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Exhaustion has seeped deep into Newt’s bones, embedded itself in them, unshakable and persistent. Running on sheer fumes and caffeine, he's barely contained within the vessel that comprises his living-breathing body. His cleverly packed organs threaten to spill over with how much he’s itching to get out of his own skin, overwhelmed with the urge to move, to sing, to jump, to punch, to laugh, to do something, just don't pause, don’t halt, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—
And so it goes. Newt's used to it—has learned to live with it, this constant buzzing that threatens to one day break him down to his fundamental components. Which these days no longer seems like a distant possibility.
It's been two days since Newt last slept. Maybe more. He lost track after a while. Numbers were always more of Hermann’s thing, anyway. Not that Newt doesn’t know numbers— he knows them. He does. He’s a goddamned genius, thank you very much; he can do math just fine. But. Newt has more important things to do, like proving his revolutionary theory right, and he's certain it's right; it must be, because how else do you explain that there aren't any signs of age in any of the kaiju? And Newt would know; he went as far as grinding their bones in search of them. There’s nothing. Nothing.
So either all the kaiju are newborn infants (concerning), or Newt is not looking for the right things in the right places (upsetting), or. Or. The kaiju are clones.
How about that.
Newt needs time. He doesn’t have it. There have been two kaiju attacks this month. If you believed Hermann—that stuffy bastard in ill-fitting grandfather's vests, with lovely lines around his wide mouth and a mind sharp enough to cut glass—another one is coming in four days’ time. And Newt believed Hermann. He did. But that meant four days until more kaiju, until more destruction, until more death. And Newt doesn’t have time. Hasn’t he said that before? He can’t really remember. Everything's kind of blurry around the edges, and bright—too bright—it's hurting his eyes, and his head is killing him—
And did that kaiju heart just fucking palpitate?
Newt is preparing the organ for dissection when it happens. A distinctive throb, right against his palms. Newt stills to a halt, the action violent in its abruptness. A second—and it contracts again; then again, and again, and then the heart's beating fast and wild—the desperate thrashings of a trapped animal.
“Hey, Herms,” he says in a weak voice. Newt feels suddenly so far away, his body not his own, his hands a separate entity. Yet the picture in front of him is clear and sharp, veins and arteries stark against the pericardium, acidic colors branding Newt's retina. “Come here. The heart’s beating.”
His words are met with a weary sigh. “Yes, Newton, it would seem that your exorbitant consumption of caffeinated beverages has not, as of yet, led you to a myocardial infarction—a modern miracle, no less. Though I can see it from here well enough,” says Hermann, the sanctimonious prick. Then adds: “And how many times do I have to insist that you do not address me as such.”
The jibes fall on deaf ears. “No, you don’t get it.” Newt's eyes are trained on the pulsing muscle. They burn—he hasn’t blinked in a while. Hasn’t dared to. “The kaiju heart. It’s beating,” he clarifies.
“What sort of nonsense—” Hermann sputters. “Have you gone mad at last?”
“No, just— Look!” Newt lifts his gaze up to glance at him—and regrets it immediately, as the lab sways—then stumbles back, barely avoiding falling over, finding his footing in time.
The walls have forgotten to be rigid and proper and made of metal, and instead have acquiesced to the languid, hypnotic dance of ocean waves. The ceiling sags. Newt is far out in the water, no solid ground in sight, with only Hermann and his blackboards a fixed point. The distance between Hermann and him is vast and inconceivable. The blackboards grow larger and loom over, commanding space, taking it by force. Imposing and unmoving, silent and unknowable, they are not unlike the fucking monoliths from Space Odyssey.
Newt jerks his eyes to his own side of the lab, away from them. To the specimens in tanks. Suspended in gently glowing formalin, a giant kaiju eye looks right at him, conscious, aware. It knows. Newt feels his heart chill with terror. What it knows, Newt cannot figure out, but it must be something vile, something terrible and life-ruining; he is sure of it.
He staggers back, arm reaching out blindly behind himself. There's a racket, his dissection tools cluttering to the floor as Newt finds purchase on a nearby table. The walls draw closer in their lethal dance, as the ceiling threatens to fall on his head, and the kaiju guts in their tanks round up and start circling around him, their pace maddeningly slow, taunting him—
“—ewton. Newton!”
