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Logically Newt should’ve known it was coming the second he got his orders to pack his samples and high-tail it to Hong Kong. It was an open secret around the dome for months by that point that the PPDC was pulling the plug on them at last, and anyone who wasn’t deemed essential personnel could expect to be freshly unemployed—not just the Seattle dome (where Newt has been stationed since the summer of 2019, trying to get the latest batch of twentysomething k-biology interns into shape), but dozens of others, all of the others. Shit is fucked, man. Hong Kong or bust. Get with the program.
He’s told he’ll be one of two specialists being brought in to put their heads together for some serious science, though of course with limited resources, limited funding, and limited support, so, you know, perfect chance to get creative. Newt’s egotistical enough that he worried very little about being deemed anything other than essential and had already shipped a third of his belongings off to the Hong Kong Shatterdome a week before he got the official notice. He’d love to see a kaiju science department try to flourish without him. Really, he would.
He’d also love to see a kaiju science department flourish without Hermann Gottlieb, but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards for him. One of two specialists, he thinks miserably. Who else would the other be? No one does Breach science like Hermann Gottlieb.
“We’ve met,” Gottlieb tells Marshal Pentecost through gritted teeth.
It’s the first time Newt’s seen Gottlieb in three years. The guy hasn’t changed much. He was a skinny, pale, bony bastard at twenty-seven when they met at a Kaiju Science conference in Berlin, and he’d fumbled his way through a handshake with Newt that left Newt half-wondering if he’d ever made physical contact with another human being before. The other half of him was wondering what the hell possessed Hermann to get a bowlcut that tragic. Hermann’s pants had been too big for him, and even with his belt notched all the way he still had to yank the waistband back up every few seconds.
He’s a little older now, a little sadder, slouching around with dark circles under his eyes that make him look like he hasn’t slept in a while. That seems to be a trend among Newt’s co-workers these days. “No need to salute me, Hermann, jeez,” Newt says, and Hermann blanches and drops his hand to his side like it’s been burned. He shot up from his desk with the salute poised and ready to go the second Pentecost pushed the lab door open, not even his obvious horror at the sight of Newt enough to distract him from being the biggest, most kissassiest kissass in the world.
They stare at each other. Pentecost glances between them, an eyebrow arched, but tactful (or maybe uninterested) enough to not ask the obvious question. Oh, well. It’ll come out eventually. May as well rip off the band-aid now. “We used to…collaborate,” Newt says.
“A long time ago,” Hermann says. “A very, very—”
“Three years,” Newt says. “Not that long.”
“Not for very long.”
“Four years.”
“If you say so.” Hermann sniffs. “I wouldn’t precisely call it collaborating, either. That implies a level of equal intellectual footing.”
“He’s right,” Newt says to Pentecost. “I was doing most of the work.”
“Ha!” Hermann bursts out, too angry to be considered a scoff.
It makes Newt grin. “Feels like yesterday, doesn’t it, Hermann?”
“Dr. Gottlieb. I told you, I don’t—”
“Gentlemen,” Pentecost warns, and Hermann goes rigid, mumbling out a stream of apologies and snapping back into a salute that makes him look like a massive dweeb. Newt rolls his eyes so hard that he probably strains something.
“Suck up,” he mutters before he can help it.
Hermann goes tomato-red and balloons with rage. Newt can’t say he regrets dangling the bait like he did even after what follows: the first of what he expects to be many explosive shouting matches, the swift delivery of an official reprimand from Shatterdome HR, and a follow-up meeting in the Marshal’s office, where he makes it very, very clear that he expects Newt and Hermann to act their age and get their shit together pronto because there’s a whole lot relying on them. Except, you know, in more professional terms.
And all that within two hours of Newt’s arrival at the Hong Kong Shatterdome. Really gotta be some kind of record. If they keep it up, they might get to add the Shatterdome to their list of locations they’ve been jointly banned from, which so far just consists of that ill-fated conference center in Berlin. Newt’s optimistic they'll get there eventually.
