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The first thing he wakes to is a hand.
There are vines, flowers, and curling leaves under the skin. blooming in bright psychedelic colors, almost as if breaking free of it. The veil seemed so thin; the tendrils seemed to press up against it. Maybe slowly, they would soon breach the layer containing them to revel and feast on the red filling the coffin. Blood was the only thing here, inhospitable and yet screaming with life. The voices rang in his ears; the pain sang. The flowers behaved, content not to writhe under the skin.
Why was there someone again? Who was this?
He just wanted to live. They know that; why else would there be someone?
He blinks slowly, though quick clamps shut as blood drips in his eyes. A thumb wipes them clear, smearing it onto their calloused fingers.
Oh, hands are holding the butcher’s head. Did he deserve this? Was death really this gentle? Is this the heaven everyone on Eden sought?
His finger tenses, and he realizes he’s not only hugging the comfort tightly but also grasping it, fingers tangled into the thick, well-spun cloth. Simon's hand swallowing up the circumference of the limb. His head is in their lap, hand around their shin. The blood has not dried on him; it has not left him clean. Those fingers trace his features, like Mary's to her boy, like Simon is someone’s son again. For a moment, if the convict were to pretend, he could be someone's boy.
His chest feels tighter now, his breath shuddering as he presses his face to their thighs. Soft, so soft. Warm, cloying, saccharine, divine. He could kneel at this altar for as long as it would let him stay. He would start praying again, really praying. He would sing the gospels until there was no voice, no vibration, and no light left in his eyes. Simon would scream his mistakes out into the great nothingness if this was what mercy was.
Coughing, it seems even this—his body tells him to keep the silence before he even thinks to speak. He gasps and whimpers like a struck thing, curling.
The blood is at his hips now, lapping lazily as it waits for him to sink further into it.
The embrace tightens like a flinch yet pulls him closer rather than push him away. It gives, envelops, and surrounds. It's heavy but gentler than anything he truly remembers. Not anyone's caresses, not the bedding, and not the silk of dampened soil even were as sweet. His world is darkening again. He slumps, desperation creeping in; clots seem to be the only thing holding him together. Simon only tightens his grip until he’s sure that the other bruises and further until his nails leave deep marks.
Even if he is not yet dead, he will not go without leaving a mark. The angel could forgive, couldn't they? The golden ichor would glow; it would pool amongst the red and would not be devoured. God would not permit hell to taint the saint. Distantly he can hear the sound of the other, but it's shapeless music swimming in his ears.
Born a mess of blood, Simon lived as nothing but detritus and devastation and would die just as filthy.
The only difference now was that he hadn't cried out; he had cut.
Exactly like the butcher he was forced to be.