With a hand on his shoulder, Newt startles out of it. His offenders back away to a respectable distance, giving him space. His breathing is shot, and his heart is angling to break his ribs with how hard it's beating.
“Are you all right? What on earth is happening to you?” Hermann asks, alarm heavy in his voice.
Newt blinks.
Hermann is standing shockingly close, is his first coherent thought. Brows drawn together, mouth pressed into a firm line, his dark eyes are searching Newt's face with such intensity it makes Newt feel all out of sorts. It's dizzying, to be the object of that single-minded focus. He can’t help but wonder what he could do to have it on him at another time. Hermann is touching him. Willingly. Usually, he is insistent on keeping distance between them. The man hardly ever crosses over to Newt's side of the lab, and when he does, he makes sure to let Newt know with every inch of his being just how great of a sacrifice he's making, and with an air of such peril, you would think Newt was keeping him hostage there. Yet he insists on calling Newt ridiculous.
Newt's so in love, it’s not even funny.
At last, he finds his voice. “Everything's dancing,” he utters nonsensically and makes a broad gesture with his hands as if to encompass the entirety of the madhouse. And everything is dancing, still—though it’s no longer oppressive—just the gentle rocking and swaying of his surroundings.
Hermann’s frown deepens. “Dancing?” Then his eyes snap away, toward Newt's hands. His face changes. “My goodness, you’re bleeding!”
Newt follows his gaze and finds that he is. There's a cut on his left palm, likely from where he knocked down his tools earlier, and a spluttering of blood on the floor and on the table he was holding on to. His clothes have thankfully avoided most of the mess.
“Huh,” Newt responds eloquently. Maybe his palm has been aching for a little while, now that he thinks about it.
Hermann despairs, “You are completely impossible,” grabs him by his left wrist and pulls him towards the sink. His hand is cold and dry with chalk dust on Newt's skin, and Newt forgets to protest.
Hermann turns on the faucet and faces him. Then he, inexplicably, starts peeling a nitrile glove off Newt's left hand, long fingers sliding in the tight space between. This has to be another hallucination, thinks Newt, feeling slightly lightheaded.
Then Hermann pulls his hand under the running water, which proves to be freezing cold to the touch. Newt hisses. The haze in his mind somewhat clears, and his self-preservation instincts kick in.
“I can do it myself, you know. You don't need to coddle me,” he says.
A moment passes, in which Hermann is strangely silent.
Then he responds, “I know.”
Newt looks up at him, startled—not what he expected to hear. Hermann sucks on his lower lip, brows furrowed in thought—conflicted. He resolutely does not look back at Newt.
“I wish to do it.”
That promptly shuts Newt up. Maybe it is a hallucination after all.
Because— because you can’t just say shit like that. It must be illegal, or something, for how it makes Newt's heart lunge in his chest, threatening to make a break for it after all this time.
“Okay,” Newt squeaks out. He can be normal about it. He can.
Hermann lets go of his hand, makes sure Newt continues holding it under the stream, and goes to rummage through the cabinet near the sink, presumably in search of a first aid kit. Presumptions are proved right shortly when Hermann pulls out some bandages and ointment and puts them down on the counter. He's half-turned away from Newt, with only a sliver of his face visible, but Newt thinks he spots some color high on his cheekbones.
After Newt’s hand has lost all of its blood circulation, Hermann finally turns off the faucet. When he takes Newt’s hand in both of his again, his are warmer in comparison.
The bleeding has stopped now, so Hermann carefully pats the hand down with a towel. Then he takes a tube of ointment, unscrews the cap, and squeezes some out on his fingers. Puts the tube down. Takes Newt’s hand back in one of his while another smears the ointment around the wound, his touch oddly gentle. All throughout, Newt is watching his face intently, but Hermann still doesn’t meet his eye, instead focusing studiously on his task. So Newt, too, keeps quiet, not wanting to disrupt whatever tentative truce is happening between them.
Hermann finishes wrapping a bandage tight and firm, tucks in the end, and hesitates for a heart-stuttering moment before letting Newt’s hand go. It slips out of Hermann’s hold with a whisper.
“That should suffice,” Hermann says quietly. Then louder, “Now you must rest.”
“What?” Newt huffs. “I can't rest, I have a job to do.”
