#i love how instead of being mad abt it macaroni's smiling as he says that tho

[milkbreadtoast]

YIPPEEEEE WOOOOOO 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🧡💛🧡💛 *SHOVING THE TINY CRUMBS INTO MY MOUTH*

[hermannsthumb]

Headcanon or prompt that Newt is planning on proposing to Hermann but keeps getting cold feet and one time when he's drunk he keeps referring to Hermann as his husband.

anon this message was so cute it shook me to the core and i spent all night thinking about it and talking abt it with friends on twitter.....your mind.....your genius....heres some VERY SAPPY proposal fic because *chefs kiss*

“I don’t know why you wanted to go out together if you were just going to immediately drink yourself silly,” Hermann says, crossly. “You’re not exactly stimulating company right now.” Next to him, Newton sways in his seat, hand still clasped around his pint of lukewarm, overpriced beer. Hermann can’t remember which one Newton’s on. He knows that he’s still on his first.

“I didn’t drink myself silly,” Newton says. He sways again, nearly knocking the beer over into Hermann’s lap, but Hermann’s reflexes--honed from years of batting away bits of sterilized kaiju Newton would throw at him in the lab--are fast enough that he’s able to catch it without causalities. Newton winces, then looks at Hermann. “Oh, God, I did, didn’t I? I was just so nervous, and...” He slumps sadly in his seat.

He looks pitiful enough that Hermann can’t be mad at him, though he can’t figure out for the life of him what Newton means by being nervous. It’s just dinner. Their usual once-a-month night out. The establishment is far nicer than where they usually go, so perhaps that’s what Newton means. Hermann slides Newton his own glass of water. “Here, love,” he says, soothingly, “drink, or you’ll have a nasty hangover.”

Newton smiles at him, eyes big and sweet. “You’re the best husband ever,” he says, and downs the water. It’s convenient timing--he misses how Hermann’s eyes widen, how his mouth drops open, how he almost drops Newton’s beer again.

“Husband?” Hermann says.

Newton doesn’t seem to notice that anything is amiss, or that he’s said anything questionable; he sets the empty water glass down and scoots along the booth to cuddle in against Hermann. “Mm-hmm,” Newton says. “The best.”

Newton looks so content that Hermann doesn’t quite know how to proceed to break the news to him that they aren’t married. Gently, of course, but... “Newton,” he says. “Newton, darling, we aren’t--”

Their waiter returns with their entrees, and Newton turns his wobbly smile on him instead. “You got the macaroni and cheese, right?” their waiter says, setting Newton’s plate in front of him (because, through it all, Newton still has the diet of an undergraduate student), and then turns to Hermann, “and you--”

“My husband,” Newton says, and Hermann goes beet-red, “got the gluten-free pasta.” Newton swings his arm over Hermann’s shoulder. “He’s allergic to gluten,” he adds.

“Cool,” the waiter says.

My husband. Hermann could get used to being called that. Very, very used to that. But he’s not (not yet, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of his mind), and it feels disingenuous, somehow, to let Newton believe it, drunk as he may be. “Newton,” Hermann says, once their waiter’s gone and Newton is attempting, and failing, to stab his fork into Hermann’s pasta. “We aren’t married.”

Newton stares at him for a few long moments, uncomprehending, and then laughs. “Oh, right!” he says. He starts digging around in his pocket. “We’re not. Not yet. I forgot that I...” To Hermann’s utter shock, Newton pulls out a ring, simple and silver and beautiful, and presents it to Hermann with a flourish. “Here.”

“Newton?” Hermann squeaks.

Newton beams at him. “You wanna get hitched?” he says. “I had a whole big speech planned, you know, really romantic shit about soulmates, but--I was so nervous about it I kinda forgot it all, and--” He smile slips away. “Are you okay?”

Hermann wipes furiously at his eyes. “Oh, Newton,” he says, “oh, you ridiculous--” Newton is quickly moving from confusion to distress, so Hermann nods. “Yes, Newton, yes, of course I do.”

He helps Newton slip the ring onto his hand--it’s sized perfectly, of course--and then pulls him in for a fierce kiss. “I’m sorry I screwed it up,” Newton says when Hermann lets go of him, looking a little dazed (from the alcohol and the kiss, Hermann imagines). “I didn’t wanna do it in here, I was gonna--I was gonna take you for a walk, and--”

“This is perfect,” Hermann says, sliding his hand across Newton’s--his fiance’s--cheek, enjoying the way the band looks against Newton’s freckled, pink-flushed skin. He starts to tear up again, unable to help himself. “It’s perfect, Newton.”

“Okay,” Newton says, grinning, still mildly dazed. “I love you.” Hermann cups both of Newton’s cheeks and kisses him again.

Newton wakes with a loud groan the next morning, and Hermann doesn’t envy the hangover he surely has; Hermann’s been up for nearly an hour, but he hasn’t been able to convince himself to leave the warmth of their bed or Newton’s arms. He hasn’t been able to leave, period: Newton chose to be the big spoon the night before, and he’s effectively trapped Hermann in a tangle of limbs. “Good morning, love,” Hermann says, rubbing his thumb against the skin of Newton’s forearm.

“Ugh,” Newton groans against his neck. Hermann laces the fingers of his left hand with Newton’s, knowing that Newton will be able to feel the engagement ring. Hoping that he will. It takes a few moments to register, and then Newton suddenly stills, very quiet. Then, he exclaims, “Hey, it worked!”