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Summer arrives in Hong Kong with increasing temperatures that turn the shatterdome into an inescapable fortress of heat and humidity. Ice cubes are smuggled out of the dining hall like contraband, and workers are doing away with as many pieces of their uniforms as professionalism allows. In the residential quarters, where air conditioning is non-existent, maintenance issues ancient, rusting fans that clank and groan all night long. Along with the heat comes the rain: powerful storms that descend with little warning and downpours heavy enough to temporarily shut down the city. The first real storm of the season comes at the end of a week-long stretch of oppressive humidity.
Newt's dragged his fan into Hermann's room in order to double-team the heat. There's a fan on either side of the bed, blowing stale air over them to keep the worst of the heat at bay. Too hot to do anything productive, Newt stares blankly at the ceiling while next to him Hermann reads through e-mails on his tablet. When the storm hits, they can hear the pounding hiss of the rain through the thick concrete of the shatterdome. A thunderclap shakes the walls, and the lamp on Hermann's bedside table flickers. Newt, who has been keeping well on his side of the bed due to the heat, inches a little closer to Hermann.
“Quite the storm we're getting,” Hermann says, looking up from his tablet as the lamp buzzes and flickers again.
Newt is all too aware of the force of nature raging outside, and he flinches as a second low rumble shakes the floor.
“Are you alright, Newton?” Hermann asks as Newt scoots over the last few inches to curl up next to him.
“Yeah, man, thunderstorms just aren't my favorite thing," Newt confesses, burying his face against Hermann's side. The light flickers once more, and then, with a fizzle, the room goes dark, and the buzzing fans go quiet. "Haha, wow, very funny," Newt wheezes humorlessly, "You know what, I revise my previous statement: I fucking hate thunderstorms."
"Poor dear," Hermann chuckles, and he settles an arm around Newt after setting aside his tablet.
The rain thunders onward above them, and when the next thunderclap hits with a terrible boom, Newt jumps and ends up crawling halfway on top of Hermann, slinging a leg over Hermann's thighs and resting his head on Hermann's chest. Newt is trembling faintly, and Hermann rubs his back to soothe him.
"You really don't like thunderstorms, do you?"
Newt shakes his head and presses his ear to Hermann's chest, mashing his glasses against his face as he attempts to drown out another round of thunder with the beating of Hermann's heart. Hermann can't help finding this endearing, the way Newt is so far removed from his normal rock star bluster. It reminds Hermann of when he was young, before his family had moved to England, and of the massive storms that would light up the countryside outside his window.
"I used to be frightened of storms as well, when I was a child," Hermann says, voice soft and soothing. He rubs small circles between Newt's shoulder blades. "I would hear the thunder and go running to my mother. She would let me sit with her until the storm passed, smoothing my hair, doting on me," Hermann uses his free hand to remove Newt's glasses and sets them next to his tablet, "calling me her 'darling boy'."
". . . oh," is all Newt can manage, barely audible over the rain. Something about Hermann's words makes his throat tighten and pulse flutter, nudges at indistinct memories that he hasn't thought about in a long time. Newt presses his ear harder against Hermann's chest, listening to the steady rhythm below.
Outside, the wail of the rain carries on, pounding against the shatterdome in heavy sheets. Hermann strokes Newt's hair, scratching at his scalp and pulling his fingers gently through the product-heavy strands. Newt imagines that this is what it must have been like for Hermann, young and safe in his mother's arms.
“Hermann?”
“Yes, Newton?”
“If you wanted to . . .” Newt starts, “You could, uh, maybe call me that." He takes a breath, "Your, um . . ."
Hermann blinks down at him through the darkness. " 'My darling boy'?" Hermannn says, his tone soft and light.
Newt nods and snuggles closer.
Hermann leans his head down to speak low in Newt's ear, “Don't worry, I'm not going to let this nasty storm hurt my darling boy," and when Hermann says those words this time, there's a heavy weight attached to them. Newt makes a small sound as they settle like warm droplets in his stomach.
“Such a sweet boy,” Hermann murmurs, and Newt nuzzles against the hand carding through his hair.
The warmth in his stomach spreads all over, filling his chest and seeping through his limbs down to his toes and the tips of his fingers. He lets out a long, slow breath, letting himself relax against Hermann, who's wrapped his arms tight around him. If it wasn't for that tight grip, Newt's pretty sure he would be floating away right now. The rain has become white noise in the background, and Newt's almost forgotten about the storm outside until another crash of thunder sounds. Newt whimpers, and Hermann tuts lightly.
“Ssh, I've got you, darling, I've got you. You're being very brave."
"Nnh," Newt protests.
"You are; you're my lovely, brave boy," Hermann drops a kiss to the top of Newt's head. "My precious little Newt."
Newt is practically drowning in the amber weight of those words. He doesn't remember the last time he's felt like this - doesn't think he's ever felt like this since he grew too old to be picked up and coddled. Yes, he's been held since then, cuddled, spooned, but it's never felt like this, not in this way that makes Newt feel so small and protected and loved. If he wanted to, Hermann could rock him to sleep like this, pliant and eager for affection.
But Hermann just holds him, talking low in his ear until the storm passes. Newt barely notices the sound of the rain fading, the thunder becoming muted and distant until Hermann gently pats his side.
"I believe the worst is over, Newton."
But Newt isn't ready to let this go, so he just sighs and wiggles happily against Hermann, who laughs.
"You're going to have to move, you know."
Newt grunts, perfectly content to remain where he is. The heat, however, is quickly making the close contact less than comfortable. With the power still out and the fans inert and useless, there's no relief from the lingering humidity that makes their limbs stick against the each others skin unpleasantly.
"I'm sorry, Newton," Hermann says, gently prying Newt from him, "But it's much too hot to sleep like this tonight."
"Uuugh," Newt groans, "Fine." Rolling off Hermann, he splays himself out over the other side of the bed. The warmth he is feeling has nothing to do with the heat: he feels small, floaty, like he's waking up from a deep sleep. He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes to help himself resurface. The words 'darling boy' still echo dimly in his head.
"So uh, that wasn't, like, weird, was it?" Newt asks as he collects himself.
Hermann smiles. "Not at all. Though here I thought you hated being treated like a child," he teases gently.
Newt peers nearsightedly at Hermann, and Hermann can practically hear the pout in Newt's voice when he responds, "That's because you treat me like a little kid in the lab, dude. I don't need to be to be told what to do, I just like feeling . . . fuck, I don't know, special?"
"Protected? Loved?" Hermann offers.
Newt looks back up at the ceiling. ". . . yeah."
Hermann reaches out to gently smooth over the tufts of Newt's hair, "You can be my special boy sometimes if you'd like; there's certainly no shame in wanting to feel loved."
Newt shuts his eyes. "Yeah, I'd like that."
Still stroking Newt's hair, Hermann drops his voice to a whisper, "Good night, my darling boy."
The amber warmth flickers bright once more.
"G'night, Hermann."