Aftermath: 26 - Chimes at Midnight (2015)

The arguments feel like a natural evolution of their correspondence.

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

Text iteration: Witching hour.

Additional notes: None.

2015 (Twenty-six – Chimes at Midnight)

Shortly after Hermann realizes he has feelings for Newton Geiszler (insupportable), he begins to make a strong and sustained effort to keep the man at arm’s length. Is this a good idea? Maybe. Is it easy? No. Is it necessary? Yes.

He grits his teeth. This infatuation will pass. It must. 

And, until that time, Hermann will allow himself a single outlet for his frustration: intellectual combat. A completely acceptable academic pastime with a long and respectable history. An appropriate outlet for his problems. Everyone would agree.

It doesn’t hurt that Hermann adores going toe-to-toe with the man. He cannot get enough of it.

The arguments feel like a natural evolution of their correspondence. Newton is quick-witted, his intellect cuts deep, he thinks rapidly, he is passionate—Hermann has rarely experienced anything so satisfying in his life. The deep knowledge they have of one another, assembled from years of epistolary confessions, only deepens the gratification that comes with no-holds-barred cognitive combat. 

They are developing something of a reputation for their disagreements. If they continue in this vein their fights will become the stuff of institutional legend. Case in point: their third journal club devolves into a shouting match between J-Tech and K-Science so vicious that Dr. Lightcap, incredulous, bans future meetings. 

Afterwards, Hermann seeks the man out. 

He finds him in the rat’s nest that is his office. Newton hasn’t been in Anchorage for even two months; how has he created the impression of an intellectual bomb dropping? The esteemed Dr. Geiszler is leaning back in his chair, chewing on a pen, reading Nature: Kaiju Science, which Hermann now refers to as “That Rag,” despite its excellent reputation. Even dressed as he is (atrociously), precariously poised on two legs of a chair (idiotically), with some kind of cacophonous disaster playing from his phone speakers (disrespectfully), Hermann finds the sight of him not wholly objectionable.

Hermann raps on the metal doorframe, even though the door is open. 

“Oh,” Newton says, dry and disdainful, “it’s you.” 

“So sorry to disappoint,” Hermann replies. “I came to tell you that despite the order to desist, I would not be opposed to continuing our journal club in a smaller format.”

“You rebel.” Newton grins wickedly. “You wanna go underground? A we-don’t-talk-about-journal-club Journal Club?”

Hermann arches a brow.

“Oh come on. You fucking loved it didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“Charming, I’m sure,” Hermann says. “As I stated, I am not opposed to continuing in a venue less public.”

“My god that was a great fight,” the man sighs, propping his feet on his desk, closing his eyes. He presses one hand to his chest, grimaces as if in pain—no, scratch that, sexual pleasure—and delicately bites the tip of his pen cap. He moans. “I’m not gonna lie. I loved it. I loved it in a borderline erotic way.” His eyes snap open as Hermann tosses an issue of That Rag at him. He nearly loses his balance trying to catch it. All four legs of his chair are now on the floor. As they should be.

“Until next time, then.” Hermann walks away, and, behind him, he hears Newton’s quiet laughter.