Hermann isn’t sure what Tendo’s medical student gave him, isn’t sure what they even looked like, everything is just a haze; but it dulls the pain, and steadies his stomach enough to drink and eat a little, and when the worst returns, there’s a drip in his arm;
“Newton-” his mouth is bone dry, he can barely whisper; “Newton!” It takes a desperate, stumbled gasp to get his attention,
Newt hurries to his side, “How are you feeling-”
“I need-” Hermann’s face crumples, “Please, I can’t-”
They don’t get to the bathroom in time, but Newt at least gets him to the bin; it’s not something Hermann wants to remember, as though something revoltingly alive were fighting its way from inside him, and when it’s finished- or he has nothing left within him- he collapses to the ground and curls on the blissfully cool floor;
Newt cleans him and Hermann chokes because- why, what is Newt doing taking care of him, this disgusting, idiotic, drug-addled-
“Shut up;” Newt says sharply, “I’m a fucking biologist, dude, I knew this was going to be gross;”
They get him back to bed, the sheets are sticky and burning around him, the sickness soaking through them into him and he tries to cringe away- but they’re everywhere and he can’t get free- can’t get away-
Newt pulls them off; and throws a cool, blissful coat over him, “Hang on, I’ll get some more;”
Hermann curls in a ball under the softness of it, and the worlds finally- please oh thank you Gott- he falls asleep.
He wakes with a splitting headache, and his stomach shrunken and gnawing inside him; he peers out of the fresh sheets and blinks at Newt- collapsed in a chair by the bed and snoring;
The sound is a drill in his head; Hermann winces, and carefully levers his aching, exhausted body up; he feels- a little better, he thinks, but it’s hard to decide when he is so hungry;
The curtains are drawn in the kitchen, which is a blessed relief when the faintest glare sets fireworks of pains racing across his brain;
There’s half a pizza in the fridge, some oranges and an apple and Hermann doesn’t even take them to the table, sitting on the floor and wolfing them down; barely breathing until they are gone, his stomach is full and the world slowly steadying around him;
He looks up at the quiet darkness of the kitchen, the bin is conspicuously missing, the air is cool and his body feels- almost light, apart from the comforting weight in his belly;
It’s gone, Hermann looks down at his arm, the puncture tracks, the collapsed veins and the sores where he’d injected between his fingers; it’s gone, he can barely believe it.