Prompt Post No. 2
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"You are so emotionally constipated, man, has anyone ever told you said that to you before? Because that should be in the dictionary: Gottlieb, ancient word for "the stick up your ass that blocks all the feelings from coming out.""
Hermann spun around faster than anyone holding a cane should be able to spin. "Excuse me?" he spit, the color high on his cheeks, and for a moment Newton could only stare at him, because all of a sudden, he realized that it was true.
He didn't want to blow Hermann. Well, he did, but he didn't only want to blow Hermann. He wanted to tease him until he blushed bright red and then temper it with sentiments he didn't know were in him; he wanted to reach up and fuck up that stupid, ugly haircut Newt knew he did himself. He wanted to argue and brawl, intellectually, and he wanted Hermann to know what it meant when he did it. It meant he knew Hermann, better than anybody else knew Hermann, all his bluster and faults-of which there were many-and that he liked Hermann more than anybody else did, in spite of and because of them.
Because he did. He liked Hermann so damn much.
But of course, for once, none of the shit going on in his head actually made its way out of his mouth, and there was nothing between them but stunned silence until Hermann finally said, "Where do you even get off-" and Newt snickered before he'd finished, because even in this moment, those words out of Hermann's mouth were utterly hilarious.
Looking more irate than he'd ever seen, Hermann turned back to his blackboard.
"No, wait," Newt said, scuttling over, "wait, I just confessed my undying love, dude, you can't just ignore me-" And that got Hermann's attention in an instant, and they were face-to-face again, Hermann's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"You most certainly did not do anything of the kind."
Newt thought for a moment, bouncing anxiously on his heels, and then he asked, finally, "Hermann, you know we're friends, right?"
With that, all the fight drained from Hermann right before Newt's eyes, and he curled in, slumping over his cane. "Are we?" he said, with what Newt felt was unnecessary drama, and Newt couldn't help but roll his eyes.
"Obviously," he said.
Hermann bit his lip, taking an aborted half-step forward before shuffling back again. "And…" he said, sounding uncertain. "More?"
Newt cast about for words, but for once in his life, words failed him. He gave a shrug. "I dunno, man. Maybe?" He grinned. "It's the end of the world as we know it, and everything," and damn, that had sounded more poetic and apt in his head.
"Indeed," Hermann said, lips curling into an answering smile like he knew just what Newt meant anyway, and hell, of course he did. And that made Newt want to say everything, even if he didn't know what everything was just yet, not quite; except just then, Stacker Pentecost paged them that they were needed-urgently-on the roof, and they bustled off, ready, set, go, to save the world.
("Unscientific aside: Hermann, if you’re listening to this, well, I’m either alive and I’ve proven what I’ve just done works-in which case, ha, I win-or I’m dead, and I’d like you to know this is all your fault, it really is, you drove me to this," he said, and what he meant was, "Bye, love you." He trusted Hermann to understand.)
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Thank you for reading it! =)
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