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evescarpa
n.
A pocket of time so drenched in warmth and joy that it swells beyond its boundaries, floating in an eternal now, yet paradoxically sliding away with the swiftness of a dream at the dawn of waking.
〰 The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
Morning brings rain.
Simon wakes slowly, eyelids heavy and reluctant. The world around him is small, confined to the soft sheets beneath his fingers and the patter of rain on the window panes. As much as he likes the sun, he’s always liked the sound, and he lies in it for a while, allowing it to lull him into something halfway between sleep and wakefulness. There’s an unfamiliar peace in it, in him, and he’s eager to lie back and enjoy it. Grace had said he-
His eyes snap open.
The light in the room has him groaning, closing his eyes again immediately and giving himself a moment to adjust before trying again. Blinking furiously, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm, he finds himself on his back in a bed that isn’t his, and he knows this because his ceilings are higher and his walls are different and-
There’s a head of messy blonde hair on the pillow beside him.
He sucks in a shuddering breath, memories crashing back over him, relief flooding his veins. Not a dream, he repeats over and over inside his head until it starts to sound real. Some part of him had expected to wake up in the SM-13, to discover that it had all been another of the Eel’s lies, a mirage amongst the blood and rust.
Grace murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like his name, burying his face further into his pillow before settling down again. The red fades from the back of his mind, and he rolls onto his side as carefully as he can, pausing halfway when Grace begins to stir and only moving again once he calms.
It's a new kind of thrill, staring openly at Ryland's sleeping face and knowing he's allowed to, that this is something he can have, something he's been trusted with. Grace is halfway onto his front, half on his side, one arm disappearing up beneath the pillow— he's buried his face deeply enough into it that he's going to have creases on his face when he wakes up. Simon can't wait to see them.
Simon's eyes are drawn to the long valley of Ryland's spine, slowly following it down until he reaches the dimples of his lower back, the sheet that rides low on his hips. He counts moles, birthmarks and scars, and wonders what sort of constellations they might make when joined. He wants to know how Ryland's skin tastes in the hazy morning light.
For now, though, as Ryland sleeps, he's content just to watch.
He studies the warped, darkened scar tissue that sprawls across his left arm and up his throat, the faint line across the bridge of his nose from when it had broken. Grace thinks himself a coward, but his body is littered with the marks of his bravery. He's a man of contradictions, Simon's come to learn over the weeks and months. He's come to appreciate it more than he'd expected— he has no interest in exaltation, and has spent more than enough time on his knees at someone else's foot.
The fear lingers. It'll take time to shed, but Grace doesn't seem to be in a hurry.
He watches Ryland's eyes twitch, the press of soft eyelashes against his lax cheeks, and almost marvels that his touch hasn't left blood smeared on his bared skin, that his want hasn't torn him open. Trust is hard, trust in himself moreso. Trusting Grace is easy, but it hasn't always been.
The rain picks up, insulating them from the world beyond, from time itself. He wants to stay in it for as long as he can.
There had never been time for this, before. Time to savour, to cherish, to hold something close and watch it bloom. He had always been running from one thing to the next, forgetting himself.
He never feels more like himself than he does at Grace's side.
The allure of sleep begins to crawl up his spine as he lies as still as possible, watching Ryland's every breath, willing himself to commit them all to memory. He doesn't want to waste it, doesn't want to let any of it slip between his fingers. He wills his grip - his want - to be firm but not bruising, to hold without clawing.
He thinks of them in Simon's kitchen months ago, of Ryland smiling at him. ‘I think you could do anything.’ he'd said, bright and sure, as though he could see something that Simon had been missing all these years. Something that nobody else had ever gotten close enough to see.
He wants him to be right. Fuck, he needs him to be.
The next time he wakes, Grace is watching him. He's on his side, now, and as he blinks away the dredges of sleep, he spots those promised creases in his cheek from his pillow.
He feels caught in Ryland's gaze, captivated— he wouldn't want to look away even if he could. Simon contents himself with waiting. He's not quite sure what for.
“Hey.” Ryland whispers, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Simon moves slowly, reaching out to glide his hand down the length of Ryland's spine, coming to a rest and spreading his fingers wide across the small of his back.
“Hey.” Simon returns, watching as pink stains Ryland's cheeks.
“You stayed.” Ryland says eventually, relieved. He's not good at losing people, Simon's coming to realise— he aches to know where that hurt stems from.
“Had a promise to keep,” he replies, slowly running his thumb back and forth across Ryland's skin, dipping momentarily into one of those dimples. He grins as he feels Ryland press up into his touch ever so slightly, increasing the pressure of his hand in response. “You uh, you got anywhere to be?”
“It's Saturday.”
“Kinda lost track of the days while I was…y’know,” Ryland raises an eyebrow at him, expectant. “Wallowing?”
“That works,” Ryland laughs, his eyes scrunching up. “Wallowing definitely works.”
“I can go back to it, if you want.”
“Alright alright,” Ryland concedes, lifting one hand in surrender. “I don't have anywhere else to be.”
Simon hums, shifting closer. “So we can stay here for a while, then?”
“Yeah, we can stay here.”
Ryland pushes up on his forearms to kiss him— all Simon knows is the warmth of his mouth and the rain outside. Nothing else exists, for now.
They kiss lazily, their bodies still heavy with sleep and the combined emotional exhaustion of the last few days. Their legs intertwine, and Ryland sinks his fingers into Simon's curls, tilting his head this way and that, keeping him precisely where he wants him. Simon doesn't care about the angle, so long as Ryland keeps making those soft noises into his mouth.
He ends up rolling them, crawling between Ryland's legs and propping himself up with a hand beside his head. He pulls back for a moment as Ryland's hands slide up his back before curling around his shoulders— he didn't realise he could feel like this, didn’t know he could inhabit his own skin like this without paranoia, without constantly disguising the vulnerable parts of him.
“What're you thinking about?” Ryland asks, one hand sliding down to carefully hold his scarred cheek.
“You.”
Ryland looks away, embarrassed again, but still smiling. He mutters a sharp fudge under his breath, and Simon rolls his eyes before leaning down to press a soft kiss to the side of his throat, relishing the way Ryland's entire body jolts.
He lingers there for a long moment, breathing him in, nosing at the short, soft hairs at the nape of Ryland's neck. Inspiration strikes him, and he presses his mouth back against Ryland's warm skin, sticks out his tongue, and blows.
“Simon!” Ryland shrieks, hands slapping at his shoulders as Simon takes a breath and blows again, harder this time, the resulting noise loud and ridiculous. “Oh-you, stop that!” but he's laughing, his protests weak, and so Simon does it one more time before pulling away. Ryland's laugh sets his entire body ablaze, warmth seeping into every pore.
“Sorry,” Simon lies once Ryland's gotten his breath back, grinning down at him unapologetically. “Did that tickle?”
“Knew you were gonna be trouble.” Ryland mutters darkly.
“Been thinking about me in your bed a lot, then?” he grins, more cocky than he feels.
