Aftermath: 43 - A Borrower of the Night (2020)

Hermann, low on willpower, high on misery, decides to watch Newton’s talk. It’s a terrible idea.

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

Text iteration: Witching hour.

Additional notes: None.

2020 (Forty-three – A Borrower of the Night)

Three days after their first Category Four event, the PPDC reclassifies the KRS, which knocks the most recent attack down to a Category Three. Newton spearheads the effort, and chairs an international meeting that ends with an official vote. Hermann, low on willpower, high on misery, decides to watch the man’s talk. It’s a terrible idea. The worst he’s had in a long time.

Newton is an eloquent, engaging speaker, even when he is run down, depressed, exhausted. In a restrained blazer, at the apex of his conservative rhetorical mastery, quoting statistics, the green grown out of his hair, his voice with a slight rasp from the cough he still cannot quite shake—he stands, perfectly poised, at the center of all interlocking circles that encompass sets of qualities that Hermann finds attractive.

This is miserable.

He watches, absorbed, as Newton begins to field questions. He is so composed under intellectual pressure of this kind. It is outrageously compelling and completely unfair. 

Given he’s already torturing himself, there’s no reason to hold back. And so he imagines Newton coming by after his formal address, still sporting that same blazer, and dropping into the chair across from Hermann’s desk. 

“So what did you think?” he asks, his voice ground down to nothing from overuse. He loosens his tie. He pops open the top button of his collar with a thumbnail. Unselfconscious. Perfect.

“No one could have done it better,” Hermann tells him. “You are a phenomenal speaker.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Newton lifts an eyebrow, gives him a small smile.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Hermann replies. “Perhaps I’ve decided to stop employing misdirection as an interpersonal defense mechanism.”

“I love it when you say things like that,” Newton replies, dry, one arm hooked over the back of his chair. “You recognize that the without a shared reference frame I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.” He watches, showing no surprise as Hermann rises, rounds the desk, and straddles Newton’s lap. He just smiles faintly and says, “Ah. So you want to share my reference frame, I take it?”

“Yes,” Hermann says, and kisses him aggressively. Newton’s free hand comes up to cup Hermann’s face, but otherwise he does not change position. He’s neither too enthusiastic nor disinterested, he takes everything with that gentle equanimity that Hermann has seen him display, on occasion, for others. He shares something with the imagined protagonist of Hermann’s letter collection, but he is different now.

“You’re exhausted,” Hermann murmurs, breaking their kiss.

“Not that exhausted,” Newton says, and though the smile is tired there is a heavy thread of mischief running through it. 

“Come along then, Newton,” he says, rising, pulling the man up after him. 

They retire to Hermann’s quarters, and the door is barely shut before they are undressing one another, tossing clothes aside. Newton is an exquisitely skilled lover, his hands gentle and strong and dexterous. He is overwhelmingly sensitive, and it takes Hermann only a small amount of time to learn the ways he likes to be touched, at which point he proceeds without mercy, reducing Newton to a quivering bundle of nerves, pushing his body to the point of total exhaustion. 

“Good god, man,” Newton rasps, his eyes half lidded. “Where did that come from?”

Hermann shrugs with an affected modesty. 

“Your sexual fantasies are outstanding,” Newton says, providing some meta commentary. “I’m sure my real self would think so. I’m also pretty sure he could stand to get wrung out like this, put to bed, and aggressively cuddled.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Hermann sighs.