His stomach lurched and hot unpleasant tingles stamped up and over his kidneys and shoulderblades. It had been a few years before he’d met Newt that the slightest touch had begun to sicken him. All a part of his leg and the silent sad truth that if his eyes hadn’t betrayed him he would have been the brightest pilot. Not the most broken scientist. Even with one of the most powerful minds of his time he couldn’t navigate the psychosomatic wound the heinous failure left in his leg. His life’s failure. Newt had never cared about Hermann’s difficulties. He ignored them to the point of hassling Hermann to walk faster, invading his personal space at every opportunity without a thought and touching him to move him, push him, pull him places to look at things, help him with things, lift things. He was like a child, Hermann had often thought, all attention seeking, uncaring about others wants putting his needs before all else. Along with being insufferably selfish he was the only one that didn’t make Hermann sick to the touch. There was discomfort. A tingling, a giddy pounding. A racing tenuous feeling. He suspected being treated like a piece of familiar furniture, being looked at without an ounce of pity left the most beautiful sensation with contact.