Ryland hums, shrugging, trailing a hand down his chest, towards his stomach, sending a shiver down his spine.
“Wouldn't you like to know?” Ryland's hand dips lower, hovering just above where Simon would really like it to be. He doesn't quite know what to do with Ryland when he's touching him like this, speaking in that velvety tone, but still refusing to meet his eye and flushing out of embarrassment. Though, that isn't entirely true— there's at least one thing he can think of doing.
Ryland's long fingers splay out across his stomach, and Simon can't hold back the resulting gasp, his hips twitching.
“Yes. I would like to know.”
Ryland hums, contemplative. “Don't just think about you in my bed,” he admits. “Drive me crazy.”
“Where else?” Simon presses, that haze descending around them again— the rain fades into the distance as his focus zeroes in on the man beneath him.
Ryland doesn't say anything, but his eyes do flicker over to the bathroom. Simon follows his gaze, spots the shower through the open door. An image flashes into his mind, wet skin and Ryland's voice breaking on a whine, leaving him lightheaded for a moment.
“Alright up there buddy?” Ryland asks, flushed bright red and breathing harshly.
“Uh huh,” Simon nods, still woozy. “We should shower.”
“Oh,” Ryland says, dazed. “Should we?”
“Ryland.” Simon replies frankly. Ryland looks down in between them and seems to lose control of his jaw for a moment as it hangs open, the pink of his tongue just barely visible and driving Simon to the very edge of his restraint.
“Oh fudge.” Ryland gasps, and Simon topples headfirst over that edge, leaning down to kiss him stupid.
It doesn't take very long. Simon's always been a quick study.
Simon's hand rests against cool tiles, a scorching contrast to the warmth that engulfs him everywhere else. Between the water and Ryland's body pressed close against him, he's never been so warm.
Even with the steam in the air, between their mouths as they part and come together over and over, it isn't oppressive like the heat of that cursed ocean had been, doesn't set him on edge as he swallows Ryland's moans.
Back pressed to the wall, Ryland is a vision as they move languidly together, loose and lazy. Time can't reach them here— its absence is a balm on Simon's frayed nerves.
He's captivated by everything. By the way Ryland's damp hair curls at the ends as he sweeps it back off his face, the way the water trails down lean muscle and catches in the hollows of his collarbones. He itches to chase those rivulets with his mouth, but Ryland whines every time he pulls back to catch his breath, and so he stays just where he wants him, tongue sliding into his mouth, hot and slick and so good his head spins with it.
They finally break apart for a breath, but Simon doesn’t dare to go far, their noses brushing as they pant against one another, Ryland’s hands sliding over his shoulders, down his chest.
“You okay?” Simon prompts when Ryland’s attention fixes on a particularly ragged edge of the scarring on his chest, his fingers straddling the places where red, waxy scar tissue meets tan skin.
Ryland nods, his jaw tight. “Does it still hurt?” he asks eventually, tentatively.
“Sometimes,” Simon admits. “After a nightmare usually. Sometimes I…my left hand hurts, even though it’s not there anymore.”
“Phantom pain,” Ryland supplies. “Your mind doesn’t know that it’s gone.”
Simon can't help but be envious of his own mind. He knows that it's gone, remembers exactly why in excruciating detail. He presses closer, inhaling a lungful of Ryland's scent to keep that red fog at bay, that creeping panic that threatens to slide over his skin, thick and cloying.
“Does yours hurt?” Simon asks once he's found the edges of himself again, eyes catching on the imprint of Rocky's claws, haloed within the rest of the scarring that adorns his forearm. Twin tales of desperation echoing across Ryland's skin.
“Sometimes,” Ryland echoes, shrugging. “Price of being alive.” he adds nonchalantly. Simon doesn’t believe it for a second.
“You shouldn’t have to pay a price for that.
Ryland’s smile is sad. “Neither should you.”
Simon leans in to kiss him— they’ve both paid their price, he wants to focus on savouring his reward for as long as possible.
Ryland’s arms loop around the back of his neck as Simon deepens the kiss, straightening up and pressing Ryland further into the wall with his hips before trailing his hand down his chest, his stomach, and wrapping around his cock. His entire body jolts in surprise, pulling back from their kiss to gasp, head thudding backwards against the tiles.
“Easy,” Simon murmurs against his jaw. “I’ve got you, I’m here. Just feel it.”
With every movement of his fist, Ryland’s body sags more and more against him, pressed against the wall. His knees shake, thighs straining, and the arms around Simon’s neck cling ever tighter, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulder.
He focuses all of his energy on Ryland as he shakes and keens, as his hips twitch desperately forwards, as his mouth hangs open, pink and wet and obscene. A show all for him— he bemoans his need to blink, not wanting to miss a single moment, no movement or reaction too small for him to covet.
Their edges start to blur as they had last night as Ryland’s movements become increasingly desperate, their roots tangled. Simon never wants to separate, wants to stay intertwined, connected. He wants to feel Ryland's heartbeat alongside his own, the proof that he's here, alive— that they both are. He nips lightly at Ryland’s jaw as his hips grind forwards, before dragging his tongue down the side of his throat, feeling Ryland twitch in his hand.
“Fuck.” Ryland hisses. Simon rewards him with a nip just under his ear.
“Good,” he praises, directly into Ryland’s ear. “Gonna come?”
“Simon.”
“Hmm, sounds like you are,” he presses his knee up higher between Ryland’s thighs as he says it, applying just enough pressure to have Ryland’s hips stuttering, his voice breaking. “So fucking beautiful.” he marvels.
Ryland’s body goes taught, and then he’s making a noise that seems to have been drawn right from his core as he arches and hits his peak, panting wetly against Simon’s cheek. He slows his hand, but doesn’t stop until Ryland is shuddering and pulling away, planting his hand back on the wall to hold him up as he takes on most of Ryland’s weight. He's content to stand there while Ryland floats somewhere in the steam above them, content to wait for him to come back down.
He likes it. Being wanted, needed. He's not sure he's ever been that before, in a way that wasn't cruel— in a way that didn't crush him underfoot.
When he comes back to himself, Ryland pulls back, chest still heaving, his thighs twitching where Simon’s still holds them open.
“Give me a minute.” he murmurs before falling forwards again, his forehead pressed to Simon’s shoulder.
Simon nods. “As long as you need.”
The rest of my life, he thinks, ask for it, please ask for it.
“We should talk,” Ryland says, still pink from the heat of the shower, his hair wet and dripping onto the shoulders of his shirt. “Can we? Can we talk?”
A pit opens up in Simon's stomach, a terrible dread creeping over him. Talks never seem to end well for him, and he doesn't want to let go of this yet, doesn't want to shatter this calm, this peace, and let the world back in. To forsake this golden quiet for the noise outside it.
The rain is slowing, calming. Simon wants it to storm all day long— it gives him a reason not to leave. A reason that he can't.
“Okay,” he manages, nodding despite the panic. He's sat at Ryland's kitchen table in a borrowed pair of pajama trousers, too long in the leg, hand wrapped around a steaming mug. He grips it tight as he nods again, bracing himself. “What did you wanna talk about?”
