“Not exactly a picnic if it’s in the backyard, is it?” Hermann says.
“Technically,” Newton says, “by virtue of it being a backyard that isn’t ours, I think it counts.” He grunts with effort as he lifts an armful of brown leaves up and deposits them into a larger pile—something which could have easily been accomplished with the rake he’s abandoned on the grass. But it was giving his hand splinters, he claimed. Hermann supposes it does look quite old. “Ugh. I forgot how much I hate doing this.”
“Mm,” Hermann says. He considered, earlier, offering his assistance, and then he realized he really didn’t want to, so he’s taken up a nice bit of grass with a tartan throw blanket Newton stole from the house and finds himself content enough to watch. Newton’s bending and twisting every which way does offer a rather nice view. As do his skinny jeans.
“My dad,” Newton says, hefting up another armful, “used to pay me ten bucks to do this. Except, you know, giant piles of leaves, me—recipe for disaster. I would just jump in the second I finished and have to do it all over again.”
Newton bends over again. Hermann tracks the stretch of those jeans like a hawk. “I never saw the appeal, myself,” he says. “We had these great big trees about the yard growing up. Used to drop leaves everywhere. And acorns. It was a bloody nuisance.” He recalls, once, his elder brother coerced him into a leaf pile he’d raked up, only to reveal it was merely a ploy to get him to touch a slug that’d attached itself to one of the leaves. Horrid.
“You’re no fun,” Newton says. He scoops up two more armfuls and tosses them onto the pile, considerably more slowly than when he started. “Ugh. Let’s just forget this.”
They’re visiting Newton’s father this week, as a concession to the weeks, years, he spent insinuating to Newton he’d simply love to meet his friend Hermann (friend, of course, spoken with plenty of insinuation), and this is the first time they’ve had a moment to themselves the whole while. Newton’s father is a kind man, but extraordinarily overwhelming. Evidently it’s genetic. “Oh, let’s not,” Hermann says, fearing (should they go back in the house) another round of Newton’s childhood photos crammed under his nose, or perhaps more interrogating as to whether or not they’ll be producing any Geiszler grandchildren. (Hermann blushed so fiercely when that question came up his face felt as if it were on fire, and Newton coughed his mug of coffee up all over the carpet.) “I’m enjoying myself. Besides—you’ve almost finished.”
Newton looks to the spot he’s cleared away under the big oak tree, a sizeable patch of yellowing grass, and sighs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’d be stupid to stop now. But—” He quickly unbuttons his flannel shirt, revealing a short-sleeved t-shirt, and tosses it to Hermann. “Put this on. You look really cold.”
Despite his thick sweater, Hermann was beginning to feel a bit of a chill—brought on, no doubt, by the fast-setting sun—and so he tugs the flannel on without complaint. It smells like dead leaves and Newton’s deodorant. A strange combination, but Hermann enjoys it nonetheless, in no small part for its warmth. It’s like being hugged by Newton. A Newton who rolled about in the dirt first. “Won’t you be cold?” Hermann says.
“Are you kidding?” Newton says. He laughs. “I’m sweating like a bitch.”
The loss of the flannel has offered up even more for Hermann to ogle, and he finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from Newton’s inked arms curling and flexing and straining and doing all sorts of interesting things as Newton clears through more leaves. What he wouldn’t give to have Newton with him now on the blanket, those arms bracketed above his head… “I think this is good,” Newton finally says.
“Mm?” Hermann says to Newton’s bicep.
Newton looks back at him with a small, knowing grin. “Sorry. Did I distract you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Hermann says. “Help me up, won’t you, dear?”
Newton does, carefully, handing him his cane, and then moves the tartan blanket over to settle on the cleared patch beneath the tree. It’s the spot he insisted on when they came out here, though Hermann can’t really see any difference between it and anywhere else in the yard. “One second,” he tells Hermann, and then darts over to the back porch. He’s back in a moment with their picnic basket. A largely unnecessary picnic basket, really, considering they’re two steps from Newton’s father’s house.
They sit. Newton draws their dinner from the basket, a now quite cool tub of soup, and equally cool apple cider. The sky is orange with the sunset; a chilly wind blows down a few more leaves. “I’m cold,” Hermann says.
“Me too,” Newton admits. “This wasn’t really a good idea, was it?”
Another gust of wind sends a leaf spinning directly into Hermann’s bowl of soup, and Hermann wrinkles his nose as he draws it out. “It seemed one at the time,” he says. Newton is getting harder and harder to see in the dusk.
“Not very romantic,” Newton says.
He stirs his spoon around his soup in silence.
“Wanna go back inside and order a pizza?” he says.
✿ ⬤ ✘ the catch is all of this in a situation where newt got his wisdom teeth out. all four of them. if charles asks i never sent this
[i’d why i’m giggling so hard,,, i think it’s the last bit,,,]
|| ✿ - feeling so out of it, they need constant attention
⬤ - being called soft things like baby, sweetheart, or honey
✘ - forehead kisses
& wisdom teeth ||
“Newton, on G-d, if you try to bite me again, I will leave you on the street to care for yourself!” Hermann hissed, putting far too much weight on his bad leg and using one hand to wedge open Newt’s mouth to remove the soiled gauze.
