#newtslaws

[pointmanparadox]

newtslaws replied to your post “which hair is softer his stubble or his jungle”

HIS JUNGLE *WHEEZES*

I'm glad you're getting a kick out of this.

If you're the one sending these, I swear, Newt.

[pointmanparadox]

newtslaws replied to your post: does eames stubble hurt your bits or is it soft

*LAUGHS NONE STOP AT ARTHUR*

[hermanngott-math-and-scienc-blog]

Why does that guy look like Petter Griffon?

i DONT KNOW THESE ARE THE WORLDS UNSOLVED MYSTERIES

EVEN I CANNOT ANSWER THIS QUESTION

[hermanngott-math-and-scienc-blog]

bondage

"Yes." He replies, a little eager.

[the-pure-equation]

In You I Find My Muse (Drabble)

I was listening to Rammstein, as you do. And this happened - For my Newts.

Characters: Hermann Gottlieb, Newton Geiszler

Warnings: Major Character Death.

---------

Newt had long since lost his musical muse, his Dreadnought guitar sitting untouched in his Shatterdome apartment as he became caught up in the excitement of the war, the discovery of something never before seen. Then the scorn of his fellow Corps members pushed him further into his work, further away from any form of self expression save for the all American-boy rock-star façade he put on for Hermann's benefit -- or displeasure as the other would see it.

The closing of the breach signalled the end of an era, a change in the wind. Yet for Hermann and Newt, nothing had really changed. He had long since given up finding the free-willed spirit of his youth, the part of him that saw everything with equal parts fascination and wonder. The lyrical poet within him, the musical genius, had gone. There was still research to be done, complaints (multiple) to be laid, the two of them locked within their isolated bubble of existence.

When Hermann was admitted to hospital, Newt stood staring at the empty lab, a knot curling in his stomach as his eyes ran down the length of the dividing line. He wandered aimlessly from room to room, down seemingly identical hallways searching for something that he could not identify. As he stood in the doorway of his room, eyeing the corner of his room that had not been touched in eight years, he finally picked up his guitar.

The melodies came back, slowly at first then at an increasing pace. He'd found it in Hermann -- His medium for which he channelled that long forgotten muse. The angst of his righteous 'stick it to the man' thrums and throws warbled through the hospital before he found a softer, more gentler root. He resorted back to his mother tongue, songs of a time long since passed as he strummed rhythms that beat in sync with Hermann's heart monitor; seated in the only chair in the room, his foot resting against the bed in an act of defiance and closeness both.

Wenn ihr nicht schlafen könnt

Others came and went, remaining stony faced for what was deemed an appropriate amount of time before offering a wane comforting smile to Newt and disappearing again as silently as they had come, only to be replaced by another straight-laced figure who felt an impending sense of duty to see how the mathematician was doing. And still Newt continued to play, the chords vibrating in his fingers while Hermann slipped in and out of consciousness.

Sei euch ein Lied vergönnt.

"Even in this god-awful place you still insist on tormenting me with your dreadful taste in music," Hermann had complained once although there was no heaviness in his tone, rather, affection.

Und der Himmel bricht.

"You love me, Hermann," Newt had replied without missing a beat, fingers running deftly from chord to chord. The stuttered laugh and gentle squeeze he received to his foot was answer enough.

Ein Lied fällt weich vom Himmelslicht.

Conversation grew less, the surrounding air taking on an icy chill that would not recede. The rhythmic beeps of the machine at Hermann's head began to slow. Still Newt remained, playing for Hermann, for what they had had and what they stood to lose.

Immer wenn ihr traurig seid.

A lone beep on the monitor.

Spielen wir für euch.

A pause.

Wird für euch ein Lied gespielt.

A single tear ran down Newton's cheek.

......Wird für euch ein Lied gespielt.

The continuous drone of the monitor flat-lining commingled with the shouted orders and desperate scramblings of the stationed Doctor and nurses suffocated him, his hands falling away from the guitar in defeat. The sombre quiet that followed was deafening. 

Newt shifted, his hands returning to the strings. A final goodbye to the one he had lost.

....Ein Lied.

...................Ein Lied..... Für Sie.

[newtslaws]

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[newtslaws]

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[newtslaws]

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(Scott I assume)