Ryland grimaces— Simon holds his breath.
“It occurs to me that we might've skipped a few steps here,” Grace starts, frowning down at his mug as he comes to sit opposite him. Under the table, one of his bare legs knocks against Simon's calf— he can tell that it isn't an entirely conscious action, and despite the expression on Ryland's face it warms something in him. Sparks some small mote of hope. He's rubbing the chip in the handle with his thumb, and so Simon waits, watching as he figures out how to voice whatever it is he's thinking, regardless of how no small amount of panic rises in him. “By Earth standards, I mean. Generally.”
“Meaning?” he prompts when nothing further is said for a few long moments. Steam rises from Grace's mug, his thumb still pressed into that chip.
“Well, there's normally…other things that you do before you…” he trails off, cheeks flushing a particularly attractive shade of pink. He's embarrassed, and Simon doesn't know whether he's supposed to be too. “Everything we've done in the last twelve hours or so usually happens over a longer period. In my experience at least.”
“Oh,” Simon can feel heat rising up the back of his neck and he ducks his head. “I'm sorry-”
“No! It's okay, you don't need to apologise,” Grace is quick to interject. “I don't regret it, any of it. I just…I want to make sure we're on the same page. I was never good at this on Earth, and I uh,” he pauses again, that colour on his cheeks deepening. “This is too important to me to screw up. You're too important to me.”
Simon's heart skips— he's been in Grace's bed, inside him, but he still hasn't gotten used to hearing him say things like that. Maybe that's why they had a process for this on Earth, to ease into it. Part of him hopes that he never gets used to it.
“What sort of things do they do, then?” he asks once he's gotten himself under control again. “We could…I mean, it would still be in the wrong order, but we could do those things? Would that help?”
“Well you…” he trails off, frowning again. “Hold that thought.” he adds, before misjudging his speed as he stands up and knocks his chair onto the floor with an echoing clang.
“What am I looking at?” Simon prompts at least twenty minutes later. Grace had re-emerged from the bedroom looking slightly harried, his glasses hanging beneath his chin and one of his whiteboards in hand.
The board is filled with Grace's familiar writing, and so is borderline illegible in places but Simon knows better than to voice that. At the top, he's written Earth Dating 101, and below it a list of activities and events, ending with grow old and die, etc. which— Simon decides to ignore that end of the list in favour of the top.
There's a lot of entries with crosses next to them.
“My first assumption was wrong,” Grace says after a long silence, pushing his glasses back into his face. “I think we may have actually done this incredibly slowly. Up until now, at least.”
Coffee (casual) is the first entry, and Simon turns to him with a raised eyebrow.
“You think?”
“I was just— being nice!” Grace splutters, indignant, that pretty colour spreading across his cheeks again. “How was I supposed to know?”
“You're the one that knows about all this.” Simon argues, pointing at the board.
“Look, there's a lot of overlap between friendships and relationships, and-” he cuts himself off, huffing as Simon fails spectacularly at keeping his expression neutral, breaking out into a wide grin. “Stop that. I'm—this is a serious discussion we're having here.”
“My apologies, Dr Grace,” he says, bowing his head deferentially and delighting in the murderous glare Grace sends him. He peers back at the board, frowning. “What's hiking?”
“Fancy word for walking,” Grace says dismissively. There's a branching line from that which specifies walking on the beach as more important. Simon wonders if that's something specific to Grace or not, but suspects it's best not to ask. “Look it's not a bad thing, it's…” he huffs again. His glasses are slowly sliding down his nose, and Simon idly wonders if they do that by design or not. “I think it's maybe a little short-sighted to compare our situation to the average relationship on Earth, is what I mean.”
“How's that?” Simon asks, eyes still on the board. Movie date has a line next to it rather than a cross, probably because movie nights were for the four of them, rather than just two.
Behind him, he can hear Ryland starting to pace.
“We're the only human beings around for lightyears. We've both been through a—unique set of circumstances,” Simon doesn't miss the way he stumbles over that, but he supposes that it's as good of a description as you can get without using the words ‘suicide mission’. “I mean, nothing about our lives is conventional. We eat meat engineered from my DNA,” Simon grimaces at that reminder, but Grace presses onwards. “Maybe we just…forget about all of this. It's been going well so far.”
Simon hums in agreement, but his attention snags on an entry relatively far up the list. Dinner, it says, and Grace seems to have written something else and then rubbed it out, before writing candlelit? over the smudging.
“What's this one?” he asks. “You didn't mark it.”
Grace sidles up behind him, pushing his glasses back up his nose again. “Oh, uh,” that pink is creeping up his throat again. Simon looks away if only to not let himself get too distracted. “Well, whenever we've had dinner together it's usually with Rocky and Adrian. And that's…this is different.”
“Different?” Simon prompts. He chances a look to his left and Grace's face is quickly turning bright red.
“You know. It would be just us, more intimate,” he takes a shaky breath. “Romantic.” his voice breaks. Interesting.
He thinks about it while Ryland steadies himself. He thinks about the meals they've had in the past, stealing glances at Grace at the other end of the table between conversations, during one of his and Rocky's many lively debates. He thinks of the previous night, of the warm light that had filled Grace's home and the quiet intimacy they'd fostered between them.
“We could do that,” he blurts before he's even thought about what he's saying. “We—can we do that?”
Ryland is looking at him with wide eyes, but there's the ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “Yeah, yeah of course we can. I'll just need to-”
“Tonight?” Simon interjects, his mouth once again moving two steps ahead of his brain. He doesn't retract it.
“Sure,” Grace says, that smile breaking free. “I'm sure I can pull something together.”
Simon frowns to himself, unsatisfied with the image that Grace's words conjure. The solution hits him square in the face and disorients him for a moment. The tips of his ears burn.
“I'll cook. I know I'm not as good as you are, but I want to,” Grace's hesitation returns, clearly caught off guard. “Can I?”
“You don't have to, I'm happy to-”
“I want to,” Simon interrupts, closing the small space in between them in a single step. “Let me?”
“Oh,” Grace wheezes, mouth hanging open for a moment. “Okay, yeah. Of course! That…that would be nice,” he pauses again, a timid smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Are you asking me on a date?” he asks in an exaggerated whisper.
“Yes,” Simon replies, pulling Grace against him more firmly with a hand on his hip. Grace is warm and soft and laughing against him, and Simon throws all caution to the wind, leaning in closer. “Gonna say yes, pretty boy?”
“Oh my god.” Grace chokes, turning bright red from the tips of his ears all the way down his throat.
He grins, unable to stop himself. “I'll take that as a yes-” Grace shuts him up with a kiss.
It takes ten minutes of staring at his laptop to conclude that he's made a serious mistake.
Between his rudimentary grasp on cooking from Grace's previous impromptu lessons, and the lack of anything even resembling a candle in his house or on Erid as a whole, he's left staring at his dining table with a deep, sinking sensation in his gut.
An hour later, Rocky is knocking on his door.
