[Newt isn't even aware of the Drift, nor is he aware of Hermann: his voice, his hand, his presence in the Drift or his presence as part of Newt once they've touched.
His young self has enough knowledge but not enough wisdom in him to fully comprehend the situation, and he's not sure he ever will. He wanted her attention, her love, her time, her company. He wanted her to pet his hair and tell him she missed him, listen to him (she didn't even have to understand, dad doesn't understand, no one understands), hold him, acknowledge him. They didn't have to go to the opera. She didn't have to buy him a cake or ice cream or sing 'Happy Birthday'... Just a hug. All he wanted from her was a hug.
His father asks him, with a tired but patient voice, what he can do for Newt.
Make her come back. His voice breaks because it's always broken and it's broken with his tears and Newt gives in and lets his father hug him to his chest--the solid warmth, the scent of his cologne and shaving cream, the press of the buttons of his shirt against Newt's face, the wetness of Newt's nose and tears on the fabric--
A flicker of disruption in his memory and he sees Lars Gottlieb, just briefly, more of a thought and feeling than a face-- And then it's anger, at Lars, at Monica, at himself for losing it and it's the jarringly incorrect Newt from Hermann that is the final nudge over the edge, like the feeling of falling that kicks you awake.
Newt looks around, dazed and scared and confused as to where he was, then embarrassed and exposed, and pulls back from Hermann, ready to crawl under the bed or hide in the basement or flee to the bathroom to lock himself in and never come out like the pathetic child he was.]
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His young self has enough knowledge but not enough wisdom in him to fully comprehend the situation, and he's not sure he ever will. He wanted her attention, her love, her time, her company. He wanted her to pet his hair and tell him she missed him, listen to him (she didn't even have to understand, dad doesn't understand, no one understands), hold him, acknowledge him. They didn't have to go to the opera. She didn't have to buy him a cake or ice cream or sing 'Happy Birthday'... Just a hug. All he wanted from her was a hug.
His father asks him, with a tired but patient voice, what he can do for Newt.
Make her come back. His voice breaks because it's always broken and it's broken with his tears and Newt gives in and lets his father hug him to his chest--the solid warmth, the scent of his cologne and shaving cream, the press of the buttons of his shirt against Newt's face, the wetness of Newt's nose and tears on the fabric--
A flicker of disruption in his memory and he sees Lars Gottlieb, just briefly, more of a thought and feeling than a face-- And then it's anger, at Lars, at Monica, at himself for losing it and it's the jarringly incorrect Newt from Hermann that is the final nudge over the edge, like the feeling of falling that kicks you awake.
Newt looks around, dazed and scared and confused as to where he was, then embarrassed and exposed, and pulls back from Hermann, ready to crawl under the bed or hide in the basement or flee to the bathroom to lock himself in and never come out like the pathetic child he was.]