann shooting back a retort that is similarly cutting and awed, once every two weeks, like clockwork, and then when the post office refused to take anything overseas, through email.

And then—

Silence. Breakage?

"Rupture," Hermann supplies, pressed, still, into his side.

Rupture, Newt agrees. He's still not sure if he's talking out loud, but Hermann's understanding him, so—so whatever.

Disasterous rupture. Painful, too. Newt felt like his breath had been stolen from his lungs. Hermann probably thinks he's being a drama queen, but it's an accurate representation. Well; if one considers Hermann as the air he was breathing. It's not exactly inaccurate to put it like that, though.

Hermann huffs; fingers worming their way around Newt's waist; cold even through all the layers separating them. "Ridiculous," he says, and Newt doesn't know if he means the metaphor, the number of layers between them, or both.

Newt's leaning towards the both option considering the (mutual) amount of desire going on around here.

"Love," he says, suddenly, and, yep, that is out loud and brings Hermann to a halt. "But…I loved you." He gives a hum—this is, like, "new knowledge, here," he clarifies, "and," it's not every day you realise "I love you. I still do. In a better world, that would have been enough," to stop us from hating each other.

This is trippy.

"This is trippy," Newt says, and presses the heel of his palm against his eye, and then the pressure's gone because Hermann has pulled it away.

"Your eye is bleeding," he says, in explanation, and his grip is gentle on Newt's wrist. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Mm. "Yours is, too," he says. "Left eye?"

Hermann nods. "We're both human," he says, "we make mistakes."

"A-fucking-men to that," Newt mutters. "God. I want to clock my past self for being a dick."

"Understandable," Hermann hums, "I do, often, as well."

"Oh god, shut up," Newt says; rolls his eyes, and then winces at the slight discomfort of it. "Do you, uh, wanna try again?"

"That…" Hermann trails off; and then a moment later, realises what he's trying to say. "Ah. Yes. I would."

Newt grins. "Great. My name's Newt. Newt Geiszler. Pleased to meet you, also, I kinda love you."

"Newton," Hermann says, and smiles back, tentatively, grip slipping from his wrist to his palm, fingers lacing with his. "I'm Hermann Gottlieb. I love you too."