‘Grace more stupid today than normal,’ Rocky announces as soon as he rolls in the door, his tool belt strapped to his carapace. ‘Side-effect of human mating, question?’
“I'm not the best person to ask about that,” Simon manages, voice strained. “You uh, you went to see him?”
‘Yes yes,’ Rocky replies, rolling to a stop in the middle of the living room. ‘Wanted to see. Adrian keep him busy while Rocky helps Simon.’
No small amount of guilt rises in his stomach at the mention of Adrian. “Are they…how are they?” he asks, shame threatening to bowl him over. “I need to apologise to them.”
Rocky pauses, tapping his claws together. ‘Yes, you do. But later. Adrian understand,’ he pauses again, and Simon steels himself. ‘Will have to work for forgiveness.’
“Great.” Simon mumbles, pinching at the bridge of his nose, but Rocky's already started barreling around the room again, so he doesn't have time to stew.
It doesn't take long for him to get kicked out after he's explained what exactly it is that he needs. He figures that showing him photos won't particularly help but he does it anyways, and Rocky chitters contemplatively as he talks, fiddling with a tool on his belt.
‘Like Rocky lights in Grace house?’ Rocky asks, pulling on the complex gloves he uses to work with his Xenonite. ‘Can do. Simon go get vegetables now.’
“Don't you need me to-”
‘May need help later, yes. After vegetables. Go go go.’
Knowing better than to argue, Simon steps into his shoes and leaves the Eridian to it.
He settles on making soup again. They've ended up with something of a surplus of tomatoes, and it's the meal he's helped Grace cook most often, so he figures that it's his safest option. As he loads up his basket, he pauses at the end of the row of planters, hesitating.
From what he's seen in the movies Grace has shown them, he's always thought of the practice of giving flowers to be peturbing. Growing something so beautiful just to cut it down at its most vibrant just feels wrong, but as he eyes the rows and rows of thriving tomato plants, he wavers.
They've already got a surplus, and cutting a few small stems laden with yellow flowers won't hurt the plants in the long run. If anything, it keeps him from having to agonise over any waste. He cuts a handful of flowering vines, and ties them carefully together with some of the twine Adrian had made for him months earlier. It's not the easiest job one handed, but he's worked with the twine often enough that he has it all pulled together before too long.
He stares down at the tiny bouquet, placed carefully on top of the tomatoes— he's hit by a sudden and relentless embarrassment, eyeing the bench of plants with their bright fruit and damp leaves, and feeling distinctly judged, somehow.
“Fuck off,” he grumbles. The plants say nothing in reply. He sighs, slumping against the worktable. “Fuckin’ stupid.”
He takes a moment, breathing deeply in through his nose and savouring the earthy freshness unique to the greenhouses, steadying himself. He feels completely ridiculous with his basket full of tomatoes and onions and flowers.
He collects his basket and leaves. Grace makes him ridiculous— he's beginning to think that it might be a good thing.
Rocky makes him stay outside for ten minutes when he returns, and as much as he suspects he does it just to irritate him, he doesn't argue. So he waits patiently until a thud from the other side of the door startles him.
‘Rocky done. Simon come in now.’ comes his computerised voice. Simon turns, grabs his basket from the floor and steps through.
“Oh,” he breathes, eyes wide as he looks around. “This is-how did you-”
‘Adrian help. Have many ideas already before Simon ask,’ Rocky hesitates, clicking his claws. ‘Wanted it to be perfect for friends.’
And as ever, he hasn't disappointed.
The adjoining kitchen and living room are flooded with warm, golden light. The coffee table is cluttered with small, short lights, all slightly different sizes and shapes, radiating outwards towards the edges. The sofa has been piled with cushions and blankets he knows for a fact weren’t there already, and every surface, shelf and nook has some kind of light nestled into or balanced on it. Simon’s home is far sparser than Grace’s, but Rocky has still managed to arrange them in a way that they blend into the background.
‘Noticed Simon like these,’ Rocky says. He’s in his Xenonite suit now and pointing up at the ceiling, and Simon swallows, his mouth dry. Hanging from the ceiling and swooping low over the living room are similar string lights to those in Grace’s home, but their arrangement is slightly different. ‘Local star clusters, will explain more later. Made similar map for Grace when first met, but smaller,’ he pauses again, hesitant. ‘Simon never have stars in his sky before. Now do.’
He stares up at the lights for a moment, transfixed. They cover most of the ceiling in the living room, glowing softly, some of the lights larger and more prominent than the rest, their edges shimmering gently in the still air.
“I uh, shit, man, I don’t really know what to say,” he manages after a long moment, voice rasping. “I wasn’t expecting all this.”
Rocky hums in acknowledgement. ‘Nice surprise?’
He chokes on a laugh, nodding. “Yeah. The best.”
‘Good good good,’ Rocky preens. ‘Come see kitchen now.’
Feeling slightly concussed, Simon follows him.
Only a half wall separates the kitchen from the living room - Simon had hated the idea of rooms he couldn’t see into when he’d first arrived - but it’s enough to obscure the surface of the table from view. As he steps onto the tiles, he finds his chest seizing again.
The table has been covered in a long, white sheet of fabric, similar to what the Eridians had made for their beds, decorated along the edges with intricate patterns and small metal beads. They chime softly as he reaches out a hand to one of the corners and holds it between his fingers, and he clings to it like a lifeline as he takes in the rest of the room.
A few small lights dot the countertops, but on the table a pair of tall, thin lights stand, fixed to a circular centrepiece which is inlaid in a similar pattern to the cloth. Candlesticks, his mind supplies, Rocky had made him candlesticks.
It's beautiful, all of it. Enough to make that doubt rise in him again, that voice in the back of his mind that tells him he doesn’t deserve any of this, that he’s taking far more than he could ever give. He lets the cloth slip from between his fingers and sets the basket on the countertop, grinding his teeth to stop himself from spiralling.
The wound is still raw, just starting to scab over. He’d lost track of that for a while in Grace’s home, in his bed, but aside from a few better decisions he’s still the same man he was yesterday. He’s still afraid.
‘Simon still has doubts?’ Rocky prompts, coming up alongside him. He’d bemoan the fact that Rocky can read humans so well - something that many Eridians still struggled with, according to Grace - but he can’t help but be grateful for it. He might never have gotten a second chance if Rocky hadn’t forced him to pull his head out of his ass, afterall.
“Yeah. It’s gonna take some time to get used to all this.”
‘Yes, will take time. All good things do.’
He nods, smiling down at the Eridian— his friend.
“Thank you.”
Rocky trills, and Simon takes a breath before setting about getting himself and the food ready. Anticipation and anxiety roil in his gut in equal measure— he focuses on the warmth of the light and the soft chitters Rocky makes as he clears up to steady himself.
He owes all of them more than he'll ever be able to repay, even if they don't see it that way. Simon's never liked owing people things, never liked debts, but it doesn't feel the same, here, with Rocky's efforts transforming his home into something softer, kinder.
It feels like nothing he's ever felt before— it feels like love. Once as remote as the stars, he's unearthing it everywhere, even in himself.
