He’s thirty-two, give or take some months in hellish spiral limbo, when he visits Berlin for the first time.
And it’s cold.
Objectively, it isn’t actually that cold. Right on 0 degrees (zero degrees, the temperature of nothing far more intimidating in Celsius than Fahrenheit), it’s chilly but not unbearably so, like every other early spring day in Berlin. But he’s been spoiled by mild weather all his life. Europe, too far-flung a destination for him to ever possibly imagine for the first thirty years of his life, just happens to be cooler than he was prepared for. The brisk wind flushes his cheeks, and he draws his obnoxiously blue scarf tighter about his neck and shoulders.
“You’re in Germany, not Antarctica, dude,” snickers Newt, walking a bit too close and knocking elbows with the other man.
Travis huffs. The minutest puff of breath condenses on the air. “Shut up. I’m sensitive to the cold-- I’ve still got thin blood from California.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. Just ‘cause you’re not used to it doesn’t make your blood any thinner than it should be.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Regretfully, Mr. Touchdown,” Hermann interjects, with a sniff, “despite your insistence, Newton is absolutely correct. Unless you’ve a previous condition, your climate should not have had any effect, whatsoever, upon the state of your blood, at least not in th--”
“Okay, okay, fine.” Travis waves a hand, defeated by the combined wisdom of a couple handfuls of doctorates. “But it’s still too damn cold.”
A slow, careful grin tugs at the corners of Newt’s mouth. “C’mon, Trav. We’ve dealt with worse weather back in-- well, you know. Right?”
There’s a pause. The light tapping of Hermann’s cane upon the pavement gradually slows, and the three of them quietly glance around. Independently, they’ve all stopped walking.
Before. Back there.
Hermann’s gaze on Newt is something less than that of warning: lacking its usual sharpness, but still chiding in its own way. Newt catches the look, and presses his lips together tightly, staring at the floor to avoid it. Travis’ fingers twist the trailing threads at the end of his kaiju-blue scarf as he pretends not to notice the exchange. The silence is heavy; between the three of them, they carry a secret that weighs upon their backs, burdens heavy like bodies, like starvation; like tortures and old blood and the rubble of buildings; like the distant, ominous growling deep in the throats of monsters from the past.
“Yeah.” They snap back to Berlin so suddenly that Newt actually whirls back to face Travis, Hermann instinctively grabbing the man by the arm to steady him. “But it doesn’t mean I’ve gotta like it.”
“Well. Hermann’ll let you borrow his jacket. Have you seen that thing? It’s--”
“I beg your pardon--”
The usual rhythm of conversation-- bickering, rather-- resumes, and the pace of their walk picks up once more.
Berlin is lovely this time of year, the three of them have agreed.
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berlin - haven (good end)
And it’s cold.
Objectively, it isn’t actually that cold. Right on 0 degrees (zero degrees, the temperature of nothing far more intimidating in Celsius than Fahrenheit), it’s chilly but not unbearably so, like every other early spring day in Berlin. But he’s been spoiled by mild weather all his life. Europe, too far-flung a destination for him to ever possibly imagine for the first thirty years of his life, just happens to be cooler than he was prepared for. The brisk wind flushes his cheeks, and he draws his obnoxiously blue scarf tighter about his neck and shoulders.
“You’re in Germany, not Antarctica, dude,” snickers Newt, walking a bit too close and knocking elbows with the other man.
Travis huffs. The minutest puff of breath condenses on the air. “Shut up. I’m sensitive to the cold-- I’ve still got thin blood from California.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. Just ‘cause you’re not used to it doesn’t make your blood any thinner than it should be.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Regretfully, Mr. Touchdown,” Hermann interjects, with a sniff, “despite your insistence, Newton is absolutely correct. Unless you’ve a previous condition, your climate should not have had any effect, whatsoever, upon the state of your blood, at least not in th--”
“Okay, okay, fine.” Travis waves a hand, defeated by the combined wisdom of a couple handfuls of doctorates. “But it’s still too damn cold.”
A slow, careful grin tugs at the corners of Newt’s mouth. “C’mon, Trav. We’ve dealt with worse weather back in-- well, you know. Right?”
There’s a pause. The light tapping of Hermann’s cane upon the pavement gradually slows, and the three of them quietly glance around. Independently, they’ve all stopped walking.
Before. Back there.
Hermann’s gaze on Newt is something less than that of warning: lacking its usual sharpness, but still chiding in its own way. Newt catches the look, and presses his lips together tightly, staring at the floor to avoid it. Travis’ fingers twist the trailing threads at the end of his kaiju-blue scarf as he pretends not to notice the exchange. The silence is heavy; between the three of them, they carry a secret that weighs upon their backs, burdens heavy like bodies, like starvation; like tortures and old blood and the rubble of buildings; like the distant, ominous growling deep in the throats of monsters from the past.
“Yeah.” They snap back to Berlin so suddenly that Newt actually whirls back to face Travis, Hermann instinctively grabbing the man by the arm to steady him. “But it doesn’t mean I’ve gotta like it.”
“Well. Hermann’ll let you borrow his jacket. Have you seen that thing? It’s--”
“I beg your pardon--”
The usual rhythm of conversation-- bickering, rather-- resumes, and the pace of their walk picks up once more.
Berlin is lovely this time of year, the three of them have agreed.