They linger in the hallway outside Pentecost’s office afterwards, Hermann shame-faced and glowering like a kid who just got sent to the principal's office, Newt looking awkwardly between his shoes and Hermann’s death grip on his cane. He’s leaning on it harder than he did the last time Newt saw him. “Look,” Newt finally says. “I know this sucks for both of us, but we’re lab partners now, I guess, and I don’t think that’s changing any time soon, so let’s just—”
“I don’t want a lab partner,” Hermann interrupts with a snarl, “I don’t need one, and I most definitely don’t need one like you. Out of everyone they could’ve stuck me with…”
Newt sighs. “Hermann, come on, dude, I’m trying—”
“Don’t call me that!”
Newt throws his hands up into the air and lets out a single, wordless, frustrated shout. “Fine! Fuck you too, then!”
He turns and marches off in the direction of his new bunk, leaving Gottlieb to bitch at Pentecost or stew in loathing or mope or whatever the hell else it is that the guy gets up to these days, because Newt’s been traveling for over a day at this point and he does not feel like dealing with this right now. He needs a long nap as far away from Gottlieb’s stupid face as possible. Maybe if he plays nice for a while he can plead with Pentecost to be reassigned to a different lab space on the base. Shit, not even a lab space—Newt can set himself up in a goddamn closet. He won’t complain.
He shows up early to the new lab the next morning to get a head start on unpacking some of his boxes, his circadian rhythm so fucked from jetlag that he couldn’t sleep for any longer if he tried. His larger samples won’t be here for another couple weeks—not even his PPDC clearance could expedite customs bullshit—so for now he’ll just have to make do with what has arrived, mostly an odd assortment of his work tools, books, and a few guitars he couldn’t bring himself to leave behind.
He didn’t get to finish his tour of the lab yesterday for obvious reasons. He locates his boxes stacked in a neat pile by the refrigeration units that’ll eventually house his smaller kaiju samples, most likely Hermann’s doing, and then takes a couple minutes to poke around and familiarize himself with everything before breaking out a box cutter. It’s the standard blueprint of every basement laboratory he’s been assigned to since joining on with the PPDC: poor lighting, high ceilings, an air conditioning unit working overtime, a weird, stale damp smell, and the steady drip of something questionable leaking from the pipe system that winds across the walls. Maybe a little smaller than Newt’s lab in Seattle. Makes sense, logically, seeing as Newt had a whole team back there and it’ll just be the two of them here.
Some research division.
It's easy to tell what stuff Hermann brought with him. Judging by the status of his own unpacking he’s been here for a little bit longer than Newt, maybe a week or two. There are a couple computers set up on his desk that look like they’ve either been dug out of a yard sale or a retiree’s donation pile somewhere (in addition to the shiny PPDC-standard holocomputer set up off to the side, which looks completely untouched, how Hermann of Hermann), an electric kettle and a lone mug on the standard kitchenette, and of course the biggest eyesore of them all, which is a goddamn chalkboard that takes up half the lab.
It’s so tall that Hermann’s had to attach a ladder to it so he can reach the top. Newt thinks of Hermann’s cane and his lopsided gait with a small twinge of reluctant concern—it’s gotta be some kind of safety risk to hustle up and down that all day, right? OSHA violation? Are they forcing Hermann to do that? And of course it’s in the dead center of the room. Absolutely the fuck not.
Newt drops down on his knees and inspects the legs. They’re wheeled, which means he should conceivably be able to shove the damn thing out of his way if they weren’t locked so tightly into place. He gives it a few good but ultimately fruitless tugs before sitting back on his heels with a huff. He’ll have to talk to maintenance about that. No way he can cart all the samples he has coming in shortly around that without it being a major pain in the ass. He’s not even sure he’ll have room for his samples with that taking up so much floor space.
He traces his eyes over the string of numbers Hermann’s scribbled across the lower half of the board, nonsensical gibberish to anyone but the two of them. Bordering on nonsensical gibberish for Newt now, frankly. He hasn’t been privy to the inner mechanisms of Hermann’s research for a while. Hermann’s handwriting hasn’t changed much in three years, and the observation makes him nostalgic in a sad sort of way.
