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Simon wakes to sunlight warming his face and sunlight in his arms.
It’s a new sensation, but one he hopes he never grows accustomed to. He cherishes these moments, these seemingly insignificant moments, these half-conscious split seconds before the world comes into focus, where everything is bathed in liquid gold; where he feels warmth and light and finally, finally, mercifully whole.
He never had this on the stations, certainly never in prison (even if Sol had still been there, he doubts the C.O.I. would have bothered to spare any of its light for “Edenite trash”). Even on Mars, with its glass biome ceilings, the light of their neighboring star never quite reached them like it did Earth. Simon had spent his whole life making due with sun lamps; pale imitations that granted temporary relief.
He feels Grace stir in his sleep, his back facing the window in their small bedroom in their small home in their small corner of Erid. Simon feels Grace bury himself further into the crook of Simon’s neck; can hear his snoring directly in Simon’s ear as the vibrations create a pleasant humming feeling in his jaw. He feels Grace’s arms tighten their hold on Simon’s body, pulling himself impossibly closer to Simon, their legs a tangled mess.
Simon should move him (his hair has got to be in Grace’s mouth at this point), should wake him gently, helping Grace coax his eyes open with a soft voice and even softer touches. They should rise for the day, leaving behind their warm sheets and warm bed in favor of a shower, Grace’s hands and body and voice helping Simon to remember that the water is not red, but muddled instead with soap.
Simon would go out to the garden, see what looks ready for harvest (maybe those bean sprouts have come up, he’d like to make kongnamulguk again since Grace had enjoyed it, maybe gyeran bap as well) then come back inside to get started on breakfast. Grace would softly pad into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Simon’s softening waist, chin resting on his shoulder as he watched him work, still wet strands of hair resting against Simon’s temple uncomfortably in a way Simon will never take for granted. Eventually, Grace would start to doze while standing, warmed by Simon’s presence and his thick woolen sweater and the smell of food cooking, he would find the strength to pull himself away to make his coffee (not without first pressing a kiss to Simon’s cheek, murmuring into the soft flesh a still sleepy “I love you…”).
They’d eat together and Simon would listen to Grace talk about his lessons for the Pebbles that day. Some days Simon would go back out to tend to the garden, to clear the weeds and replace the empty spaces they left behind with new seedlings, new life. He’d harvest what was ready, tend to what was still slow to start and enjoy Grace’s presence as he sat out with Simon on the back porch of their little home, working on his curriculum or reading a book or simply watching Simon and talking about anything and everything to keep him company.
Grace knew how much Simon disliked silence, after all, even if the sounds of ocean tides and soft breezes and buzzing insects in their biome made the silence just a little more bearable.
Sometimes they’d walk down to the beach, Grace always making sure to place himself between Simon and the artificial ocean’s tide. And even now, after all these years, when the nightmares have faded and their sting has dulled and Simon doesn’t hear the voices and screams calling out to him from below, Grace still places himself between Simon and the water’s edge, as if the thought of losing him to the ocean’s waves is a chance Grace still can’t bear to let himself take.
Other times they’d walk through the small forest their biome has been able to host, Simon’s pride and joy, an apple orchard so full and healthy he’s certain that if any of his Brothers could see this they would cry out in anguish over how greedy Simon had become. For how could The Butcher, Eden’s Sword, The Father’s Bloodhound be so anointed and pure as to be able to bask in the shade of dozens of apple trees, be able to feel their blossom petals drift lazily on the breeze onto his skin, smell their ripened fruit until the dizzying sweetness is all he knows.
Simon wishes he could tell them how, how he’s found this peace, this oasis, this sanctuary. Some days, when his memories weigh heavier on his mind, he searches for ways to explain it but he can’t ever find the words.
He doesn’t know how one singular good deed could outweigh the countless sins on the scales of his soul. He doesn’t know how one attempt for a cause he never believed in, for people who never even knew his name before sending him to his death, could wipe away the slate so clean there are more days he doesn’t feel the sticky, clammy film of blood coating his hands than there are ones where the brands on his neck burn his skin.
And sometimes, when he’s feeling exceptionally heretical, he lays Grace down in the soft grass beneath the gaze of the blossoming apple trees and makes love to him, slow and sweet and pure in a way he knows must make Adam and Eve themselves covetous to behold.
But Simon is just a man. And he can’t help but want to take to his knees in worship when he catches sight of Grace’s hair, dappled with sunlight through the leaves and branches overhead, and he looks like he’s glowing with starlight so bright Simon could weep. When he sees those blue, blue, so very blue eyes look at Simon like he’s everything Grace has ever loved and wanted and sought after, immeasurable crimes and all. When he feels Grace touch him, his hands never shying away from the mooncraters of scars that litter Simon’s skin, a story written on flesh that Simon has somehow learned to accept, if only because his angel thanks every scar for sparing his heart’s life.