“You’re not going back to work, Newton, not in the state you’re in.” At last, Hermann meets his eyes. His face is set in steel.
What is it with him acting so concerned about Newt all of a sudden?
“Yes, I am.” Newt frowns.
“Like hell you are. When was the last time you slept?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. I'll sleep when I've saved the world—I believe there'll be plenty of time for me to sleep then; I'll sleep for a month if I so wish. But now I have work to do, as I'm sure you know, Hermann. Do you mind?”
“Why do you insist on making this so bloody difficult,” says Hermann, his voice snapping with familiar, well-worn anger. “If you don't go to bed this instance, I’m going to report you to medical, so help me god, Newton.”
“As if they ever care when you complain about me,” Newt snorts.
Hermann looks at that, for all intents and purposes, like he’s about to commit homicide. His jawline is jutted out and strained to the point where it looks painful.
“I’m sure they will, when I tell them about how you have started experiencing delusions.”
Newt holds his gaze in challenge, unwilling to give up so quickly. Hermann’s eyes are dark and motionless, defiant. Tired, too, with frighteningly deep shadows under them on a pallid face. Hermann doesn’t back away. What a stubborn asshole.
At last, Newt breaks eye contact and sighs. Maybe he should take a break. The dissection is not happening now, anyway. “Fine. Fine, I’ll sleep. Hope that makes you happy.”
“It does,” Hermann’s voice loses some of its antagonism.
Newt rolls his one remaining glove off his hand and chucks it in the direction of a biohazard bin; misses terribly. Oh, well. He’ll pick it up some other time. He starts moving in the direction of the couch, and Hermann follows, hovering annoyingly behind his right shoulder.
“I thank you deeply for the trust you have in me, but I think I can manage to get to bed without supervision,” Newt says dryly.
“I ought to believe it when I see it,” Hermann responds airily.
Newt lets out a laugh. “That’s a real stupid hill to die on, buddy,” he says, the last of the sentence getting lost in a chasmic yawn.
He approaches the couch and lies down on it, puts a throw pillow under his head and pulls his legs up to himself so he can fit there, all the way looking smugly at Hermann, daring him to say anything else about Newt's awesome prowess. He gets back nothing but a cryptic stare. Told ya. Newt puffs and takes off his glasses, effectively blinding himself, then sets them down on a nearby chair. He lies back, wriggles, searching for a comfortable position, then settles when he finds it, contented.
As his body grows leaden with sleep and his eyes no longer open, he feels a slight weight settle over him—a throw blanket, he realizes belatedly through a drowse. Hands brush against his shoulders, then retreat. But before they can go far, Newt throws out his hand, chasing after them, and awkwardly grabs on to one upon contact.
And Newt is exhausted. He's exhausted and delirious with it, and his impulse control is completely shot. So it’s not his fault, when he brings Hermann’s hand close to his face and kisses it, clumsy and gentle, lips catching on a knuckle—what a small, inconsequential, entirely ruinous thing to do—after which he releases the hand, and swiftly falls asleep.
When Newt comes to consciousness, he is not offered a moment of oblivion. He is met with a memory instead. It lies, as a flower, at the foot of his mind: innocuous and silent, true and unforgiving. His lips remember skin, and they remember bone.
Newt is swathed in quiet terror. His sleep-deprived self had not done him any favors. There is no way out of this; the damage is already done.
God, but Hermann must pity him now—he must be disgusted. Now he must see Newt for who he is: an unwanted puppy, dirtied and hungry, begging for scraps of affection that could never be enough. Taking, and taking; give him an inch and he'll bleed you dry, is that not how the saying goes?
But maybe— maybe not. Hermann is often aloof, but Newt knows for a fact he has a warm, beating heart under that armor he habitually wears. He might offer Newt some dignity yet; let him down gently. It would be painfully awkward, but earnest: ‘Oh, Newton— I'm afraid I don’t share your feelings,’ or something of the sort. Things would be strained between them for a while, but they'd get used to sidestepping the elephant of Newt's misguided feelings in the room, and Newt would learn to swallow around the heart in his throat without chocking on it, and it would largely go back to how it was.
The thing is, he knows his feelings to be unrequited. Hermann has grown to tolerate him, yes. The years of necessitated proximity have worn him down, have soothed the hurt of bitter disillusionment and contempt he must have carried over from their disastrous first meeting, and it could even be said that they’re friends now. But the notion that Hermann would be anything but burdened having learned of Newt's affection is simply laughable.