“Oh,” Hermann says behind him.
Newt closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose. He’d been hoping Hermann would sleep in a little bit today, or maybe even attempt to move into a closet of his own. He should play it cool. He should play it diplomatic. They’re lab partners, he reminds himself, and there’s no changing that, so they need to get used to it. He hears the click of Hermann’s cane approaching him. “You’re on my side of the laboratory,” Hermann says.
Newt pushes himself to his feet just in time to end up face to face with Hermann. Well, as face to face as they can get: he stretches himself up to the tips of his boots to close that gap a little for vanity’s sake. Hermann is dressed in the same brown moth-eaten blazer as yesterday, thrown over an equally ugly sweatervest and equally baggy pants. This close Newt can see how much skinnier he's gotten since 2017. Probably stress. Not enough meals and too much caffeine. Newt knows from experience.
“Your side?” Newt echoes.
Hermann taps his cane aggressively against the ground until Newt looks down. He’s standing on a section of a thin, smudged line (drawn in the same chalk as Hermann’s equations) that he realizes now runs the length of the lab, dividing the half that contains Hermann’s chalkboard and computers from the tidy stack of Newt’s boxes and his new dissection bench. No wonder Hermann crammed all Newt’s shit over there—he’s given himself almost two-thirds of the whole goddamn lab. “Are you serious?” Newt laughs.
“If we’re meant to work together, it would benefit both of us if we were out of each other’s hair as much as possible,” Hermann says with a bitchy little sniff. “I also don’t particularly fancy having to deal with your… mess every day. You stay over there, and I will stay over here.” He punctuates this with a sharp rap of his cane to the floor. “See? A compromise. Precisely as the Marshal instructed us to do last night. Of course, this is only a temporary solution; we ought to replace it with something more permanent eventually. Perhaps some tape. Or,” he adds wistfully, “a wall.”
Newt does a really, really good job of being diplomatic and avoids the very obvious wall joke he could be making right now, because that’s a can of worms they don’t have the time to crack open today, but he does indulge himself in the thought: like father, like son! “Yeah, uh, not happening,” Newt says. He scuffs his boot against the chalk line to smudge it away, and Hermann huffs out an affronted little hmph. Newt is gonna have to find a mop or bribe a janitor to take care of the rest later. “I’m sure it’s just an accident you made your half twice as big as mine, right?”
“Logically,” Hermann says, swinging his cane out in front of Newt’s legs to stop Newt from going any further, “logically, my work is considerably more important than yours, which means—”
“Which means shit,” Newt says. “We’re partners now, asshole, we have to share nicely, just like,” he says the next bit in a poor imitation of Hermann’s stuffy, posh accent, “the Marshal instructed. I deserve just as much lab space as you do!”
Hermann scowls. “You don’t even have anything in here yet.”
“But I will soon! I have about a dozen samples coming in next week, and I’ll need—”
“Yes, next week,” Hermann says. “I don’t see why I’m meant to compromise my lab space until then when all you’ve got now—” He thrusts his hand out and waves it in the direction of Newt’s cardboard boxes, “can fit in a bloody desk!”
“Okay, I'll make it easy,” Newt says, his voice getting shrill, “I’ll help you rearrange!”
He shoves past Hermann to get to the chalkboard and bends over to fiddle with the wheels’ locking mechanism. He’ll push the damn thing out of the way, wheels or no wheels, if he has to. He’ll take a hammer to it, bust right through it. That’ll clear a path for his samples alright. “Don’t touch that,” Hermann snaps, lurching up behind him. “I spent all of yesterday on those calculations, and I don’t want you—”
“What calculations?” Newt says. He springs back to his feet and pretends to scrutinize Hermann’s scrawl, nope, he doesn’t see anything important here. “You mean theeeese?” He swipes his hand across the board.
He knows he’s fucked up as soon as he pulls his hand away, his palm white with chalk dust. He’s taken out a full line of one equation. Gottlieb put up with a lot from him back in the day, puts up with a lot from shitheads in general (and Newt used to admire it about him, his thick skin, thicker than Newt’s by a long shot), but if there’s one place he’s always drawn the line it’s his research. Too far, Newt, too far.