They make their way, eventually, slowly, as if they have all the time in the world (what a wondrous marvel, Simon thinks, that he now has time, such a luxurious abundance of it) back to their little home, hand in hand, makeshift wedding bands clinking together (Grace’s on his left, Simon’s on his right, so that their hearts always touch). Simon will make dinner, Grace will make some sort of dessert he insists Simon needs to try (Simon’s found he’s quite fond of rich cheesecake, something he could never even begin to think to have afforded back on Mars) and together they will clean up their dishes and trays and pans, laughter filling up the quiet space better than any song Grace puts on for them through the repurposed speaker system from the Hail Mary.
Most nights they’ll welcome Rocky and Adrian to their home alongside their chittering, excited clutch of Pebbles that insist on climbing all over Simon like he’s a jungle gym (not that he minds, especially when he gets to proudly show off his xenonite arm their father helped create for him, the little Pebbles’ excited chimes and chirps making Rocky puff up his carapace in pride). Other times they’ll sit and listen to Grace “do puppet show” at Rocky’s insistence (though Simon wonders how much of this is for Rocky’s own amusement rather than the Pebbles’) and Simon will stare in wonder at Grace completely in his element, right where he loves to be; not as a savior of the stars or planets, but as a simple man who wants to make the world a little bit brighter for all the delicate things in it, to show them how to keep that light as well.
And when they see their old friends and children off, with plenty of promises to visit yet again and once more fill their home with a symphony of harmonious voices, Grace will turn to Simon and smile at him, smile in a way that makes Simon’s heart swell, take his hand and lead them to their bedroom. And Simon follows, as he always will, blissfully guided to his unmaking.
Their kisses are fevered but unrushed, desperate to never part but secure in the knowledge that nothing will tear them from one another now. Their skin presses together, limbs indistinguishable, breathing as one just as their hearts reform into what they were always meant to be; carbon and iron forging steel in the fires of an exploding supernova.
They lay together in the dark of their shared bed; sometimes with Simon’s head tucked under Grace’s chin so he can lazily kiss at Grace’s neck, others with Grace’s face pressed into Simon’s chest, ear resting right over his heart, as if to make sure it keeps beating (Simon doesn’t think he will ever know a moment where his heart doesn’t beat to life for Grace; even when he’s long gone and his vessel has returned to the soil, he knows some part of his being will still thrum to life at the mere mention of Ryland Grace’s name).
Simon will feel the ocean breeze drift in through the open window, rustling the curtains and skimming his skin, and he will smell the salt brine mix with the scent of peony, lilies and apple blossom (peony for a happy marriage, stargazer lilies for devotion, apple blossom for the one choice Simon has ever made in his life that ever truly mattered).
And as he slips into sleep, feeling Grace’s warmth, his hands on his skin, his gentle breathing all around him, Simon doesn’t dream of piles of bodies and oceans of blood and millions of compounded regrets anymore. He doesn’t see visions of monstrosities that deem him unworthy of a throne he never wanted, he doesn’t slip into the spaces between where Gods stare down at him through pinholes in the universe.
He dreams of thousands of stars lighting up the universe, no longer a ghostlight growing dim and sickly, but luminous and so bright Simon has to avert his eyes from the intensity of it. He dreams of his mother, no longer facing him with a look of heartbreak but one of relief as she takes his face in her hands and whispers that he’s finally found his roots. He dreams of Elijah, his only Brother who ever mattered, his bright smile and sparkling eyes, too kind and too boyish and too loyal for the horrors he endured in the end, asking Simon for one more song before he goes to sleep and it no longer feels like a “goodbye” but an “I’m glad I knew you”.
And sometimes he sees Ava, their matching scars turned to one another, and he can’t stop himself from asking her if it was worth it, if it mattered in the end, if everything bigger than the two of them was worth the Hell it cost them both.
She never has an answer for him. She never did even then. But she faces him, stature proud, and carrying herself as every bit the Captain she was, with all the conviction that everything she had done had to have amounted for something, as she asks him, “I can’t know, Simon. Was it worth it? Was all of it worth it?”
And when Simon awakens in the morning, just like this, with Grace pressed so tightly into his body, face buried in Simon’s hair as he snores soundly, with sunlight from the open window dancing along Grace’s skin and hair and illuminating him brighter than any guiding star Simon has ever known, Simon knows he has his answer.
Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, always yes. It was all worth it. It has always been worth it.
He has always been worth it.
“Mm…you’re staring…”
Grace mumbles in his sleep, voice roughened with a good night’s rest, nestling in somehow impossibly closer, nosing along Simon’s neck, pressing barely coordinated kisses to Simon’s neck, to the proof of his past still pressed to his skin in ink and branded flesh. He’s still half asleep, eyes not even finding the strength to open yet. Simon reaches up to run his hand through Grace’s hair, soothing him and giving him the choice to drift back to sleep or continue on his current trajectory.