He wants it to last. He'll do anything to make sure that it does.
Rocky’s still there an hour later when the soup is bubbling away on the stove and Simon’s agonising over how to style his goddamn hair. He’s a grown man, it should be simple. As he stares at himself in the mirror, freshly showered and his curls refusing to cooperate, and considers whether Ryland would still find him attractive with a shaved head before immediately recoiling from the unpleasant memories that the thought stirs up.
‘Human mating so complicated,’ Rocky bemoans from his place in the doorway. ‘What problem now, question?’
“Fuckin’ hair,” he grumbles, “Won’t…stay.” he tacks on vaguely. Rocky taps his foot on the ground in one of many gestures that equates to rolling his eyes.
‘Should tie, loose. Grace go stupid when tied for greenhouse work.’
“I can’t tie it,” he admits. His red eye glares back at him in the mirror, and he flicks his hair in front of it. “Adrian does it for me.”
‘Simon idiot.’
He turns sharply. “I only have one hand, I can’t tie it on my own.”
‘So let Rocky tie. Adrian show before.’
He slumps against the sink, that defensive irritation draining away as quickly as it had risen. “You couldn’t have just said that?”
‘No.’ Rocky replies, not waiting before he’s walking back into the kitchen.
In the end, he lets the Eridian consult on the rest of his outfit too. He’s only got so many pairs of trousers, so that choice is simpler, but he’s accumulated a slightly alarming collection of shirts, sweaters, and everything else in between in the time he’s been here. He has to veto a vest that he suspects Rocky only suggests to annoy him, and a button-down shirt that’s so tight he can hardly breathe.
‘Grace go stupid when Simon wear tight shirt!’ Rocky argues, vehement.
“You’re putting a lot of work into helping me sleep with your best friend, you know.”
Rocky makes a low noise, his version of huffing. ‘Dick.’
“I’ll tell him you said that.” Simon warns, shedding the cursed shirt and carefully putting it back where it had come from. Primed for later use, maybe.
‘Won’t.’ Rocky replies before diving back into the pile of shirts.
Rocky leaves once they’ve finally come to an agreement. He dons one of the dark knitted jumpers he’d been given after he’d been released from the med unit - he’s oddly thankful in that moment for Grace’s affinity for knitwear introducing the practice en masse to the Eridians - and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows while he cooks.
‘Keep rolled up,’ Rocky advises as he moves back into his ball. ‘Make Grace stupid.’
“You got some kind of list of all the things that make him stupid?” Simon asks, sprinkling salt into the swirling broth and turning up the heat.
‘Only in head. Will share maybe.’
Simon can’t decide if knowing would be worse, so he doesn’t say anything.
His departure leaves him standing alone in his kitchen, socked feet on the cool tiles, and staring at the soup as it simmers. The bouquet sits on the side table in the entranceway, and he finds himself suddenly overcome with anxiety. They had come to the conclusion that they’d been working their way towards something for a while, sure, but it’s still been less than a day since Simon pulled himself together after over a week of avoiding Grace. What if it’s too much? What if he’s misstepped? What if Grace-
A knock on the door echoes through his quiet home— he takes a slow, deep breath in through his nose.
The walk to the door is simultaneously the longest and shortest walk of his life. He grabs the handle and pauses for a moment, staring down at his own hand, finding himself on another edge, trusting Grace with another fall.
No half measures, he tells himself, no half commitments, either.
He opens the door— he has to stop himself from slamming it again out of some strange manifestation of his fight or flight response.
Grace stands on his doorstep in a beige knitted sweater, faintly decorated with a pale green thread in another Eridian style. Warm light glints off his glasses, and his hair is messy in just the right way, windswept, almost. He connects the dots immediately, and can only dread what Adrian must have filed away on their own Things that make Simon stupid list.
“Hey, Simon,” Ryland says, his eyes a little wide, his cheeks starting to turn that particularly lovely shade of pink. “You, uh, you look nice.” his voice breaks slightly.
“You too,” Simon says lamely, shaking himself and taking a step backwards. “Sorry. Come in.” He steps to the side and Ryland nods, following him in. Simon watches numbly as Grace toes off his shoes next to his own and runs a hand through his hair— getting through this meal without dragging him into the bedroom is going to be a test of patience he does not have.
“Oh,” Grace breathes, having stepped past Simon while he was getting ahold of himself, standing on the step down that leads into the rest of the house. “You've redecorated?”
“Yeah, I wanted it nice, for you,” his palm is starting to sweat. Fucking hell. “I got you something.”
Grace turns away from the lights and smiles, surprise evident. “Oh yeah?”
Simon nods. The teeth on his cheek feel overly cumbersome as he offers a smile in return— he turns to grab the flowers.
“This is probably stupid, and you don't have to take them but…” he trails off and holds out the small bouquet, watching as Grace's eyes widen further in surprise, his mouth hanging slightly open.
“I don't think anybody's ever given me flowers before.” he says softly, hand twitching at his side.
“You don't have to-”
“No I'll take them,” he amends quickly, offering Simon a sheepish smile. He takes a step closer. “Thank you, Simon.” He plants a kiss on Simon's cheek as he takes the flowers, and it takes a few moments for his brain to cool down enough for him to do anything other than stand there, paralysed.
“Hungry?” Simon manages after a few moments. “I uh, I think it's ready?”
Grace laughs— he's the brightest thing in the room.
He leads Grace to the kitchen, where he has him check the soup before going in search of bowls and spoons. Grace stands at the countertop while Simon serves, setting the flowers into a glass of water with careful hands.
“This one doesn't want to stick with the rest.” he muses, fighting a losing battle against a small, lone vine adorned with two smaller flowers. Crossing back towards him, he holds his hand out to take it and help, but Grace is moving before he can reach him. Quicker than he's used to seeing him move, he's lifting the flower and tucking it behind Simon's ear.
Simon pauses— Grace's hand remains suspended in the air, seemingly no longer being controlled by his mind.
“Sorry, I should've asked,” he says, embarrassment staining the tops of his ears. “I can-”
“Leave it,” Simon interrupts, catching his wrist. “How's it look?”
Grace swallows, his glasses are making their way down his nose again and Simon resists the urge to push them up for him. “Good. It…it suits you.”
Satisfied with making Grace squirm just a little, he turns back to the food.
Sitting down to eat, at least, feels closer to normality, but he can tell Grace is just as nervous as he is by the way he rambles and drops his spoon twice. Simon has confessed more to him than anyone else, they've had sex twice, but they're dancing around each other here in a way they never really have before. It's a test, he realises, for both of them. To see if it works outside of the extremes, outside of the heat and haze Grace's bed.
He wonders if he hasn't just set himself up for failure all over again.
“Hey,” comes Grace's voice, pulling him out of his head. “You okay?”
He shakes it off, nodding. “Yeah I'm fine.”
Grace hums. “You're a bad liar.”
He huffs a reluctant laugh and Ryland rests his head in his palm, smiling at him lopsidedly.