And yet there's a traitorous part of Newt that hopes against hope—a spark he was not able to extinguish no matter how vigorously he stomped on it—for his love to be returned. He is terribly naïve.
Whichever answer he’s going to get, it’s likely he’s going to get it sooner rather than later, anyway. From where he's lying on a couch, one cheek pressed down into the rough fabric of a pillow, Newt can hear a scratch of chalk against the blackboard, the click of a keyboard, occasional footsteps, the tapping of a cane on the hard floors—general signs of Hermann’s presence in the lab.
Without his glasses, it's just a comforting swirl of colors and subdued familiar noises. He rather likes it this way.
Newt’s still just as tired as before, which comes as no surprise—when was the last time he was properly rested? Who’s to say. He doesn’t feel like he’s slept at all—instead like he’s died and then risen from the dead. His mouth tastes as if something in it is actively rotting, which does nothing to refute the impression. He really needs to get up.
Newt tosses aside the blanket and lets himself up slowly, supporting himself with his arms, disoriented from sleep. He sits up on a couch, elbows on knees, rubbing grogginess away from his eyes.
“Good morning, Newton,” greets Hermann’s voice from a distance.
Newt’s legs get cold and sticky-sweet from where all the blood rushes up to his ears instead. Is Hermann going to want to talk about it now?
“I trust you're feeling better.”
Newt fumbles for his glasses, then puts them on, feeling much less vulnerable.
The lab is holding its form this time. Everything in it is in its usual shape, shade, and habitat—none of the bizarreness from before. It’s tritely ordinary.
Nothing’s changed, except for how there isn’t blood where Newt bled before, and his dissection tools are off the floor, with Newt's own bandaged hand the only tangible evidence he hasn’t dreamt the whole thing up.
Hermann’s cleaned. How unlike him, to tidy up Newt’s space.
“'Noon,” Newt responds. “Yeah, I’m better.”
Hermann nods and turns back to his blackboards. One of his hands is leaning heavily on a cane, and another one is holding the chalk. He’s looking over his equations with a slight frown, already absorbed in thought.
So, the conversation Newt so dreads is being delayed indeterminably.
Here’s another thing to consider: Hermann might not want to talk about the kiss at all. He could choose to ignore it ever happened. It’s easier that way, isn’t it? Silence speaks louder than words, etc. Newt might not even get to hear it. He doesn’t know whether to be crushed with relief or disappointment. He settles on something in the middle.
His eyes catch on a clock on the wall. It’s mid-morning—he’s slept for near six hours. Newt realizes he’s starving. He also needs to get away for a second.
“I’m gonna go get breakfast,” he says as he heaves himself off the couch up to his feet. “Do you want me to bring you some?” Hermann has probably forgotten, yet again, that he needs nutrition if he wants to keep being alive, and that raw idea cannot sustain him all by itself. As much as he likes to pretend otherwise, Hermann is no better at taking care of himself than Newt is.
“Hmm?” Hermann draws out, distractedly, then looks at Newt. “Oh, yes, that would be much appreciated.”
Newt definitely doesn’t flee.
He gets back—having been gone longer than it could conceivably take for him to get food—with sandwiches and (allegedly) coffee. As he approaches Hermann’s desk to give them to him, he gets a good look at the man. Hermann’s skin’s taken on a grayish tint, the corners of his mouth are downturned, and his eyes have gone flat where they used to exist in multiple dimensions. Hermann looks positively wilted. Newt makes a decision.
“We need a change of scenery,” he says, before he can hand over the food. “Let’s eat on the roof.”
“And is that your professional opinion, Dr. Geiszler?” Hermann asks, dryly. “Because, although your degrees are copious, I don’t believe you have a doctorate in medicine in their number.”
“If I get one, will you actually listen to me?” Newt rolls his eyes and briefly entertains the possibility. “Fresh air is good for you, dude. I don’t need any more years of academia to tell you that.”
At this, Hermann looks at him, hard and long. Newt wants to shake him a little. He wants to kiss away the perpetual frown between his brows, coax a rare smile out of him. It's a little bit devastating when Newt gets to see that smile.
Newt really has to stop tormenting himself with these daydreams.
