#I think it's kind of dumb to label your own fic as biased like that. well actually no I appreciate the honesty

[llycaons]

on the flipside there is a lot of gusu lan/lan elder bashing too. not that lwj would ever leave his sect either

[hermannsthumb]

for the summer prompts if you want you could do family reunion. it could be a fun and interesting dynamic

YES i think id like to make this into a longer fic itd be so fun, so thats why it cuts off where it is and has the long setup hehehe

13: Family Reunion

from summer prompt memes here

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"I should probably warn you,” Newt says over breakfast, after a few minutes of poking his fork into his room service pancakes (which have been steadily growing soggier) and twirling his orange juice straw between his index finger and thumb.

Hermann sets down his own fork with a small sigh of relief, and Newt has a feeling it’s not just because the unusual (for them) silence was leaving him on edge. “Oh, good,” he says. “I was about to say the same thing. You first.”

"It’s just,” Newt continues, “well, my family’s...they’re kind of a lot.” It’s important to him they go over this now, before Hermann’s inevitable Geiszler Culture Shock during the actual reunion this coming Tuesday. Give him plenty of time to prepare himself.

“I’d be strange if they weren’t,” Hermann says. “I’ve met your father, you know.”

“I know,” Newt says. “They’re just...loud. And nosy. They’re going to ask a million questions about you, and us, and our--” He gestures between them. “--Thing.”

“Our thing,” Hermann repeats. 

“Yeah,” Newt says. “Our--” He mimes something obscene. “You get me?”

There is a brief moment of uncomfortable silence. Newt would have liked to say relationship, because he was under the impression that’s what they have, and he doesn’t think it’s too much of a leap--they share a bed, after all, and occasionally get up to shenanigans in it--but they’ve never labeled it officially and he’s worried about unintentionally making Hermann uncomfortable. “I understand,” Hermann says. “My family is the opposite.”

This is the reason they’re all the way over here in some quaint little German bed and breakfast, after all, instead of going through paperwork or cleaning up old specimen tanks in their Hong Kong lab like they probably should be: Geiszler and Gottlieb family reunions, both scheduled, coincidentally, a week and a decent (but manageable) drive apart from each other. They made a two week long vacation out of it, with the first week--this past week--spent doing dumb touristy things and eating non-rationed food. They have the time to do fun shit like this these days, after all; no more impending doom, no more weight of the world on their shoulders, no more overworking themselves until they collapse into an insensible heap on the lab couch only to be discovered by the graveyard shift janitor at three in the morning. Besides. If Newt and Hermann intend to keep getting up to shenanigans in shared bed, they’ve got to Meet the Families eventually. This way is just tackling it all at once.

“No shit,” Newt says sarcastically. “I’ve met your father too.”

While their recent outing with Newt’s dad had been nice and fun and causal--he bought them dinner--their only run-in with Hermann’s, accidentally, at a banquet during the war had been anything but. Newt recalled a lot of shouting (on his own end), louder shouting (on Hermann’s father’s end), and mortified silence (on Hermann’s end). And that was before Newt and Hermann even started getting up to shenanigans together. “You certainly have,” Hermann says. “Er. Please don’t be too offended, but I don’t imagine most of them will be very polite to you. They’ll have heard about the incident in Anchorage with Father by now. And most of them--well. Most of them don’t approve of me.”

Newt’s face splits into a grin. “They don’t approve of you?”

The tips of Hermann’s ears go red. “Of my career,” he says, “my, er, lifestyle, the career of the man I’ve chosen to share it with...” This, considering what little Newt knows about the extended Gottlieb family, makes sense: Hermann continuing to work on the jaeger program even after his father publicly turned his back on it must’ve been a real shock, and Newt was, after all, Hermann’s research partner throughout it all. Hermann being gay is just the metaphorical cherry atop that. What he says next throws Newt for a loop anyway. “I was also a bit rebellious in my youth. I don’t imagine they’ll have forgotten that.”