“Just nervous. I've never done this before. Didn't really know it was a thing that people did,” he hesitates, and then decides he hasn't held anything back so far, so why start now? “I really want this to work.”
“Me too,” Grace's expression turns apprehensive, eyes darting away to study the tablecloth. “I wasn't exaggerating earlier when I said I was never any good at this. Even if we met under normal circumstances, this would be hard. I would be.”
“I don't mind.” It comes easy, because it's true. Simon's made hard choices, choosing to let himself have this, sat on a dark beach and shrinking himself down as small as possible, ranking highly amongst them. Now, in the warm light and with the ghost of Grace's lips still branded on his cheek, it's as easy as breathing.
“We’ll have to work for it, both of us.”
“I know,” and then, because he can, he reaches his hand out across the table and captures Grace's fingers, squeezing them gently. “I’m choosing this, choosing you.”
Grace smiles, his eyes shining, lower lip wobbling. He nods, and Simon laces their fingers together properly and feels Grace squeeze his hand, trembling slightly.
“I choose you, too.”
Warmth floods him from the places where they touch— he's all starlight and sea salt, his Ryland.
After dinner, Ryland shoos him out of the kitchen so he can wash up, brandishing a wooden spoon at him. It isn't very intimidating.
‘You grew it and cooked it, get out of here.’ he'd said sternly when Simon had tried to argue, pointing at him. Teacher voice, his mind had supplied afterwards, heat rising up the back of his neck.
He obeys, but finds himself reluctant to go too far. He wanders into the living room for a moment, considers sitting down, but immediately ends up crossing back towards the kitchen.
A strange feeling stirs at the sight of Grace in his kitchen, washing the dishes and humming softly beneath his breath. His glasses hang beneath his chin, dangerously close to falling into the sink, but he's remembered to roll his sleeves up, at least. It feels precious, something to savour and guard. The night is quiet and warm around him, and he doesn't want to let the feeling go quite yet, doesn't want to come out from this secluded place that he's carved out, fortified by Rocky and Adrian's efforts.
Giving into that voice in his mind what whispers closer, closer, he crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, hesitating behind Grace before pressing himself against his back, his arm wrapping around his waist. Grace is slouching enough over the sink that Simon doesn't need to push up onto his toes to hook his chin over his shoulder and bury his nose in the side of his neck, pressing a kiss there just to feel his breath stutter.
“Hey,” Grace murmurs, turning his face towards him. “You okay?”
Simon hums, pressing himself that smallest bit closer. “Missed you.”
Ryland laughs softly, placing a bowl upside down on the draining board beside the sink. “Clingy.”
Simon freezes. “If it's too much I can-”
“I didn't say that,” Grace interrupts, and Simon can feel the flush spreading up his neck, warmth blooming across his skin as he presses his nose in closer. “I like it.” he admits.
Simon hums and pulls Grace against him more tightly. His eyes slip closed as he memorises the feel of him, the smell of his shampoo quelling that old, desperate longing that refuses to settle even with Ryland in his arms.
He's going to want him for the rest of his life. The thought doesn't scare him like it used to.
Eventually, he does let go and leaves Grace to it, settling onto the sofa, warm and content in a way he's still getting used to. The sound of water running and dishes clinking together lulls him into a pleasant haze, slouched down, his head resting on the cushions.
Movement out of the corner of his eye startles him for half a second before he's relaxing. Grace smiles softly down at him, coming to stand in between his knees and the coffee table, hands on his hips as his eyes run up and down the length of Simon's body. Warmth blooms in his gut as he realises he's being studied. He doesn't have time to wonder what that reaction says about him because Ryland is stepping closer, placing one hand on the back of the sofa as he moves to straddle Simon's thighs.
Simon hastily pushes himself upright to make the positioning more comfortable, moving quickly enough that he almost headbutts him.
“Woah!” Ryland laughs, hands coming to settle on Simon's shoulders. “I’m not much of a cowboy, go easy on me there.”
Simon lets his head fall back again, snaking his arm around Grace's waist to keep him held close, secure. The smile Grace sends him is lopsided, almost lazy, presumably aware of the effect he's having on Simon's composure, sitting atop him as he is. Slipping his hand beneath Ryland's sweater to stroke the sensitive skin over his hipbone, he figures that they can both play that game.
“You look like one from here,” he replies, pressing his hips up slightly just to watch Ryland's ears burn red. “Sure you don't want to go for a ride?”
Grace chokes at that, a visible shudder running down his spine, his head hanging low as he tries to hide from Simon's stare.
“Oh no,” he whispers and Simon can't help but grin. “Where are you even getting this stuff from?”
“That didn't feel like a ‘no’ to me.” he replies, ignoring the question in favour of rolling his hips up again and delighting in the way Grace hisses, his hands a clawing grip on Simon's shoulders.
“Asshole,” Ryland mutters under his breath, and Simon can only grin— getting him to curse always feels like an achievement. “You couldn't handle-oh-” his voice breaks off into a whine as Simon leans forwards to mouth at his throat, pulling flushed, warm skin between his lips, his teeth, and willing new bruises to form amongst the older ones. Grace had liked it last night, he had said as much, and something in his stomach warms with satisfaction as Grace clutches at him desperately, one hand on the back of his head holding him close, even as he twitches from the sensitivity, halfway between pulling away and pressing impossibly closer.
That haze starts to fall in around him, where all he can think is Ryland and want, until it boils over into need, an insatiable fire burning through his veins fuelled by every gasp, every twitch of Grace's body. He wants to catalogue every reaction so he can repeat them again, to become an expert in how to make Ryland Grace feel good over and over again.
Reaching the bottom of Grace's throat, he lifts his arm so he can tug the neckline of his sweater lower and noses along the place where his neck meets his shoulder. Ryland shudders above him, eyes slipping closed, head tilting further and further away to allow Simon more space. He hesitates for a moment, watching, before sinking his teeth into that sensitive spot.
“Oh fuck!” Ryland keens, the hand in Simon's hair tightening. Simon hums in victory, laving over the skin with his tongue to soothe it before peppering feather-light kisses there. Grace twitches so violently he almost falls out of Simon's lap, and he has to drop his arm back around his waist to keep him upright.
“Alright?” he asks, pulling back so he can see Ryland's face. His eyes are dark and hazy, his glasses halfway off his face, he's flushed dark red, chest rising and falling rapidly as he nods loosely. “What d’you want?”
“You,” Ryland wheezes immediately. “Need you.”
Simon pulls him down into a kiss, laughing into his mouth when he pulls his glasses off his face and tosses them vaguely behind him onto the coffee table. But then Ryland gets his bottom lips between his teeth and bites, and it's his turn to gasp. Grace kisses him like his life depends on it, chasing his mouth every time he backs off to grab a breath, insistent and heady and so, so good that Simon's head spins.
Hands slide down his shoulders, over his chest, and then Grace is tugging at the hem of his sweater, pulling it over his head before Simon can even move to help. The flower falls out from behind his ear and gets caught in his curls, and Simon holds his breath, more than a little awestruck as Grace carefully extracts it and puts it back. His eyes are intense, more than Simon's seen from him before, and the sudden shift from devouring him to gently running his long fingers through his hair has his mind reeling, staring up at Ryland as anticipation thrums through him.