He feels an apology already forming on the tip of his tongue when Hermann grips his shoulder and jerks him around, slamming Newt up against the chalkboard so hard it knocks the wind out of him. He scrambles to find his footing as Hermann looms over him. “What the fuck, Hermann?” he gasps.
“I ought to have known you wouldn’t have changed in the slightest,” Hermann says, his voice deadly calm in a way that makes Newt want to shrivel up. “Still an insufferable, egotistical manchild with no respect, no regard, for anyone but yourself.” Newt tries to wriggle out from under him, but Hermann grabs hold of his tie fast and yanks him back, forcing Newt to stretch up to meet his eyes. “I haven’t finished speaking to you, Dr. Geiszler!”
“‘Dr. Geiszler,’” Newt echoes mockingly, and Hermann flushes an ugly, splotchy red. “Keeping it sooo professional, huh? You know, dude, you haven’t changed either. Still a prissy bitch with a huge, massive stick crammed up his—”
“You're meant to respect me,” Hermann snarls, giving his tie a sharp jerk, “we're meant to be colleagues, it's the bare minimum—”
“—right, colleagues, Dr. Gottlieb—”
“—I don’t know why I ever thought we—”
“—like to pretend you can't stand me now or whatever—”
“—emotionally immature—”
“—it's not my fault you’re still in love with me," Newt says.
For a second Newt thinks Hermann might slap him. He drops Newt’s tie, and Newt catches himself on the chalkboard ledge before he tumbles to his ass. “I’m not,” Hermann stammers, “I’ve never—”
Hermann had been twenty-seven, and Newt had been twenty-seven, and Hermann had been uncomfortable and awkward, and Newt had been stupid and brash and socially inept and he didn’t know what to say, or what to do, because how could he? What was he supposed to do? He’d poured his heart out to Hermann for years, over emails and letters, behind the comforting pseudo-anonymity of a computer screen and scientific theories, and Hermann had listened to him, the only person who ever really had, and then suddenly he was real and solid and in front of Newt. I enjoyed your presentation, Hermann said, smiling shyly, bizarrely handsome. He was still shaking Newt’s hand. I’d intended to ask some questions, but—
You wanna get out of here? Newt said.
They didn’t, but only because neither of them could wait. The men’s room was closer than a hotel. Newt had Hermann’s shirt unbuttoned to the stomach before they even locked the door. We’ll be caught, Hermann laughed, nervous, but Newt could tell he was excited too. They'd been conspicuous in their earlier reassurances to the other that they weren't bringing a plus one to the conference, no relationship to speak of, unattached, single and free, you too? (What a coincidence!) Who gives a fuck, Newt said, shoving him up against the wall and kissing him again. Hermann had been sweet and gentle then—more than anyone Newt had been with before. He called Newt Newton the whole time.
“Are you afraid if I step foot on your precious side of the lab and, I don’t know, breathe on you you’ll wanna fuck me all over again or something?” Newt says.
“That was… a lapse in judgment,” Hermann says, quiet.
“You didn’t think so then,” Newt leers. (I’ve never done this before, Hermann admitted to Newt as Newt touched his body, not at all, I don’t quite know… Big surprise, Newt said, grinning.) “Not at first, anyway.” (What do you mean by that? Hermann had said, frowning, Nothing, Newt said, just that I’m not surprised.)
Hermann works his jaw back and forth, swallowing visibly. Newt feels like he’s crossed another invisible line, one he didn’t know existed, and, uncomfortable, he defaults back to familiar territory. He grabs a piece of chalk from the ledge and waves it in the air above them. “Loooook, Hermann,” he says, “I’m on your side of the laaaabb, I’m touching all your shiiiiit, aren’t you gonna stop me? Aren’t you gonna,” he waggles his eyebrows, “fuuuck me? C’mon, don’t—”
Hermann’s hand flies out, catching Newt’s own by the wrist and pinning it to the chalkboard high above his head. Newt drops the chalk with a squeak. He squirms in place as Hermann’s fingers tighten, and Hermann leans in, very close to his ear, and says in a low voice, “I think you should learn to keep your hands to yourself if you know what’s good for you, Dr. Geiszler.” He gives Newt’s wrist a squeeze. And that, well—
Newt whimpers. Hermann looks down between their bodies and drops Newt’s hand. “You’re disgusting,” he spits.