“Alright,” Hermann grudgingly agrees.
Newt flashes a blinding smile his way. Hermann rolls his eyes.
The ride in an elevator is quiet. Hermann watches the numbers on the display change, and Newt watches Hermann. He’s been avoiding looking at Newt more—the only change in his behavior that Newt can see. But that's within the margin of error: there are plenty of internal and external factors Newt can't account for, as an annoying voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Hermann doesn't fail to remind him. Frankly, he’s starting to think he's made the kiss up. Could he have?
When they step onto the roof from the dimly lit hallways of the ‘dome, Newt cringes against the sheer brightness that cuts into his eyes, blinding him. The ocean wind is biting cold, and Newt inhales greedily, taking a full lungful of it. For a moment, a sense of overwhelming joy engulfs him, and he feels like a balloon, taut enough to burst. Then he exhales, and the feeling goes with it.
Newt's vision adjusts; dark spots reform and take shape and color.
Mid-morning sun pours down on him from the lucid blue sky, catching in rippling ocean waves and reflecting from various metal surfaces on the roof right into Newt's eyes. He looks at Hermann, who is peering at the horizon, his hair flapping in the wind. The light has mellowed out his angular profile, rendering it soft—youthful, even. He’s burrowed deep into his parka, but his head is upturned, taking in the scarce sunlight and the stinging briny air.
They sit on a bench. Newt gives Hermann his sandwich and a cup of coffee, leaving one of each for himself. He puts a cup in between his thighs, as he needs both his hands to unwrap a sandwich, and feels its warmth seep through his jeans. Newt bites into his sandwich: it’s pretty delicious, if only because he is currently starving and outside.
“How they have the nerve to call that coffee is beyond me,” bitches Hermann. His palms lay flat against the surface of the cup, seemingly in an attempt to absorb the most of its heat. He is always so cold. Newt could probably do a better job at warming him than the sorry drink. But thoughts like that are exactly the kind of thoughts he tries so hard to quell. So he picks up his own cup and takes a sip instead. He grimaces.
“I haven’t had the good stuff in forever,” Newt says. “I think I forgot how it’s supposed to actually taste at this point.” And just how depressing is that.
Then he takes another bite out of his sandwich, pensive. “Do you think it’s ever going to end?” he asks.
“Our chances of surviving the next months are rather slim, which I’m sure you know better than most people,” Hermann says. The tip of his nose has gone pink from the cold.
“Dr. Gottlieb, ever the optimist,” Newt deadpans. “And that's not what I meant. Just… if we win the War. What would we even do?” Newt muses. “Get back to our normal lives, pretend that we have lives to get back to? Can you imagine sleeping on an orthopedic mattress again, or eating fresh bread, or having the hot water in the shower not constantly run out?”
“I don’t imagine we can afford ourselves such frivolous thoughts,” Hermann says dismissively. “If you have quite so much of it to spare, maybe you should consider redirecting some of that cognition to your work.”
Newt balks and turns to fully face Hermann, who only spares him a brief glance as he does.
“Dude, what’s wrong with you? Today you basically forced me to go to sleep instead of doing my job, and now you accuse me of not doing enough? Make up your fucking mind already, jeez.”
Hermann scoffs. “What you were doing could hardly be called ‘doing your job’.”
“What could it be called, then?” Newt asks, irritated.
“Engaging in your delusions,” Hermann cuts.
Newt freezes.
A gust of wind carries, sweeping a rouge strand of hair from his forehead and succeeding at quenching that flicker of hope after all.
He swallows around the painful tightness in his throat, blinks away the stinging in his eyes. With the sight of Hermann suddenly more than he could bear, Newt turns away to the ocean. He watches its surface rise, then fall, the movement unhurried and rhythmic, as if it were the chest of a sleeping animal, colossal and ancient. Newt breathes through the hurt. His hands shake, and it carries through him, hollow as he is. He tightens his grip around his sandwich and his cup in a desperate attempt to conceal the tremors, clinging to whatever pride he has left. As if he isn’t being hopelessly transparent anyway.
He has to swallow a few times before words can come. “Wow, Hermann. That’s cold, even for you.” His voice comes out strained, and it cracks on a vowel midway through.
“What?” Hermann asks, befuddled.