“If you don’t want me to stare then stop looking so beautiful.”
“Mmm…no…no, I don’t want to…don’t want you gettin’ any ideas ‘bout anyone else here…”
Simon snorts, the smile rising on his face unbidden but not unwelcome as he wraps his arm tighter around Grace, the other man’s kisses finding their way under Simon’s jawbone.
“Ahh, right, right, don’t want me scamperin’ off to the quarry and falling head over heels for Warm Shimmering now do you?” Simon teases, far more used now to the lilting tones and melodic chords of the Eridian tongue on his own.
He feels Grace laugh into his skin and Simon swears the sound is more beautiful than any Eridian sonnet or melody.
“Always knew they had a thing for you,” Grace teases right back, delighted at the thought of the young Eridian who would follow Simon around their biodome, enamoured by the “middle rough texture” of the plants, during their visits for Adrian’s research team.
“Mm, don’t know how much they’ve got a thing for me, angel. Think they more have a thing for my garden’s soil pH,” Simon hummed, thoughtfully.
Grace hums back, eyes still closed, a dopey smile plastered on his face.
“Understandable. I’ve got a thing for your garden’s soil pH too,” he says, and Simon laughs, the fullness of it causing Grace to open his eyes, half-lidded but soaking in the sight of his husband’s mirth.
They settle back into a comfortable silence, Simon’s laughter tapering out softly as they bask in the warmth of the early morning sun, limbs still tangled, hearts still pressed together through ribs, matching rings of xenonite and the Hail Mary’s hull clinking together softly as their hands find one another.
“What time is it?” Grace wonders absently.
“Early,” Simon’s easy reply comes, lifting their hands to press kisses to Grace’s knuckles. “Early enough for you to still get more sleep if you want, Ry.”
“Stay with me?”
Always, Simon thinks as easily as he breathes. Forever, he knows with as much conviction as the most devout Brothers he had ever known. As long as you’ll have me, he sighs into the deepest parts of his heart, though the ache of it no longer stings him like it once did.
“Of course,” he settles on, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough, never enough to fully convey everything he means by those two simple words.
That’s fine. Grace has always been good at hearing the parts Simon’s never been able to find the ways to say aloud. With such a gift, maybe he was always bound to find home on Erid.
Grace moves, head lifting to press lazy kisses to Simon’s jaw, to his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, pressing silent “thank yous” and “I love yous” and “I’m so happy you’re mines” to every bit of Simon’s skin he can reach. Simon, in turn, moves to lean over Grace, encasing Grace in their perfect world, underneath the blankets and quilts and sheets, underneath Simon’s body, no longer a weapon but a shield. Simon presses his own kisses to Grace’s skin; to his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his neck, Simon’s own litany of unspoken prayers.
I love you. Thank you. I love you. I need you. I love you. Stay by me.
Grace laughs and so Simon kisses his neck, the spot just behind Grace’s ear and just under his jaw and right on his Adam’s apple, again and again and again, just to pull that same birdsong from Grace’s chest.
Simon buries his nose in Grace’s hair, breathing in his scent; honey and apple-blossom and salty air and something else entirely, something indescribable. Something that smells so much like Earth, wild yet tamed and pained and loved and so immensely human and something else, something that is just so uniquely Ryland.
Simon feels one of Grace’s arms wrap around his neck, his ring pressing into the skin on the back of his neck, fingers playing with the ends of Simon’s hair. His other hand runs up and over Simon’s back, soothing the weary muscles that still remain all these years later, fingers gliding over faded scars, pressing gentle, quiet gratitude into the coarse flesh.
They exchange kisses like a conversation.
A kiss to Grace’s forehead, right where golden hair meets soft skin. (I have more than I deserve).
A kiss to Simon’s nose, right where the old break lay. (It would be too much if I couldn’t share it with you).
A kiss to the corner of Grace’s mouth as Grace laughs. (Never leave my side again).
A kiss to Simon’s lower lip, a mark missed intentionally, encouraging Simon to give chase. (Don’t plant roots I can’t live in between).
Simon presses his lips to Grace’s as Grace meets him halfway, their paths intersecting as they always do, always have, mouths fitting together perfectly.
I will always find you, the rhythm in my harmony, the gravity on my tides.
They deepen the kiss and Simon drinks up Grace’s half drowsy moan, moaning himself when he feels Grace’s hand move to press against his scalp, curling black hair wrapping around Grace’s fingers like ivy vines.