“I know,” Newt says, a laugh that pitches to a moan. He’s achingly hard in his jeans, has been since the second Hermann laid a hand on him. “But you like it,” he adds, because Hermann could be gone, out the door, off to HR to report Newt for the second time, and he’s sure it would be the fodder Hermann needs to get Newt booted into a separate lab for good (‘Dr. Geiszler made an unwanted sexual pass at me in the work place’), but he hasn’t moved an inch, his knuckles white around his cane.
“Do it again,” Newt says. (Do it again, Newt gasped, scrabbling at the grimy bathroom tile while Hermann worked his hand down Newt’s jeans and pressed another biting kiss to Newt’s throat.)
Hermann’s lip curls back into a sneer. “No.”
“Please,” Newt begs. “I know you’re thinking about it. I want—fuck.” The admission is so pathetic it makes him blush when he finally gets it out. “I want you to be mean. You can slap me, hit me if you want, you know, stuff like—stuff like that.” He twists his fingers in the front of Hermann’s sweatervest and Hermann recoils, shoving him away, but then a moment later he’s stumbling forward and crowding Newt up against the chalkboard. He stares at Newt’s mouth and breathes hard. He doesn’t kiss him. He grabs Newt’s arm, lifts it, pushes back the sleeve.
“I see you’ve added to your tasteless collection of body art,” he murmurs. He digs his thumb into Newt’s forearm over the snarling maw of the kaiju Newt got tattooed earlier that year. It hurts, and Newt hopes it bruises. He whimpers again at the bolt of lightning it sends right to his dick.
“S-sure have,” Newt says. He flashes Hermann a cheeky grin. “D-do you want to see how far down they go? You did last time.” Hermann digs his thumbnail in, and Newt winces. “Ah, fuck, Hermann—”
Hermann backhands him across the face. Newt’s head collides, not painfully, with the chalkboard, his glasses sliding down his nose. His dick gives a violent throb in his jeans. “Oh, fuck,” he moans. Dizzy, he grazes his fingertips over his stinging cheek. It’s hot to the touch.
“I told you not to call me that,” Hermann says. He pushes Newt’s glasses back up his nose with two fingers. His slacks are tented in the front with his erection. He tilts Newt’s head to the side, darting his tongue over his wide bottom lip as he observes his handiwork, and then presses his thumb to the sore spot like he had with Newt’s forearm until Newt is gasping at the pain. “You are to address me by my proper title when we are in public.”
“Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt squeaks.
“Correct,” Hermann says.
He grips Newt’s chin and angles him up into a kiss. He’s still and stony under Newt, ignoring Newt’s desperate attempts to deepen it and shove his tongue into Hermann’s mouth, and when he finally parts his lips Newt almost cries with relief. He pulls Hermann flush against him as Hermann slides their tongues together. When he creeps his hand down between Hermann’s legs to cup his erection, Hermann hisses out against his lips, “You are to keep your hands to yourself.”
“But I wanna touch you,” Newt whines. He rubs his palm clumsily against the shape of Hermann’s dick, eager when it pulses at his touch. “Let me suck you off. Please. I wanna. Herma—Dr. Gottlieb. Fuck my mouth. Please.” He fumbles open Hermann’s belt, the fastening of his slacks, and tries to shove his hand down the front.
Hermann’s palm collides with his cheek this time, hard enough to send Newt’s glasses flying and clattering to the floor, and Newt blinks at Hermann in a daze. Hermann wraps his fingers around Newt’s tie and forces Newt up onto his tip-toes with a sharp tug. “I would sooner permit you to touch your filthy mouth to my shoes before allowing it near my cock,” he growls. “Do I make myself clear?”
