#this boo has taken over my brain and all i can draw are stupid memes

[theboyanachr0nism]

shitposting through the pain

[hermannsthumb]

Hiiii Maria! Seasonal Newmann u say? How about uhhhhh wine tasting + corn maze for them guys

HAPPY OCTOBER 1STTTTTTTT

Anonymous said: For the prompt meme,,, corn maze pls

from autumn fic meme here: 18. wine tasting + 27. (x2) corn maze

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It was a bad idea from the start and destined to fail, Newt will admit that. At the time, though (after a long day of ingesting as much sugar as possible at the fall fest, rounded out with a genuine wine-tasting in a big spookily-lit tent) it sounded great. And Hermann agreed it sounded great. They’re scientists, Newt said. They’re some of the greatest ones of the century, probably. How many scientists have hooked their brains up to an alien hivemind and lived to talk about it? Exactly two–and it’s them. He’s pretty sure they can solve a stupid corn maze. Even tipsy. Shit, they could probably finish it in five minutes.

Twenty minutes in, the wine has worn off, the temperature is dropping with the sun, and it’s becoming very clear Newt overestimated their abilities.

Hermann is not amused. “We’ve passed that scarecrow already,” he says. “I’m certain. We’re walking in circles.”

Newt gazes up at the one Hermann’s pointing to. It’s hokey and cliche, just like the rest of the maze (with its jack-o-lanterns and fake cobwebs everywhere): creepy sack head, plaid shirt, pitchfork strapped to a hand that sways in the wind. If they were in a horror movie, it’d probably come to life and chase them. It doesn’t. Newt can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not. “I think they just all look the same, dude,” Newt says. “Look–” he points to a corner. “That pumpkin looks new.”

“It looks like every other pumpkin we’ve seen today,” Hermann says, scowling at its jagged, flickering smile, “because it’s the same one.” To really hammer in his point, he repeats “We’re walking in circles.”

“Even if we are,” Newt says, “which we’re not, at least it’s giving us some quality time together, right?” Hermann turns his scowl on Newt. Newt, unphased, inches over and takes his free hand. “It’s just you, and me.” He strokes his thumb over the back of Hermann’s knuckles, through his stupid-cute red mittens. Hermann’s scowl begins to twitch into a smile. “And that evil scarecrow.”

Hermann snorts, and doesn’t pull his hand away, which Newt counts as a win. “It is unsettling,” he agrees, and makes a face at the scarecrow’s sack head. It flaps sadly back at him. “Come on. I don’t fancy being stuck in here after dark.”

“Wait a sec,” Newt says. He digs around in the deep pocket of his overalls before finally producing a small brown bag of candy corn. At Hermann’s inquisitive stare, he adds, “I know it’s gross, but I’m hungry.” He needs the sugar rush. Get his brain working. The wine made him sleepy.

“You ate four candy apples today,” Hermann says, but takes a handful himself. 

Twenty-five more minutes pass. The sun sets. Newt’s pretty sure at least five bats pass overhead. They finish off the candy corn. They make out against a few hay bales for a bit until Hermann complains that it’s irritating his skin. Eventually, they reach a small fork in the path, which Newt thinks is probably a good sign, because they haven’t seen one of those yet–only four-way splits. “Well, babe,” he says, “left or right?”

“Left,” Hermann says immediately.

“Oh,” Newt says. He scuffs his boot against the dirt ground. “Uh. I was actually kinda feeling right.”

“Hm,” Hermann says. His voice gets the way it always does when he’s preparing to condescend to Newt. He adjusts his glasses. “I see. Only, you know, Newton, we haven’t taken any left turns yet–”

“Haven’t we?” Newt says.

“We haven’t,” Hermann says. “I’ve been keeping track.” (Probably why they got lost in the first place.) “I think we ought to take a left.”

“There’s nothing down that way,” Newt says. “There are more pumpkins down the right way. Look.” A row of more flickering jack-o-lanterns down that path, lining the corn hedge, more cobwebs. The left side is dark.

“Obviously an attempt to fool people like you,” Hermann says, “who take directions from pumpkins.” He gives Newt’s hand a sharp tug. “Left, Newton.”

“No, you dick. I’m not–”

Something moves directly ahead of them in the corn. Newt freezes. 

Hermann does not freeze. “Oh, what is it now?” he sighs. Earlier, when they’d done the walk through of the “Haunted Manor” in the main part of the fair (an old farmhouse decorated with more hokey Halloween stuff, employees dressed as ghosts leaping out from corners, and a foggy backyard full of punny styrofoam gravestones), Newt kept grabbing his shoulder and hissing boo in his ear to make him jump, so Newt has a feeling he’s all spooked-out at this point. And all patienced-out. Unfortunately, it’s not Newt this time.

He shushes Hermann and draws him a little closer. “I think there’s someone over there,” he whispers.

“I’m not falling for that again,” Hermann snaps. “Don’t–” More rustling cornstalks, closer to them, this time. Hermann jumps; he clings to Newt’s arm. “What is it?” he hisses.

Newt’s imagination takes that chance to run wild: one of the scarecrows, magically brought to life with nightfall and stalking after them. A giant monster with a pumpkin head. The ghost of someone who got lost in here years ago (just like them) and starved to death and is going to take its revenge. Aliens. “I don’t know,” Newt hisses back. Heart pounding, and for lack of seeing any better weapon, he snatches a dried and hardened corn husk from the ground and wields it like a sword in front of them. He nudges Hermann behind him protectively. “Stay there.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Hermann says, but Newt does anyway.

“Hey, asshole, what do you want!” he calls at the corn.

The rustling stops. For a second, Newt hopes he’s scared whatever it is off (definitely aliens, they probably recognized Newt and Hermann from how they handled the kaiju and were too afraid to try anything), but then it picks up–faster–coming right towards them–and then something bursts out at them, blinding them with a bright beam of light.

Newt screams (but only a little). Hermann swears. They stagger backwards, clinging to each other, nearly falling on their asses.

And then the light is lowered. “What are you guys still doing in here?” their assailant says, who looks less like an assailant and more like one of the minimum-wage teenagers in orange vests and flannel who have been working stands at the festival all night. Newt lowers the hardened corn husk and blinks, dazedly, at her. She’s holding a flashlight. “The farm closed thirty minutes ago.”

“Why,” Newt squeaks. He clears his throat. “Why were you sneaking around in the corn? You scared the shit out of us.” (Hermann mumbles something along the lines of speak for yourself, but Newt can feel the bastard’s heart pounding away even through his fifty layers of turtlenecks.)

“Some kid lost a cell phone in here and my boss is making me look for it.” The girl rolls her eyes. “We are closed, though, so–”

“Of course,” Hermann says. He brushes dirt off his sweater and tries to play it cool. “Apologies. We were, ah, having some difficulty figuring a way out of the maze…”

“Oh,” the girl says. She shines the beam of her flashlight to their left. “Go that way, and then take another left, and you’ll be out. Happy Halloween.”

Newt and Hermann return the sentiment, and, both red-faced and more than a little mortified, quickly scurry away. They’re out of the maze in minutes.

“I told you it was left,” Hermann mutters.

Newt elbows him. “Shut up,” he says, fondly.