This time, Newt full-on snorts in disbelief. “Rebellious?” he echoes. “Holy shit, what’d you do? Get straight A’s instead of A-pluses?”

Hermann’s blush spreads down to his neck. “Er. Something along those lines,” he says. “At any rate. I suppose I’m what you may deem the black sheep of the family.”

“No fucking way,” Newt says delightedly. “Man. I can’t fucking wait for this.”

They check out of the bed and breakfast the next morning and start the two hour ride to Hermann’s childhood home, where they’ll be spending the next few days. They could’ve spent the entire time in Hermann’s old bedroom if they wanted and bypassed paying for a hotel entirely, but Hermann was deeply opposed to it--his siblings would not be arriving until today either, and the thought of being alone in a house with his parents clearly made him uncomfortable. Newt didn’t even bother suggesting it as an option.

“I can’t believe you grew up on a farm,” Newt says when they finally begin to pull down Hermann’s long gravel driveway. Because it is totally a farm--huge property and rolling fields and all--and Hermann has, conveniently, neglected to tell Newt this.

“It’s not a farm,” Hermann says. “Er. It’s--farmland. There’s a difference.”

They drive past a cow.

“It’s totally a farm, dude,” Newt says, waving hello at the cow. It doesn’t acknowledge him. “Did you have chickens, too? Pigs?”

“I had a cat,” Hermann concedes, and then Newt forgets all about pestering Hermann about the cow because the farmhouse finally comes into view behind the tall trees, and wow. It’s big--at least enough for each of the Gottlieb kids to have their own bedroom, Newt’s sure--with a wrap-around porch and a spacious yard. After craning his neck around, Newt spots more cows meandering through a fenced-off meadow nearby, and more excitingly, a large pond a brief walk away. There are ducks on it.

“A farm,” Newt repeats. “You grew up on a farm. Wow.” He thinks he can be forgiven for being a little incredulous about it all: the little Hermann’s shared about his childhood made it seem like he lived out his days chained up in some sort of drafty gothic castle before he eventually fled in the dead of night for uni. This beats the first six years of existence Newt spent in a shitty Berlin apartment by a mile.

Hermann parks their rented car in an empty bit of grass further away from the patch of gravel where another half-dozen-odd cars are and switches off the engine. Then he stares at the windshield for a very long time.

“I haven’t been here since I was a teenager,” he finally says. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel. “Even before that--it was mostly only summers. I went off to a boarding school when I was quite young.”

“Summers must’ve been...nice here,” Newt says cautiously. He’s worried he might strike a nerve without meaning to; it’s very easy to do that with Hermann, after all, especially when it comes to talking about his childhood. Newt used to do it all the time without meaning to. And sometimes, when he was pissed at Hermann, he used to mean to do it. He doesn’t feel very good about that these days.

“I would take my telescope out to the field,” Hermann says, “or up to my brother’s treehouse, on days when I could manage the ladder.”

His eyes dart down to the keyless ignition, and his index finger twitches, as if he’d like nothing more than to press it; Newt reaches over and places his hand on Hermann’s arm in a way he hopes is soothing. “Hermann,” he says. “We can leave now if you want. We don’t have to go in.”

Hermann worries at his lower lip for a moment, then his whole body seems to sag. His hands drop into his lap. “No,” he says. He works his jaw. “We’re going in.”

Newt nods. 

They go inside. Newt can tell, instantly, which of the people milling about are related to Hermann by blood as opposed to marriage: they have Hermann’s fine cheekbones, his funny stick-out ears, his dark hair, and some--only a handful--have eyes almost the same warm brown as his, though without the little crinkles at the corners and Hermann’s delicate, fanning eyelashes. Unless Newt’s just biased in Hermann’s favor. A few of them nod tersely in Hermann’s direction; one older-looking woman outright avoids eye contact and speeds up a little down the hall.