Newt moans again, his eyelids fluttering shut. Shit, he’ll take it—he’ll take whatever Hermann’s offering, cock, hand, shoes, lay it on him, man. “Uh-huh,” he says, and this time when Hermann drops his tie, Newt drops, too, sinking to his stomach at Hermann’s feet. When he tries to kiss the tip of one of Hermann’s polished Oxfords Hermann jerks his leg back with a strangled gasp.
“W-what are you doing?”
“What you said,” Newt says.
He reaches out to grip Hermann’s ankle, and Hermann bats him away with end of his cane, like Newt is some cockroach he found writhing around in the dirt. One swing catches Newt’s palm and he swallows down a whine. “Get up,” Hermann snaps. “Get up. Stop making a fool of yourself.”
Newt rises obediently. Hermann shifts his weight to his cane, undoing his slacks the rest of the way himself with his other hand and shoving his baggy white briefs down around his thighs. He draws out his cock and takes it in his hand. “You really are disgusting,” he tells Newt, his voice strained. “Do you throw yourself at everyone like this, or only the people who loathe the very sight of you? Though I suppose that is everyone, isn’t it.” He grunts as he starts work himself over, slicking his way with his precum. Newt keens a little at the sight. “Disgusting and pathetic.”
“I sure am,” Newt says, baring his teeth in an approximation of a smile. He pulls his own dick free from his jeans, made easy by having gone commando today. Hermann notices and rolls his eyes when Newt winks. “C’mon,” Newt says, rubbing his thumb over his cockhead, “call me disgusting again. Call me a slut. C-call me—” He exhales through his nose. “—shit. Call me whatever you want. I don't care. I know you hate me.”
Hermann furrows his eyebrows, his hand slowing on his cock. He works his jaw back and forth a bit again before ordering, “Stop touching yourself. Give me your hand.”
Newt obeys, and Hermann draws it to his mouth to lick Newt’s precum from his palm and from each finger, pausing to flick his tongue out over the pad of Newt’s thumb. He guides Newt down to wrap his hand around both of their dicks. Hermann’s bigger than him by at least an inch or two, something Newt didn’t really notice the last time they did this, and it makes Newt’s face burn with something weird and funny that he feels thrumming in the pit of his stomach. He waits for Hermann’s stern nod of approval before he starts to work them over. “There we are,” Hermann breathes. “Very good, Newton. Isn’t it better for the both of us when you do as you’re told?”
“Uh-huh,” Newt says. He mumbles something out. Hermann touches his chin.
“What was that?”
“I said you’re so much, uh,” Newt ducks his head, “b-bigger.”
The corner of Hermann’s mouth quirks up. “Hm, yes,” he says. He casts his eyes up and down Newt’s body, lingering over their dicks. He grazes his fingertip over Newt’s cockhead. When he pulls it away, it’s tacky with more of Newt’s precum. “Yes, you are a bit small, aren’t you?” He wipes his finger clean on Newt’s shirt. “I see now why you felt the need to pursue so many doctorates.”
“Shut up,” Newt moans.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” Hermann says. He wraps his hand around Newt’s and encourages his strokes, groaning breathily when Newt tightens his grip. “Ah. you’re bound to be—to be merely average in some respects. Or perhaps below average.” He presses his forehead against Newt’s and groans again. “Oh, Newton.”
Hermann is the only person who has ever called Newt that. Newt always liked it, even though he pretended otherwise. Hermann is close enough to kiss if Newt wanted. He speeds his hand, and Hermann starts to thrust into his fist, grunting in time. His dick is flushed pink and pulsing hotly against Newt’s. In Berlin, they didn’t touch each other like this—it was all hands in hair, kissing and rubbing through clothing, Newt’s knee between Hermann’s thigh and Hermann’s mouth at his neck. Hermann had been the one to cum first. “Hermann,” Newt moans.
