The Right Thing for Me and Ewe

Newton bursts into the room bright-eyed and eager. “Hey, Herms,” he says. “Guess what?” He’s smiling from ear-to-ear, giddy and glowing.

Hermann looks up from his knitting and gives Newton an unimpressed look up and down. “From the smell, I’d say you had a scintillating morning rolling around in animal feces.” He wrinkles his nose with exaggerated distaste. Newton does reek of the barn, a visceral animal stench emanating off his clothes and his muddy boots, but in truth, Hermann has started to find it more comforting than off-putting, much to his own chagrin.

“Ugh, no!” Newton says. “Well, okay, maybe yes, a little bit.” He wedges himself between Hermann and the arm of Hermann’s armchair. The chair was only designed for one person, so it’s a tight, not entirely comfortable squeeze. But Newton is happy and warm beside him, and he was careful not to jostle Hermann’s bad leg, and Hermann can’t get too annoyed at him, even in jest. “Muriel gave birth this morning. The first two lambs of the season.”

Hermann turns his attention back to rearranging his needles and doesn’t even try to avoid elbowing Newton in the side. “Congratulations to the new mother,” he says dryly. “Was it everything you were hoping for?” Newton had been excited for lambing season for weeks, and he’d even been talking about how much he wanted to be around for it since they’d first taken up residence here several months ago, right at the beginning of their joint sabbatical. He was the one who chose this place after all, this quiet little sheep farm in the Wales low country. They could have worked on their book anywhere in the world, but Newton had insisted on no cities, no Pacific Ocean. (“And animals,” Newton had said. “There’s gotta be animals.”) Hermann had been inclined to agree, but he put up a token argument about finding someplace more sanitary, more out of habit than anything else.

Newton’s energy calms a bit, the way it does more and more often these days. He doesn’t feel the need to be constantly in motion, to do everything all at once. They were all far too high strung during the war. “It reminded me of Otachi, kinda,” he says. “Not really the same, but just like, it reminded me of that.” He slouches against Hermann’s side, tilting his head until it rests on Hermann’s shoulder. “I keep thinking that maybe things will stop– that it– that I won’t always be thinking about the stuff that happened to us during the war.”

“I keep thinking about it too,” Hermann says. There are the nightmares about what they saw in the Drift of course, but he also has persistent anxiety dreams about the war clock counting down, of mistakes in his calculations that result in millions of deaths, of the Breach reopening and belching out new unimaginable horrors.

Newt shakes his head, his hair soft against Hermann’s neck. “It’s been a whole goddamn decade, man.”

“And I imagine we’ll still be thinking of it for many more. Especially since we have this book to write.” It’s meant to be a dry, technical document of sorts, an exploration of the mechanics of the Breach from both an astrophysical and a xenobiological viewpoint, but really, the real reason they’re here is because it was strongly suggested that they go on sabbatical after Newton called a large donor of their university a “soul-sucking capitalist douchebag” during the annual holiday party. Perhaps years ago, decades ago, Hermann would have resented Newton’s impulsiveness and willingness to spew every inane thought that passes through his brilliant mind, but Newton isn’t the only one of them who has mellowed over the years.

The midday sun is bright through the window. The weather is getting warmer. The days are getting longer. Hermann gives up on his knitting, setting down his half-finished scarf on a nearby table where Boots, the resident tuxedo cat, will inevitably ruin all his hard work. He closes his eyes and soaks in the moment. He wishes he could describe it in numbers, in symbols, in the complex and beautiful handwriting of God, but the sensation in his chest is too expansive, too intricate, too shapeless. In all likelihood, it belongs in Newton’s domain, a result of the interplay of chemicals within their all-too-fragile bodies. But even then, Hermann is sure the answer would feel insufficient, lacking in comparison to how it feels.

“Hey, Hermann,” Newton says, and Hermann opens his eyes. Newton has pulled away slightly so that he can meet Hermann’s gaze. He is still so handsome it takes Hermann’s breath away. There’s new gray at his temples and new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but his chunky black glasses are familiar, and he still insists on wearing his hair in a style that would only suit a man half his age. So many years spent together – both companionably and not – and somehow Hermann has never tired of the sight of him. “Guess what?”

“Yes, Newton?”

“I love you,” Newton says. He grins, impish, like he’s just pulled the world’s greatest prank on Hermann, and who’s to say that he hasn’t. Falling in love with this man was the most ridiculous thing that has happened to Hermann in his entire life. Newton leans in for a kiss.

Hermann shoves him away, because he may be foolishly in love, but he still has standards. “Go take a shower. You’re filthy.”

“The magic is gone,” Newton sighs as he stands up and gives his shoulders a stretch. But he still shoots Hermann a wink and blows Hermann a kiss on his way out the door.