#ms-julius

“I wouldn’t have cared even if I did,” Hermann interrupts, a bit snippier than he intended. “Valentine’s Day means absolutely nothing to me, Newton. It never has.” He punctuates the sentiment with a violent slash at his board with his chalk, though it’s dampened, somewhat, by the very....pinkness of it. Newton swapped out all of his chalk for something more seasonably appropriate as well, and even then most thorough search of the lab turned up not even the tiniest stub of his usual white.

“It’s a fun holiday!” Newton says. “All about love, and showing people you care for them--and, you know, obviously commercialized as shit, but... You want some of my candy?”

Hermann shakes his head.

Newton heaves a sigh, but he, thankfully, doesn't pester Hermann about it anymore.

In truth, Hermann really doesn’t care he didn’t get any Valentines today. Not for any of the misanthropic, self-loathing, Valentine’s-Day-is-a-sham reasons that Newton likely assumes of him, but for the pure and simple fact that there’s no one Hermann would like to receive a Valentine from. Nor is there anyone he expected one from in the first place. Hermann is not exactly popular around the Shatterdome. Neither is Newton, for that matter, despite his stack of cards and the like; Newton, in his endless quest for attention and affection, is merely very fond of doling out gifts and typically gets something small and perfunctory in return. (Though the rosebush is a surprise. Hermann suspects it came from the young man who works the late dinner shift in the mess hall; he’s always giving Newton extra of whatever he’d like, always with a little wink.)

Well. Perhaps this isn’t the whole entire truth.

Hermann does not think he would’ve minded a valentine from Newton. He would’ve liked one, actually. It isn’t entirely unfounded a wish. He and Newton are certainly...something, these days, beyond lab partners, beyond friends (not that Hermann has considered them friends in a very, very long time), more exclusive than simple friends with benefits. Sometimes Newton spends the night in Hermann’s bed. Sometimes Hermann spends the night in Newton’s. Sometimes it’s preceded by kissing, sometimes by something more than kissing, oftentimes by nothing at all. 

(Hermann thinks that should’ve, at least, earned him a card.)

He mostly forgets about his (very minor) disappointment by the time dinner rolls around and he and Newton take their usual seats at the table in the back corner, but--watching Newton tear through two newly acquired boxes of chocolate--he remembers it soon enough. “Seriously,” Newton says, brandishing the box, “just have some, Hermann.”

Hermann remains stony-faced. “I don’t want any,” he says, and he stabs at the noodles on his plate with his fork.

Later, after dinner, after they wrap up the day’s work, Newton trails Hermann back to his bunk and tries to push his way inside the moment Hermann unlocks his door. Hermann stills him by pressing the end of his cane to his shin. “Newton. What are you doing?”

Newton’s smile flickers. He looks confused. “Can I not come in?”

“Not tonight, I think. I’m...tired,” Hermann lies, in lieu of a better excuse. He’s aware I’m upset with you because you didn’t get me a purely symbolic piece of paper in the shape of a heart would sound incredibly pathetic.

“But it’s Valentine’s Day.”

“And it will no longer be Valentine’s Day,” Hermann says, “in--” He looks at his watch: quarter past eight. “--four hours. Do get out of my way, Newton.”

Newton does not get out of his way. He’s lost his smile entirely. “What’s wrong?” he says. “Are you seriously that pissed that no one got you--”

“I don’t care about the bloody valentines, Newton,” Hermann finally snaps. “I care--” He flushes, shuts his mouth, then counts to ten in his head. “I care,” he says, a great deal calmer, “that you didn’t get me one. As foolish, presumptuous, and juvenile as it sounds, I would’ve appreciated the gesture.”

Newton stares at him for a few seconds. Then, to Hermann’s shock, he laughs. “Dude,” he says, “I totally got you a valentine. Didn’t you read my card?”

“Card?” Hermann repeats, faintly.

“I taped it to the back of the box of pink chalk,” Newton says. “It was kinda hard to miss.”

Hermann shakes his head slowly. In the heat of the moment--in his irritation, his envy, his plain and simple hurt feelings--he’d done nothing more than snag a single piece in a blind rage and take everything out on his chalkboard. He did not look at the back of the box. “Er. No. I didn’t read it.”

“It was a very important card,” Newton says, dropping his voice, inching forward, and settling his hands at Hermann’s waist, “explaining that you would get your extra special valentine, from me, tonight.” He smiles and rubs his thumbs at the curve of Hermann’s hipbones; Hermann’s heart thuds pathetically. “You really didn’t read it?” He looks disappointed. “I put glitter and stickers on it and everything.”

“I didn’t see it,” Hermann confesses, and then says, “Er. Can I still--that is, are you still going to give me the other...?”

Newton nods. “Of course,” he says. “Here.” Then he stretches up on his tiptoes, wraps his arms around Hermann’s neck, and kisses him. “I love you,” he says against Hermann’s lips. “Like, I’m in full-on, romantic, sappy, love with you.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, and he smiles, too, wider than he ever thought possible. Newton’s never said that to him before. “I love you too, Newton.”

They kiss a little more.

“I also put flower petals all over your bed,” Newton continues once they part, the tips of their noses bumping together. “And your floor. And your bathtub. I got a little excited.”

Hermann furrows his brow. “When on earth did you have the time to do that?”