The painful crack of Hermann's palm across his face for the third time is what sends him hurtling over the edge. He whimpers and cums over their fists with one final stroke. Hermann drops his sticky hand away, and Newt slumps back against the chalkboard, blushing, shaking all over. “Oh, shit,” he pants. “Sorry. Sorry.” He can last longer. Usually. His cheek hurts like a bitch. “Sorry, let me—I’ll take care of it. I’ll…”
Hermann licks his lips. His dick is wet and jutting out obscenely from the patch of dark, badly-trimmed pubic hair at his groin. His sweatervest is stained with Newt’s cum. “Get on your knees,” he says, his voice shaking.
Newt opens his mouth eagerly for Hermann’s cock, only choking a little at the stretch as Hermann takes a handful of his hair and guides himself past Newt’s lips. Newt grips the back of Hermann’s thighs to steady them both when Hermann starts to rolls his hips. “Ah, Newton,” Hermann groans, “yes…” Newt hears his cane clatter against the chalkboard, and then his other hand is settling at the back of Newt’s head to hold him in place while he fucks his mouth.
Newt’s not sure where his glasses are. He wishes he could see Hermann’s face. He remembers how Hermann had looked in Berlin as he came undone rutting against Newt, silly but kinda sexy at the same time. His cheeks got all flushed and his eyelashes kept fluttering. He moaned kinda silly, too, like he couldn’t believe he was making those sounds himself. Newt shuts his eyes as he takes Hermann in as deep as he can, feeling him twitch on his tongue, and inhaling the heavy, musky scent of his body this close. His pubic hair tickles Newt's nose. If Newt's imagining it's the other Hermann—shy, dorky penpal Hermann—above him, it’s not like his colleague will ever know.
Hermann goes rigid when he cums and makes that same funny little moaning sound Newt remembers, clinging to Newt to keep himself from toppling over. Newt swallows it all down, moaning along with him, and sucks at Hermann's softening cock until, overstimulated, Hermann finally slips it out from between his lips. His chest is heaving. “By Jove,” he gasps, and Newt wipes his chin clean on Hermann's pantsleg. He's half-hard again, his cock stirring with interest as Hermann trembles, and he's desperate to keep going, to feel Hermann come apart under his tongue for a second time. But Hermann is catching his breath, shifting his weight back to his cane.
He swipes the end of it at something to Newt's left: Newt's glasses bump against his knee. “Oh, right,” he says. He puts them back on. He’s almost too surprised to accept the hand up that Hermann offers him. “…Thanks.”
They do their clothing up in silence. Hermann’s legs are wobbly and he’s having difficulty doing his fly up with one hand, so Newt ducks down to do it for him. Hermann’s mouth tightens but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes keep straying to the stinging spot on Newt’s cheek, which Newt’s sure is bright pink, and will probably stay pink for at least a day or so. “Don’t apologize,” Newt says quickly, because he can see the gears turning in Hermann’s head. He shrugs, giving Hermann an awkward little twitch of a smile. “I asked you to. I, uh, I liked it.”
“Yes,” Hermann says, nodding stiffly. “Still. Perhaps you ought to… ice it?”
Newt shrugs again.
(I thought you said you liked my presentation, Newt said. Hermann was rubbing the bulge in Newt’s jeans frantically, grinding his own against Newt’s thigh. I did like it, he said, I only have, ah, some questions, there’s no need to take it so…personally. Newt said, Personally?! Stop being so loud, Hermann said, someone will find us. You’re the one yelling, Newt said, and Hermann said, I’m not yelling, and Newt said What kind of guy tries to peer review in the bedroom?)
Hermann coughs. “Er, yes, anyway,” he says. “I will reassess the laboratory tomorrow and adjust our allocated space to be more, ah, evenly distributed, but only under the sole condition that you agree to respect the line of demarcation—so to speak—and make no further complaint about it. I will stay on my side, and you will stay on yours.”
“Deal,” Newt lies, too exhausted, too embarrassed, to argue, to examine the implications of what they've just done, of what Newt's just handed Hermann. He's always been too impulsive. Shouldn't they say something to each other? For a second it looks like Hermann might try to shake his hand. What he actually does is weirder, which is sigh, fix his face into a tight frown, and stroke his knuckles gently across Newt’s abused cheek before turning and shuffling away.
Lab partners. Fuck off, man.