There's something different in the air between them tonight, something raw and bleeding. Something that tastes like Ryland's voice cracking in the cool, stale air of the Hail Mary, stood on that precipice of something new and terrifying. I thought I'd lost you, he'd said, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. His hand shakes as he reaches out to help Grace tug his sweater up and off, and the sight of so much of him, illuminated by those golden lights, is enough to make Simon dizzy with want.
He finds himself pulled into another ravenous kiss, Ryland's hands smoothing over his cheeks - taking extra care around the teeth - and down to his chest, tracing the lines of muscle and the ragged edges of scars with a reverence that makes Simon ache. He touches like he's memorising, compiling some mental map of Simon's body, and he craves it, for someone to know him that well— for Ryland to. To be understood, to be known.
Whatever desperation has taken hold in Ryland passes into Simon with the hot, slick slide of their tongues together, with Grace's nails dragging lightly up and down his chest and his steady weight above him. His want spirals into something that simmers beneath his skin, that overwhelming need to be closer. He wants to carve a place for himself between Ryland's ribs, like the forest within his own, he wants to burn away all the edges between their bodies, and he wants to forget where one ends and the other begins.
“I need to-” he grinds out when Ryland has to break away again for another gasping breath, their foreheads pressed together, the world condensed down to the heat between them. “Can I fuck you?” he asks. “Please, I need to be inside you again.”
And Grace, red-faced and panting, reaches down with his left hand and grabs Simon's cock through his pants and squeezes until he groans, head thrown back. Grace sighs, long and hitching, staring down at his hand between Simon's legs with an open hunger that makes him lightheaded. It's intimidating, being at the centre of Ryland's attention like this, trying desperately to grind up into his palm as he smiles at him softly and presses the heel of his hand down until Simon keens.
“Let me do it,” Ryland murmurs, leaning down so that their lips brush as he speaks. He lessens the pressure of his hand before rubbing up and down slowly, until Simon's chest is heaving, the ache between his legs almost unbearable as Ryland strokes him. “Just stay there, like that,” he presses his other hand against Simon's chest, holding him still, thumb smoothing over his heated skin. “Don't move.”
He nods, dizzy, and Grace leans down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his slack mouth before standing.
“Do you have any…?”
“Yeah,” Simon wheezes, swallowing thickly. “Bathroom.”
“Don't move,” Ryland reiterates, pointing, smiling when Simon nods. “Good.” Simon bites down on a whine as he turns away, sagging back against the cushions.
He has to clench his fist to prevent himself from reaching down and taking the edge off as he waits, cock straining painfully as anticipation roils through him, images flashing into his mind of what Ryland has in mind, memories of the previous night, the feeling of him so hot and tight around him making him leak.
When Ryland reappears, he's got a familiar pot in hand which he sets beside Simon's thigh before straightening up again. He flushes prettily as he sheds the rest of his clothes, his cock red and angry as it bobs upwards and slaps against his stomach. He shrinks in on himself as Simon studies him, some of that confidence fading, which just won't do.
“C’mere beautiful,” Simon coaxes. “Want you close.”
Ryland's face blooms into a brilliant smile, and he ducks his head as he closes the space between them, settling himself comfortably back into Simon's lap. He lifts a hand to Simon's jaw, tracing his thumb along his bottom lip, his entire focus zeroed in on Simon again.
“I need you to stay just like this,” he says softly, that stern note edging into his voice again that makes Simon's breath stutter. “Just watch, okay? You've done so much already, let me do this.”
Simon nods, unable to do anything else as Grace pulls back, straightening up and grabbing the pot, dipping his fingers inside. Ryland braces one hand on Simon's shoulder, shuffling slightly before leaning backwards, stretching his arm around behind himself and-
“Oh, fuck, Ryland.” Simon groans as he realises what he's doing, watching as Ryland smiles down at him, eyes heavy and dark, and gasping as he slides a slick finger into himself. His hand twitches at his side, desperate to touch, and Ryland must notice because he leans in closer, that arm still moving behind him.
“No touching,” he warns. “Just watch, be good.” Simon throws his head back and moans— he's never going to be able to sit in on one of Grace's classes again without getting red in the face.
But there's that promise again, of being good for him, so simple, but he wants it so much.
“Yes, yes I'll-I’ll be good.” his voice breaks, and perhaps if he had more presence of mind he might be embarrassed by the way he sounds, the way he must look. But he's overwhelmed by a tide of want need Ryland and he doesn't fucking care, just wants Grace to keep talking to him like that, keep looking at him and touching him like he's something precious, something loved.
And so he sits back and watches with a clenched fist as Ryland fucks himself open on his fingers, watching as sweat beads on his brow and his cock leaks against his stomach, his hips moving in small little jerks as he presses back against his own hand. The angle looks awkward, but he can't bring himself to interrupt, not when he's witnessing temptation manifest writhe in his lap, and knowing that the sight is all for him.
He loses track of time, submerged in the blistering heat between them that radiates from Ryland's body. He's flushed from his ears all the way down his chest, and Simon can see that this is new to him, and the fact that Ryland trusts him enough to try it out makes his heart clench in his chest, every fibre of his body chanting for more more more.
“Do you want me?” Ryland asks, his voice strained and breathy, his hair beginning to stick to his sweaty forehead.
“Please,” Simon begs, voice hoarse. “Need you. You’re so beautiful, fuck, please Ryland.”
Ryland’s movements stutter at that and a high, reedy whine tears out of him. He rolls his hips down against his hand again, and Simon finds himself jealous of it, nails digging painfully into his palm as he holds himself back. With one last obscene noise, Ryland pulls his fingers out and attacks Simon’s pants with a scrabbling desperation, yanking them open and raising up higher on his knees so Simon can lift his hips to shimmy out of them, his underwear going with them. He groans in relief as the night air hits the head of his cock, Ryland only pulling his pants down to his knees before growing impatient and grabbing the pot again.
“It’s alright,” Ryland whispers against his mouth as he lowers his slick hand to wrap around Simon, coating him generously. His hips stutter upwards and Ryland tuts, squeezing at the base until he gasps. “Stay still.” he chides, and Simon has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip to restrain himself. After a few strokes, Ryland makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat and sets the pot aside before raising up on his knees again, Simon’s cock in hand as he-
“Fuck, Ryland, oh-” Simon groans, gripping onto the cushion below him for dear life as Ryland sinks down on his cock in one steady, slow movement, his back arching as their bodies meet.
“You feel so good,” Ryland whines, his entire body vibrating as he comes to a stop. “So good.” he repeats, delirious, and Simon barely has the time to take it in before Ryland is lifting up, rolling his hips back down in a sinuous movement that leaves him gasping.