Newt shuts the door behind them and gives the foyer a brief once-over. High ceiling. Neutral-colored wallpaper dotted with small roses. Neutral-colored carpet. A single vase of flowers on a pristine wooden side table. “It’s nice in here,” Newt lies. 

“Hm,” Hermann says with obvious distaste. Then a strange look flits across his face. “Bastien,” he says over Newt’s shoulder, slightly louder. “Hello.”

Newt turns. Walking stiffly towards them down the hallway is a guy who looks unsettlingly like a taller, less pointy, and far more stylish Hermann. He stops a good foot away from them and nods just as stiffly. “Hermann,” he says, and Newt half expects them to exchange a firm, professional handshake. He knows Hermann’s not big on hugs, and he must’ve gotten that from somewhere, but come on. “I’m surprised you came. It’s good to see you.” His eyes sweep over Newt once. “Are you Dr. Geiszler?”

“You can just, uh, call me Newt,” Newt says. His mouth feels weirdly dry. He didn’t expect to get this fucking nervous.

“I’ve seen your photograph online,” Bastien says. His accent is thick, thicker than Newt ever remembers Hermann’s being on the rare occasions his learned pretentious English one slips and gives way to his natural one. It makes sense. He never left the country like Hermann did. “Hermann has mentioned you once or twice in emails.”

“He has?” Newt says, because that’s news to him, but Bastien’s already turned his attention back to Hermann.

“Father is in the backyard,” he says in a low voice. “If you were wondering.”

Hermann’s visible distaste returns. “Ah. Thank you. I’ll be sure to avoid it then.” He allows himself a tiny fraction of a smile. “It is nice to see you.”

"Bastien is only two years younger than me,” Hermann explains once he and his brother have nodded at each other once more and Bastien’s retreated back down the hallway. “I was always closest to him, out of my siblings.”

“I can tell,” Newt says, and, probably lucky for him, Hermann doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm.

Hermann takes him on a brief tour of the lower level of the house. It’s weird; for all the charm the outside has--from the vines creeping up the sides, the ancient shutters, the sagging porch, the beautiful hills--the inside is pretty, well, bland. There’s a pristine dining room. A pristine kitchen. A pristine living room, with couches more out of fashion than Hermann’s sweatervest and a fucking gorgeous piano that looks practically untouched. (Newt whistles when he sees it; “I took lessons once,” Hermann says, “I wasn’t very good.”) 

The main point of Newt’s interest, though, the thing that really makes him stop dead in his tracks, is the single family photo resting atop the fireplace mantle. All six Gottliebs are lined up in a row: Hermann’s father, a woman Newt takes to be Hermann’s mother (she has his eyelashes and his wide mouth), a teenage, and much shorter, Bastien, two twenty-somethings that must be Hermann’s older brother and sister (all three with Hermann’s ears), and--

“Holy shit, Hermann,” Newt says, snatching up the picture frame for a closer look. “Is this you?”

It is, which Newt is sure of even before Hermann flushes beautifully and turns his eyes to the ceiling--there’s no mistaking that scowl or cane. The Hermann in the photograph is leaning against a wall, a good foot away from the rest of his siblings, and can’t be any older than eighteen. He’s got an undercut twice as severe as his current one. A cigarette dangling from between two fingers. And--Newt realizes with a jolt of something that might be called elation, or it might be called horror--an earring in one ear. “Ah,” Hermann says. “I did say I was--”

“This is the best day of my life,” Newt says. “I want a copy. I want three copies. I want to carry one around in my wallet. I can’t believe you had an earring!”

“He did it himself,” a woman lurking near the doorway with a drink in hand and Hermann’s cheekbones says. “With a sewing needle, wasn’t it?”

“A safety pin,” Hermann says miserably. “Hello, Karla.”

“Hermann,” Karla says. They exchange stiff nods. (This family is fucking weird, Newt thinks. Maybe Hermann really is an alien. It would explain a lot.) “Who’s your friend?”

