...Do you ever wonder, Hermann, if you like me because of the Drift...and only because of the Drift? That maybe my growing feelings for you caused you to spiral into MY pit of infatuation and adoration and love and desperation? You said it yourself, you weren't in love with me until the watch. And the watch didn't come until the anniversary of our Drift. You weren't in love with me when I asked you to dance at the party, or in our apartment, or when you and I kissed and had sex and went on the date and-
[That's the sound of him hitting or kicking something, and his tone turns swiftly agitated]
I said I didn't realize it until then, Newton. Do pay attention, because that's not something you need to misinterpret.
I know very well what I felt at that moment, and little of it had anything to do with your own emotional state at the time. If you'd like me to pinpoint the moment I fell in love with you, you're going to have to remain disappointed because I don't know the answer to that.
Newton I can't-
[His voice loses its edge here, and he pauses, then continues gentler than before] ..Newton. You know we're disconnected now. I can't feel anything from you. My brain is sending out pings like it's returning a constant steam of failed server requests and it won't stop. I was able to push it aside for awhile today while I worked; it's the only thing I can do to relieve it.
But I never stop wanting to bring you home, Newton. I want to hold you, I want to yell at you from across the lab, I want to kiss you and lecture you for how much of an idiot you are on a daily basis. I want to wake up and realize this was all some sort of elaborate nightmare, and find you're in the kitchen..
[Another pause as his voice begins to waver. Hermann clears his throat and takes a deep, steadying breath] So don't you dare doubt my sincerity, Newton Geiszler. Or I will port myself to Germany and let you rot in a pit on anxiety once you've returned.
Don't leave me. I'm sorry. I, yeah. I shouldn't have said that, I know, my head hurts and and working has helped that? but now people are starting to fall asleep and it's just really quiet. I don't do well in quiet, Hermann.
It's good, it's really good that you can work through this. I'm proud of you, Hermann. I am. That's not sarcasm. I just I wanted to talk to you. About you. I wanted you and I wanted to escape for a minute and I wanted to feel wanted and to have something familiar; there's nothing familiar here except Miles' face, but I've only known him for less than a month and yet he's the guy I maybe know best here.
I didn't want to do this. Damn. I swore to myself up and down I would not do this to you. I was not going to do this! I was not going to be that asshole and burden you with my shit when you're useful over there and and I'm such an asshole.
Tell me about Liebling. Does she still like the top of the fridge or has she picked a new favorite spot? The potato salad. Was it good? Lots of dill? What sweatervest did you wear today? Or are you going to bed? What time is it there? You could leave the phone on, maybe? I could listen to you sleep? ...that's weird.
Just don't do it again. I'm working as hard as I possibly can to try and locate you, so you'd best appreciate it.
Liebling is fine, so far as I'm aware. I've had Manolo checking up on her while I'm here at work. Chances are rather good I won't be sleeping particularly soon. At least not until Lazuli comes back from orbit and I finish rewriting this software. Then I might consider going home for a shower and change and having a nap.
Nap, Hermann. For fuck's sake, one of us might as well sleep, in bed, no less, with nice memory-foam pillows and those soft sheets of yours.
Dude, I can almost smell the fabric softener--and you, your skin smells so good after a shower, so pink, and your hair, the way it sticks up after you towel it dry, the way your lashes look even more full when wet-- I was a pretty shitty songwriter back when I had a band, Hermann, I can admit that... but you're what men write songs about.
Here I am waxing poetic about a fresh-from-the-shower Hermann Gottlieb. I wasn't even picturing you naked, honest, and that's the worst part of this. It wasn't even, like...THAT. I could practically feel your pajamas...the flannel, the piping, the plastic buttons, how they push against my cheek and leave marks and...
[It's an impossible amount of feeling condensed into so many words, and Hermann's moderately grateful that they aren't connected right then. He blames stress for his emotional state.
One of these days he'll get all that in more than writing]
You have terrible taste. But I miss you just the same, Newton. That is why I must work as much as physically possible. I cannot abide this distance and I wish there were anything I could do to immediately teleport you home.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mathemagier
(no subject)
Tell me you don't actually believe that.
(no subject)
(no subject)
I said I didn't realize it until then, Newton. Do pay attention, because that's not something you need to misinterpret.
I know very well what I felt at that moment, and little of it had anything to do with your own emotional state at the time. If you'd like me to pinpoint the moment I fell in love with you, you're going to have to remain disappointed because I don't know the answer to that.
Newton I can't-
[His voice loses its edge here, and he pauses, then continues gentler than before] ..Newton. You know we're disconnected now. I can't feel anything from you. My brain is sending out pings like it's returning a constant steam of failed server requests and it won't stop. I was able to push it aside for awhile today while I worked; it's the only thing I can do to relieve it.
But I never stop wanting to bring you home, Newton. I want to hold you, I want to yell at you from across the lab, I want to kiss you and lecture you for how much of an idiot you are on a daily basis. I want to wake up and realize this was all some sort of elaborate nightmare, and find you're in the kitchen..
[Another pause as his voice begins to waver. Hermann clears his throat and takes a deep, steadying breath] So don't you dare doubt my sincerity, Newton Geiszler. Or I will port myself to Germany and let you rot in a pit on anxiety once you've returned.
(no subject)
It's good, it's really good that you can work through this. I'm proud of you, Hermann. I am. That's not sarcasm. I just I wanted to talk to you. About you. I wanted you and I wanted to escape for a minute and I wanted to feel wanted and to have something familiar; there's nothing familiar here except Miles' face, but I've only known him for less than a month and yet he's the guy I maybe know best here.
I didn't want to do this. Damn. I swore to myself up and down I would not do this to you. I was not going to do this! I was not going to be that asshole and burden you with my shit when you're useful over there and
and I'm such an asshole.
Tell me about Liebling. Does she still like the top of the fridge or has she picked a new favorite spot? The potato salad. Was it good? Lots of dill? What sweatervest did you wear today? Or are you going to bed? What time is it there? You could leave the phone on, maybe? I could listen to you sleep? ...that's weird.
Let's just forget having this conversation.
(no subject)
Liebling is fine, so far as I'm aware. I've had Manolo checking up on her while I'm here at work. Chances are rather good I won't be sleeping particularly soon. At least not until Lazuli comes back from orbit and I finish rewriting this software. Then I might consider going home for a shower and change and having a nap.
(no subject)
I know.
Nap, Hermann. For fuck's sake, one of us might as well sleep, in bed, no less, with nice memory-foam pillows and those soft sheets of yours.
Dude, I can almost smell the fabric softener--and you, your skin smells so good after a shower, so pink, and your hair, the way it sticks up after you towel it dry, the way your lashes look even more full when wet-- I was a pretty shitty songwriter back when I had a band, Hermann, I can admit that... but you're what men write songs about.
Here I am waxing poetic about a fresh-from-the-shower Hermann Gottlieb. I wasn't even picturing you naked, honest, and that's the worst part of this. It wasn't even, like...THAT. I could practically feel your pajamas...the flannel, the piping, the plastic buttons, how they push against my cheek and leave marks and...
When did I get so pathetic?
(no subject)
One of these days he'll get all that in more than writing]
You have terrible taste. But I miss you just the same, Newton. That is why I must work as much as physically possible. I cannot abide this distance and I wish there were anything I could do to immediately teleport you home.