“I didn’t mean to kiss you, okay?” Newt continues, unhearing, staring sightlessly ahead. “I never meant to ‘engage in my delusions’, as you so eloquently put it. I'm sorry.” He jerks his shoulder. “You don’t have to be such a dick about it, though.”
“Newton, what?” Hermann repeats weakly. “I meant your literal— hallucinations...” he trails off.
Newt feels suddenly nauseous.
“Ah.”
“Quite.” And there’s some indiscernible emotion in Hermann’s voice as he says that. “Did you mean it?” he asks abruptly.
“Did I mean it?” The absurdity of the question makes Newt turn to stare at Hermann, meeting his wide eyes. He looks strangely agitated, almost desperate. “Do you want me to go through that one more time?”
“Yes, ah… no?” Hermann stumbles out. He has a lost look in his eyes that Newt can’t help but find endearing, even now.
Hermann casts a distracted glance around before putting his food and drink down on the bench. Then, in a swift move, he leans in, stifling the distance between them, and presses his lips to Newt's. It’s awkward, and chaste, and he ends up catching the corner of his mouth instead. Newt's glasses poke Hermann in the cheek.
Newt doesn’t move, and he doesn’t breathe. After a moment, Hermann pulls back, his face growing ashen.
“I might have— misunderstood,” Hermann whispers. “God. Forgive me—”
A sound, urgent and desperate, tears itself then from Newt’s chest, as he comes out of his stupor and clambers forward, smashing their mouths and teeth together. After a bit, he feels Hermann cup his face in his hands with a tenderness that hurts something vicious as he guides Newt into a kiss with fewer sharp edges—a kinder kiss.
“Oh, darling,” Hermann breathes out into his lips. “You’re alright; it's alright.”
As a sob wrecks through Newt's body, he belatedly realizes that he’s crying. He blinks hard, trying to banish the tears from his eyes. Fuck, he's a mess. Hermann has stopped kissing him by now and is just holding his face.
“I love you,” Newt blurts out, in dire need to get the words out so there can be no possible ambiguity about where he stands.
“And I you,” Hermann says softly. A tentative smile shines through on his face, and Newt's heart, which has been beating wildly this whole time, stumbles and trips over itself at the sight. He longs to touch it— and he can, what a truly absurd and wondrous notion. He reaches out a hand and rests it on the side of Hermann’s neck, his thumb stroking along the thin line around his beautiful frog mouth.
A laugh bubbles in Newt's chest and tumbles out from between his lips into the crisp air, his eyes still brimming with tears. His hand falls, and he sags back against the bench, dislodging Hermann’s hold in the process, his neck craned, his head hanging off the backrest, looking up into the tall, yawning sky, at the bloated clouds, ever-changing and fluid, as they make their hurried way through its expanse. Newt feels feverish despite the chill.
“But… how?” Newt asks, incredulous. How could you love me?
“I don’t think I know how not to,” he says plainly.
He peers sideways at Hermann. He's watching Newt with a rare softness to his face, affection clear in his expression.
Hermann… loves him. The idea is novel and immense, too big to see at once in its entirety, its shape unfamiliar, and Newt can’t fully grasp it, can’t figure out just how to fit it into the preexisting puzzle that makes up his mental landscape of the world. Newt will have to sit with it and hold it in his hands, turn it this way and that, so with time it can become something manageable, fathomable.
“You broke my heart when we first met,” Newt accuses without any bite behind the words.
“Well,” Hermann stiffens. “You broke mine.”
Newt considers the divulgence. Tries the weight of it alongside the weight of his own one. Dredging up the memories of that day near eight years ago still leaves him with a bitter acidic taste on the back of his tongue and a tightness to his throat; he prods at them like he would at a chipped tooth, the jagged edges smoothed over time, so he doesn’t cut himself on them anymore. Newt hasn’t considered that he might not be the only one steeped in regret and heartache, still haunted by the way they’d parted ways back then. It’s a heady realization.
“It only took us a decade,” Newt observes.
Hermann laughs in disbelief, and Newt is struck by the naked beauty of it, “So it did.”
And the clock never reverses its merciless countdown, nor does it ever stop. But as Newt looks at Hermann, so wonderful and human under the cool morning sun, huddled in his ridiculous parka and smiling his secretive smile, and knows that he gets to keep him—
Well, the future does not look quite so bleak.