Hermann touches Newt’s arm. “This is my...” He trails off, and Newt starts to wonder if he should jump in with a lab partner when Hermann finally coughs and says, “My Newton.”

Newt gives Karla a nervous little wave. The once-over she’s giving him behind her wire-frame glasses is twice as severe and scrutinizing as the one Bastien gave him earlier--far more Hermann-esque. Specifically, Hermann when Newt’s fucked something up and is doing a very bad job of hiding it. “Your Newton,” she says. “The biologist?” Newt and Hermann both nod. She looks satisfied. And a little disapproving. “You didn’t say he was coming. You may have to make up the guest room bed for--”

“There’s no need,” Hermann says, and a small blush blooms on his cheeks. “Newton and I will be sharing my bed.”

“Sharing?” Karla echoes. She narrows her eyes at Newt again. “Hm. You are his type.”

“Karla,” Hermann hisses. He looks mortified.

“Hermann was always bringing home boys like you,” she says to Newt. “Dyed hair, piercings, tattoos--”

“Karla.”

“All because he knew our mother and father hated it, of course,” she says. “That’s also why he--” She tugs on her earlobe, the same earlobe Hermann has pierced in the photo, and takes a sip of her drink. “He was always so difficult. And now, a,” she says the next word like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, “biologist.” 

Newt feels, vaguely, like he’s entered in a parallel universe, where Hermann Gottlieb is apparently some sort of bad boy rebel without a cause and not, in fact, Newt’s stuffy, uptight, stick-up-his ass lab partner who one time yelled at Newt for being too cheerful at work. “Difficult?” he says faintly.

“She’s exaggerating,” Hermann jumps in quickly. He tugs frantically on the sleeve of Newt’s leather jacket. “Newton, we should--”

“He used to stay out until three in the morning,” Karla interrupts, with something akin to glee on her face, “and come roaring in on the back of some boy’s motorcycle--”

“Holy shit,” Newt says. 

“Newton,” Hermann says. “Upstairs, please.”

Newt places the photograph back on the mantle and scurries after Hermann as he clacks, furiously, from the room and past his sister (who merely nods at both of them again). Hermann doesn’t stop his furious clacking until they make it all the way up the creaky staircase, down the upstairs hallway, and through a door that he shoves open unceremoniously.

This is where Newt stops. He’s not sure what he expected Hermann’s childhood bedroom to look like, but he wasn’t expecting this. It’s undoubtedly Hermann’s though. The bedspread is dark blue, patterned with little white spaceships and orange comets, but looks recently washed, at least. There’s a model of the solar system hanging in the corner, clearly homemade. A heavy layer of dust on a desk in front of a window, where several advanced mathematics texts are stacked up. More spaceships on the faded wallpaper. A few perfectly straight and even posters, one of the phases of the moon from 2006 tacked to the back of the door. A messy bookcase.

Newt was expecting--more neutral colors, maybe. An ancient-looking abacus. Victorian schoolhouse chalkboard slates. He smiles. “This is your old room?”

Hermann eases himself down onto the edge of the bed. “Yes,” he says, and pats the bedspread. “I imagine we’ll fit here together tonight without a problem.”

“Yeah,” Newt says, and sits down next to him. He has a million things he wants to say: your family is fucking weird, what’s so bad about being a biologist, you weren’t lying about being a black sheep, huh, but what comes out, along with a wide grin, is “So. I’m your type?”

“Oh, don’t start,” Hermann says. “Karla was only teasing. She always teases.”

“You used to ride around on motorcycles,” Newt says, “with boys. Plural.”

Hermann darts his tongue out, nervously, over his bottom lip. “With one boy in particular,” he concedes. “Ah. A friend from school.” His blush returns. “He had a tattoo of a sparrow on his shoulder. He was my first kiss.”

Inspired, Newt leans in and kisses Hermann’s cheek. “Dude. That’s adorable.”

Hermann hides his face in his hands. “He had freckles,” he says.