Normally, Newt would retort to such threats with his own quips, one of the many joys of their marriage, but he was so hopped up on novocaine and laughing gas that his instinct was to instead get teary-eyed. As he opened his mouth to whine, Hermann managed to wriggle his long, slender fingers into it, careful to not get gauze fibers caught on his stitches and using all of his willpower to ignore the slobber amassing on his fingertips. Newt had made it forty years with no teeth related problems, only for his jaw to begin to ache and the nerves in his back teeth sear in pain a few days after his birthday. Sure, in the past he hadn’t been great at the whole self care thing but having been married to Hermann for a couple of years now had whipped him into the semblance of shape. That is to say, he brushed his teeth on a regular basis and that more or less kept his affinity for sweets from eating away at his enamel. But, what was inevitably the problem was not having enough room in his jaw for his wisdom teeth, making it difficult to do much of anything as they tried to push through the surface finally.
So that’s how he got here-- drugged up enough to have no idea where he was (he was home) and having pressured applied to his jaw to force it open by someone who was familiar but not too familiar but not too not familiar (it was his husband). Irrationally terrified of getting hurt or being subjected to threats, he let his mouth hang open, open just enough for Hermann to rinse his gums, eyeballing them to make sure they weren’t bleeding anymore, and gently closing his mouth placing two fingers under his chin. Newt was staring at him sullenly, half pouting, and he was starting to feel bad for being nippy earlier, especially because Newt was still struggling to come to. He quickly ran over the aftercare list catalogued in his head and realized it was probably about time to have lunch, knowing how important it was for Newt to not skip any meals.
“Would you like some ice cream, darling? I bought your favorite while I was at the grocery the other day.” He asked softly, hoping it would soften his husband’s expression.
Newt simply nodded, tucking his lip back into its normal position, prompting Hermann to pat his hand and stand up, hip popping in a manner that would have disgusted a more conscious Newt. He grasped for his cane and gripped its head tightly, desperate for the support after the awkward way he was kneeling his knee in between Newt’s on the couch. His other hand was occupied with the spit-covered gauze, intending to dispose of it and properly wash his hands before getting his husband a bowl of ice cream and some leftover fruit salad for himself. When Hermann left him, Newt sat back, leaning his head over the back of the couch and closing his eyes, sniveling at the uncomfortable ache in both sides of his jaw. He had almost come back into reality but succumbing to the pitch-black darkness behind his eyelids made his dissociate, hyper-aware of the loss of warmth and the sound of toe nails on wood as their pit bull found himself intrigued by Hermann’s business in the kitchen. At the noise of Pickle sitting down to beg, Newt’s eyes snapped open and he stared straight ahead, panicked that he appeared alone.
“Hermann?” He shakily called, too frozen in fear to move his head.
“Newton, I’m in the kitchen,” Hermann replied, brows furrowed as he paused his reach for bowls, “You’ve been sitting alone for barely five minutes. You’re fine, dear.”
Newt sniffed as he glanced over, anxiety slowly dissipating, being replaced with an urge to cuddle and a rumble in his stomach. Pouting once again, he drew up his feet to shove his shoes off, folding his legs into a crisscross, which was apparently taken as an invitation by their angora, Ada, who slinked into a fluffy spiral in his lap. It was a risky gander for Hermann to carry a bowl in each hand, cane hooked on his elbow, but as long as he shuffled slowly back to the living room, he predicted he’d be alright, though it was going to require Newt to scoot over so he could actually deliver some well-deserved attention. Acknowledging his ascent, Newt indeed moved over to make room and Hermann sat down roughly beside him with little error. He handed Newt his ice cream and used his now free hand to wrap the shawl they kept on the couch around their shoulders. Newt looked at him with stars in his eyes, likely coming to and remembering how much he adored his husband, and Hermann couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips, leaning in to kiss his forehead, blush beginning to dust Newt’s cheeks.
They took their first bites in silence, equally too lazy to grab for the TV remote and flip it on, basking in the quiet atmosphere that was rare in their home. Realizing what Hermann had, Newt swiftly swallowed his bite of ice cream and turned to him with his mouth open. Hermann’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion until he put two and two together and vigorously shook his head, which bruised Newt’s spirit once again.
“The grapes and strawberries are going to get caught in your holes and you’ll be crying about it into next Tuesday.” He scolded, preferring not to have to go back to the dentist just because Newt refused to listen.
“Fineeee. Can I at least have another kiss?” Newt bargained, needing some sort of intimacy.
“If you give me a bite of yours.”
Newt reluctantly scooped up some of his green tea ice cream onto his spoon and placed it in Hermann’s mouth, relishing in the smile he made around the spoon. The decadence of indulging in food and affection was enough to make him temporarily forget the pain in his mouth, which was gradually getting iced by the chill of his treat. Hermann wiped his mouth with a napkin he miraculously pulled out of his pocket and once again leaned in to kiss Newt’s forehead, this time making Newt bury his face into his neck. Newt ran his tongue over his gums to double check he wasn’t bleeding away and swallowed thickly when he determined he wasn’t, chest filling up with love and warmth, particularly over Hermann’s devotion to him.
“I luff you...” He muttered, almost wanting Hermann not to hear it.
