Aftermath: 39 - Untangle This (2030)

“You think you started yesterday with your word differences?” Newton says. “You’ve been doing word differences for a long time.”

Chapter warnings: Realistic depictions of neurological, physical, and bureaucratic trauma. War. Grief. Death. Mental illness. Regular illness.

Text iteration: Witching hour.

Additional notes: None.

2030 (Thirty-nine – Untangle This)

 

“Newton,” Hermann says, pouring liquid Tylenol into a clear plastic cup. “Did you understand what I told you yesterday?”

“Your confession about, like, being in love with me so hard that you hate rain? Myeah.” Newton smiles, radiantly adorable. Hermann kisses his forehead, then hands him his Tylenol.

Newton swallows the Tylenol. “But my question is did you understand that I’m being extra nice to you by also understanding that you—” he breaks off, snarled in subordinate clauses.

“Yes,” Hermann murmurs. “I understand that you’re doing this for me, even though it runs counter to every instinct you have.”

“Mmm hmm,” Newton replies, resting his head on Hermann’s shoulder.

“Did you understand that—despite some of the things I said to you during the war—do you understand that I have always loved you?”

“Myeah,” Newton says. “It jus’ took you some time to realize it. S’okay. Not a thing to—just not a thing. Period.”

“Not quite,” Hermann says, coaxing him to his feet. “It took me time to express it Newton.”

“Herm’nn,” Newton says, a hint of petulance in his name. “Do you really think this is the time to, like, talk about differences in what you meant by different words at different times?”

“You make an excellent point, Newton, but I need to start sometime, and I started yesterday.” He guides Newton toward the bathroom.

“You think you started yesterday with your word differences?” Newton says. “You’ve been doing word differences for a long time.” He lifts an eyebrow in what is likely supposed to indicate some kind of fait accompli, and then shuts the bathroom door in Hermann’s face. Hermann does not give him long before opening it again.

“How do you feel,” Hermann asks, when Newton once again sitting on the couch.

“Kinda weird,” Newton says. 

“Specify,” Hermann says, hearing the edge in his own voice, making an effort to tone it down.

“Like there’s fighting in my head and it’s taking most of my bandwidth.”

“Fighting?” Hermann repeats.

“Like my cortex is trying to jumper cable something but there’s no juice in the battery.”

“Are you saying you feel like you might have a seizure?” Hermann says.

“No, I feel like my brain has being trying to for a while now but it’s not.”

“You can feel that?” Hermann asks, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not saying I can but I am saying that, if I could, it would feel like this probably.”

“Well, you tell me if you feel like you’re getting closer to jump-starting the metaphorical car,” Hermann says, and then, just to make sure Newton understands, he says explicitly: “tell me if you think you’re going to have a seizure.”

“Okay okay,” Newton says, resting his head on Hermann’s shoulder. “You want to talk about your words?”

“Ah,” Hermann says. “A bit. When do you think I realized I loved you?”

“After that math party,” Newton says. “When all your math friends were flirting with me.”

“No,” Hermann says. “Earlier.”

“The drift,” Newton guesses.

“Earlier,” Hermann says.

“When you were like, ‘Newt I love you’.”

“Now you’re getting later again.”

“No sorry I was just saying to myself when were you, like, saying, ‘hmm, Newt, yes. I could be into that guy.’ I’m trying to postulate.”

“Thinking aloud?” Hermann asks.

“Myes.” Newton’s head is heavy on Hermann’s shoulder. 

“I don’t hear any thinking,” Hermann murmurs.

“You didn’t even like me before Seattle,” Newton slurs. “Seattle at the end you tolerated me. I get it, I’m annoying.”

“I was hopelessly in love with you in Seattle,” Hermann says. “And in Alaska. This is what I’m trying to tell you.”

“L’ska?”

“Yes,” Hermann says, rubbing his back. “Try to remember that.”