In less than twenty-four hours, all non-essential workers are scheduled to depart from the shatterdome. Funny, Hermann thinks, that that's what he and Newt are considered now: non-essential. But even in his indignation he realizes that most people had begun to think of them that way once the PPDC began cutting funding. With everyone besides, perhaps, Pentecost, they had only ever been humored, never taken completely seriously. Only in the final hours of the Kaiju assault did they became important, essential to humanity's survival. Now they, along with the rest of the PPDC, stutter along with their lack of purpose.

2:00 AM. Hermann, fully dressed, sits quietly in his quarters. He hasn't slept and hasn't tried to. Rather than wasting idly these last few hours in sleep, he has been fixating his final impressions of the shatterdome in his mind: the great magnitude of the concrete and steel structure, the vivacity of the life moving within it. He wants to inscribe the sights and sounds of the place in the folds of his cerebral cortex so that later he can turn them over like mementos in his mind.

When he becomes restless in his room, he walks to the k-science lab in the dead lull of the night to ponder those walls instead. It is dark, and when he switches on the lights, the bareness of the space bothers him. All of the specimen tanks are gone; there are no papers or instruments lying on the work tables or desks; the whole lab has been deep-cleaned. Someone has even taken the time to peel off the black and yellow tape sectioning off the two sides of the lab. He feels like a stranger in a place that is no longer his.

By some oversight, the monstrous blackboards on what was his side of the lab remain, pushed back against the far wall. There are still equations written on them, snapshots in time. He approaches them and finds his lips tightening in a straight, hard line.

He is rarely one to be dramatic, but it feels right, to stand there in the empty lab, looking up at his work, surveying the numbers inscribed in chalk before him. He reaches out and touches the blackboard.

The smooth, black surface is cool against his fingers. He closes his eyes and feels every molecule in him vibrating, the intensity threatening to tear him apart. Anger rises in him, sudden and hot. His muscles tense, and he swipes his hand in a large arc across the board, smearing the chalked equations beneath his palm. With an angry cry he balls his hand into a fist and pounds it, once, twice, sharp against the board.

Hermann hears footsteps behind him.

His limbs turn to stone with his arm raised in a defiant fist pressed against the blackboard. There is only one other person who would be here at this time of night. Newt stands behind him in the doorway to the lab and does not say anything.

They stay like this for a long time. The whooshing of the blood in their ears is the only sound they hear.

Slowly, Hermann lowers his arm but does not turn around.

"I've never wanted so badly not to leave a place before, Newton." The words are filled with anger and accusations.

"I know," Newt says.

"I didn't realize it would feel like this."

"I know."

Hermann's voice drops to a whisper.

"I don't want to leave you."

Newt comes up behind Hermann to wrap his arms around Hermann's waist and to rest his forehead on Hermann's shoulder. Hermann lets him and feels a calmness radiating from the points of contact.

"I don't want to leave you either, man," Newt says, then pauses.

"Listen, Hermann, in twelve hours, you'll be on a plane heading to England, and I'll be sitting in an airport waiting for my flight back to the US. I don't want to leave without at least trying to ask . . . You can turn around and punch me right in the face if you want, I totally get it, but I've – I've thought about this a lot; it isn't something I just woke up thinking about today, you know, and – "

"Newton."

"Let me blow you, Hermann?"

Of the thousand things that could have come from Newt's mouth, the forwardness of the request unbalances Hermann's thoughts.

In twelve hours, he will be on a flight back to England. Right now he is standing in an empty, stripped lab that no longer feels like his. He thinks of the warmth that had blossomed where his skin touched Newt's as Newt curled against his body. In twelve hours, he will be on a flight back to England. After this, he will likely never see Newt outside of conferences that will probably never again have content that overlaps their respective research areas. He thinks of the loss that twisted deep in his chest when he realized that he may have begun to feel affection for Newt. In twelve hours, he will be on a flight back to England.

When Hermann doesn't respond, Newt unhooks his arms from around Hermann's waist and begins to pull away, "Never mind, forget it, it was a stupid of me to suggest. . ." But Hermann grabs one of Newt's hands and doesn't let go.

"Newt." Hermann's voice is unsteady.

The use of his truncated name stops Newt more than the grip on his hand. Newt waits, watching the back of Hermann's head as Hermann nods, first slowly, and then again quickly, emphatically. Hermann lets go of Newt's hand.

"Wait – really?" Newt's eyes are wide with disbelief.

"Yes. Yes, really." Hermann's voice is stronger now.

"My room or yours?"