Planting both hands on Simon's shoulders, Ryland sets an intense pace, grinding his hips down into Simon's lap, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he drives Simon to the brink of insanity. He moans, loud and uncaring, at each frenetic movement, each tortuous roll of Ryland's hips. His cock drags over that bundle of nerves every other thrust, and he itches to get his hand on the small of Grace's back, curving towards him as he makes the angle just right.
And despite the slapping of skin on skin, and the obscene bobbing of Ryland's cock between them, Simon is almost overcome with emotion at the care in Grace's voice as he speaks to him. Telling him how good he is, how well he's doing, and then leaning in closer to whisper against his mouth, holding Simon's jaw in one hand.
“Everything I need,” he rasps, his pace beginning to stutter, his thighs shaking violently from the strain. Simon itches to touch, to throw Grace down and fuck him until he falls apart, but he can't. He aches to be good, to be Ryland's, to give him what he needs. “Let me do this, please, let me take care of you.”
“Fuck,” Simon groans, overcome, bowled over by a wave of emotion so fierce he can't breathe, staring up at Ryland's flushed face, his bright eyes shining dark. “I love you.” he blurts, and Ryland clenches.
“Oh,” Ryland keens, louder than any of the noises that had come before— Simon can feel how close he is, his cock throbbing between their stomachs. “Say it again,” he orders, but some of that authority is starting to fade from his voice as he continues to move in Simon's lap, his hips a blur of frantic need. “Please say it again.”
“I love you,” Simon rasps, every single nerve ending firing all at once as Ryland throws back his head and cries out. “My Ryland, my light.” he rambles, and Ryland’s entire body jerks against his, his hips grinding down so hard and so suddenly that Simon's vision blurs for a moment.
“Fuck me,” he begs. “Please, Simon, you-”
Simon doesn't need telling twice.
Wrapping his arm around Ryland's waist, he braces his feet on the ground and thrusts up into him, hard, watching mesmerised as the last vestiges of Ryland's composure fail him, and he transforms into this radiant, wanting creature in his lap, pushing back against every thrust up into him, his grip on Simon's shoulders turning bruising.
“I love you,” he whimpers, his voice as wrecked as the rest of him. He's clenching tight around Simon now, cock leaking against his stomach. Close. “I, oh God.”
“Touch yourself,” he orders, but it comes out more like a plea, the white hot pleasure at the base of his spine threatening to erupt with every movement, every sound, every reminder that he's buried deep in Ryland's body, as close as he can get, their edges blurring. Roots bound. “Come on, Ryland, show me.”
Ryland whines, his forehead falling against Simon's as he grabs his cock in a trembling fist, stroking himself desperately in time with each grinding thrust.
Time slows— Ryland blooms. His favourite flower in any forest.
“Oh, fuck!” he cries, and then he's coming between them, spend coating his fist as he keeps up his desperate movements. He clenches down hard around Simon, and it's enough to pull him over that edge too, burying himself as deep as he can as he joins Ryland in that oblivion.
He drifts there for what feels like hours, aware only of Ryland's body pressed against his, feeling him slump. Murmuring something incoherent, he hides his face against the side of Simon's neck as he comes down from that spectacular high. Simon's mind, so often haunted, quietens, until all he can think of is the man nuzzling against him, still whining in the back of his throat as Simon holds him there, buried deep, precisely where he belongs.
Eventually, his senses return to him, but he makes no effort to move beyond lifting his hand to stroke soothing lines down Ryland's spine, watching as a shudder runs through his entire body and goosebumps rise at the small of his back.
He's never felt more at home, more sure of himself.
Belonging, before, had meant picking up a blade before he could grow a beard, it had meant cutting off the parts of himself that objected to Eden and its dogma, shaping himself into something else, something useful. The Butcher.
He doesn't have to do that here. Doesn't have to flay himself for the favour of a disinterested god, doesn't have to carve out his softness in the service of a madman. Simon's only ever known love from bloodsoaked hands, and even that hadn't been real, hadn't been true. There's no love in placing a blade in a child's hands— there's so much in the way Ryland touches him that it fills an ache that he's known for as long as he can remember.
Simon's been hungry his whole life. For food, for freedom, to live. He's been starving for this since the day he was born.
His chest hitches on a breath— an old wound closes.
Ryland shifts, pulling back so their eyes can meet. He lifts a hand to Simon's cheek, fingers spreading out across it, gentle, always so gentle. His eyes are hazy, his hair a mess, and Simon wants to remember this moment for the rest of his life, wants to remember the way the light hits Ryland's hair and the warmth that radiates from all the places their bare skin meets.
“I meant to say that yesterday,” Ryland whispers, sheepish. “Or this morning, or…” he trails off into a sigh, his thumb smoothing along the line of Simon's jaw. “I was scared. Before, I was always either too much, or not enough, I've never been good at knowing what people want from me.”
Simon tightens his arm around Ryland's waist, stroking gently at his cooling skin, and watching Ryland watch him, his bright eyes cautious, analysing.
“I just want you. Whatever you can give me, that's what I want,” he watches, pleased, as Ryland ducks his head, smiling. Embarrassed, but pleased— he likes the way it looks on him. “And whatever you want from me, you only have to ask.”
Ryland meets his gaze again, the fingers of his other hand skittering over Simon's shoulder. “Just you. I want…I want you close,” he hesitates, shuffling infinitesimally closer. “Stay, that's— I just need you to stay.”
“I can do that,” he replies, because he can't even begin to consider doing anything else, can't imagine a life in which he doesn't. “I'm here, for as long as you want me to be. I'm here.”
Ryland shudders again, eyes slipping closed for a moment. “Even if I never stop wanting you to be? Even when I'm hard to deal with?”
“Especially then. I don't…I don't know how we do this, really, and I still don't think I deserve it, but I won't let anything take me from you again,” he pauses, emotion swelling in his chest. “Fate itself couldn't tear me away from you, not now.”
Ryland's breath hitches. “I think I'm going to be in love with you for the rest of my life.”
Simon kisses him, soft and lingering— the moment stretches on for an eternity.
The Eel had called him half-committed, and she'd been right. Even in the deepest throes of Eden and its fanaticism, he'd still held doubts, no matter how deep they'd been buried. As they finally part from one another, and he watches Ryland's eyes flicker open, he realises he'd just never had anything before that was worth committing to, that was worth his devotion. That he's never had anything he could give his life to that he could trust wouldn't crush him in the palm of their hand.
But Ryland's hands are gentle, and kind. And he doesn't stand above him on a pedestal, doesn't demand Simon's loyalty in exchange for the smallest hint of warmth. He doesn't paint himself in the colours of a deaf god, and he doesn't mask his flaws and scars with pretty lies or jagged blades. Because he's good, even when the strain of it starts to show. Even when it gets hard to be.
Simon doesn't need a god, or a cause, and he doesn't need some perfect apparition, some sun-soaked spectre whose ideals would crush him beneath their weight.
There's only one thing he needs, and he's beginning to understand that he can have it, and that it wants him just as much.
“That was my plan too.” he manages to force out, voice hoarse.
Ryland smiles— he's all the divinity Simon has ever wanted, and all of the humanity he's ever been denied. Starlight and sea salt.
fin.