Hermann's afraid that the walk down the shatterdome hallways will make him reconsider. He turns to face Newt, and the blackboard, the last remaining evidence of his work here, looms tall behind him.

"No one is going to be wandering in here this late at night."

Newt's pulse quickens, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

Both are feeling lightheaded, their breath coming faster.

Newt pulls at the bottom of Hermann's sweater vest and shirt, untucking the shirt enough so that he can slide his hand against the flat of Hermann's stomach. Lean muscles twitch beneath his fingers. Lower, Newt feels the sparse hair growing beneath Hermann's navel. Hermann's breath hitches when Newt moves over Hermann's loose-fitting pants to cup him gently through the fabric. Hermann's eyes are strangely unfocused.

"You okay?" Newt asks.

Hermann's throat clicks with a dry swallow before he says, "Yes."

He swells in response to Newt's touch, agile fingers rubbing him slowly. Every now and then Newt pauses briefly to stroke his head through the fabric with his thumb. Already wetness is seeping into the front of Hermann's boxers.

One of Hermann's hands clutches at his cane; the other is balled into a fist at his side. He opens and closes it as Newt gets on his knees in front of him and undoes his flies. Hermann's jaw is slack, and he blinks rapidly down at Newt.

Newt is taking deep breaths, his pupils blown wide. "I've wanted to do this for a while," he admits.

"Oh," is all Hermann can think of to say, his brain sufficiently addled.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Hermann closes his eyes. "No."

Never has he seen Newt be so cautious. Perhaps he thinks that Hermann will startle, like some skittish animal, if he goes too fast. Hermann wants to tell him he's going much too slow.

Newt's fingers worm their way through the two concentric slips of Hermann's pants and boxers, and suddenly Hermann is feeling skin against skin as Newt pulls him into open air. Newt's breath puffs against him as Newt wrings Hermann slowly from root to tip. A stream of pre-cum beads and trickles over his hand.

"Holy shit, dude," Newt murmurs, feeling the liquid ooze between his palm and Hermann's skin. Hermann Gottlieb is a leaker.

"Newton," Hermann chokes, the two syllables forming an urgent request that makes Newt's pulse jump.

Newt leans forward and takes Hermann in his mouth, and as his lips close around him, Hermann's hand shoots forward to grip Newt's shoulder to steady himself.

"My God," he breathes.

It may not be the neatest blowjob, and finesse is certainly lacking, but if Hermann's ragged breathing is anything to go by, Hermann doesn't seem to mind. It has been a long time since Hermann has felt the touch of anything other than his own hand, and the sight and sensation of Newt swallowing him down eagerly is overwhelming.

Newt is working his own hardness through his tight jeans, his other hand gripping Hermann's base when he takes a few seconds to breathe. Put your hand on my head, Newt thinks desperately, Please, put your hand on my head. He thinks about moving Hermann's hand there himself, to feel his fingers curling in his hair, but it is too late.

There is urgency, a warning tone to Hermann's cries as he chokes out,

"Newton, Newt, I – "

And then Hermann's body seizes up, every muscle tensing, and Newt, who has replaced his mouth with his hand, is jerking Hermann in fast, long strokes as Hermann comes. For a moment, Hermann loses his sense of who and where he is as blood rushes in his ears and his vision tunnels. If Newt had not been there to steady him, he would have tumbled to the ground, and when he regains himself, he has to slowly lower himself to the lab floor with as much dignity as he can (which is not much, as his legs feel like jelly and he is still exposed to the open air).

Newt, breathing hard with his eyes closed, sits on his haunches next to him. A dark, telling stain seeps through the fabric of Newt's jeans. Hermann rests his forehead against Newt's shoulder and says,

"I would return the favor, but it seems it's unnecessary . . ."

Newt huffs a small breath of air out of his nose.

"Next time," he says.

Hermann wonders when there will ever be a 'next time'.

They go to Newt's room because it is closer. Among the sheets, they tangle their limbs together, Hermann in his undershirt and boxers and Newt in a clean pair of underwear and a graphic tee that reads "Kaiju King" in large, block letters.

In less than twelve hours, Hermann will be on a flight back to England.

In soft voices, they try to tell each other that this won't be the end of things between them. They will find joint positions at some university somewhere; they are both the foremost researchers in their fields right now: it won't be hard. They could travel together as guest lecturers, explaining the twin wonders of the breach and the Kaiju. They can make this work.

Hermann holds Newt close and breathes him in like the musky scent will slow the march of time.

They can make this work.

Newt falls asleep with Hermann's fingers carding through his hair and dreams of Kaiju emerging from the sea.

They can make this work.