It’s slow, and easy when they kiss. No longer frantic and frenetic, no longer a stolen moment of precious time they’re not sure they can even afford but can’t resist indulging in. Their tongues move over one another slowly, lazily, eyes still heavy with sleep and bodies pressed so close together. Simon indulges, indulges in ways he never knew himself capable, never thought himself allowed to and he relishes in Grace’s encouragement.
Grace has always been able to do that, Simon thinks. Let Simon believe he is human after all. Not a weapon, not a tool.
Just a human, with value and worth inherent.
Simon kisses Grace's neck, nipping and licking at skin, moaning himself when he feels Grace’s hips lift and meet Simon’s own. They move like that; hips pressing together, bodies moving together like the gentle ebb and flow of the sea, exchanging kisses to lips, tongues skimming over one another. Grace pulls Simon closer to kiss and suck marks into his neck, new brands, new tattoos that Simon wishes would stay and stain his skin forever. They moan, breathy, and laugh, half delirious with happiness.
Before Simon can register what’s happening, he’s found himself on his back, head pressed into the soft pillows and looking up at his angel reverently. Grace situates himself in Simon’s lap, blankets and sheets falling down his lithe form and Simon is once again rendered delirious with how someone so perfect is looking at him with pure love and devotion.
He’s reminded in passing of when he awoke aboard the Hail Mary for the first time, copper scent overwhelming and battling the anti-septic of the medical bay. He remembers lights so bright he thought he’d go blind, a voice calling out to him, pleading with him to open his eyes. He remembers his body feeling light, so strangely light, remembers the pain being gone, the fear being gone, the regret being lifted off himself. He recalls Grace’s tear stained face ecstatic to see him awake, voice calling out to him like he had all those times over the tinny speaker box on the SM-13, asking him to stay.
Begging him to live.
Whispers of “I don’t want to be alone again, Simon, please, I don’t want to be alone again…”
Simon remembered thinking then that, even if it had all been in vain, even if he was too far gone, at least he would have someone who would miss him when he went off into The Grove. And how strange a sensation that was. Simon, The Butcher. Simon, The Convict…to be something worth being missed by someone.
Simon feels Grace’s hand on his cheek, thumb skimming gently over the scar marring his left cheek.
“Did I lose you?” Grace asks softly, eyes flitting across Simon’s face.
Simon reaches up, pushing distant memories aside, his gaze to his horizon, his future, the rest of his forever, resting his hand on Grace’s hip and squeezing the flesh. It gives under the pressure and he can feel how it fits in his rough hand and he hears Grace gasp out in response. Simon smiles, eyes half lidded in bliss.
“Never,” Simon says, his smile crooking up unevenly.
“Just admiring the view.”
Grace laughs and Simon’s heart pounds at the thought that Grace doesn’t try to downplay Simon’s words, doesn’t try to dim his glow out of fear of what Simon’s not sure, entirely. But he’s glad he can be the moon to Grace’s sun, reflecting back to him even just a sliver of the beauty that is everything that makes up Ryland Grace. And that Grace will accept it, hold it in his heart and cherish it without fear of it slipping away from him.
Grace leans down, lips and tongues meeting once again as Simon’s hand slides up along Grace’s side and rests on the small of his back. He feels Grace move, continuing his work of marring Simon’s neck with teeth and tongue and Simon lets his head fall back against the pillows, lets the breathy sighs and gasps escape him, hand gripping Grace’s skin tighter as his angel pays extra attention to the two combined marks on his skin.
He moves lower, lower still, mouth pressing kisses to the expanse of Simon’s chest, tongue making sure to pay special attention to his nipples and Simon doesn’t even bother to try and keep the guttural noises from spilling out from the back of his throat. He feels Grace smile against his skin, wicked and innocent all at once, a playful glint to those gorgeous blue eyes that Simon could drown in.
Many several kisses later and Grace has moved even lower, tucking himself under the blankets and Simon had half a mind to at least rip them from the bed, just so as to not allow anything to obscure his view of his brightest light, an action that earns him a bright laugh from Grace and a chirp of, “Simon, oh my God, wait, it’s too cold!”.
Grace moves, gathering the blankets back but letting them rest on his shoulders, chasing away the morning chill in the biome, an offering of a middle ground that Simon easily acquiesces to since it still grants Simon the ability to see his husband’s face as he continues his ministrations.
Simon quickly stops being able to focus on much after that though when Grace’s lips are pressing kisses to the base of his cock, a hand gripping him so gently Simon can’t help it when he jerks his hips on impulse. He feels Grace’s tongue glide up the thick shaft before he’s engulfed in his warm mouth and Simon chokes on a moan, letting his hand come to rest in Grace’s hair, his grip firm but just holding. Grace looks up at him, bright blue eyes hazing over with lust and adoration as he bobs his head, swallowing and sucking, his tongue running over the prominent vein.
It’s obscene, some distant part of Simon’s mind suggests as he watches his angel, his mate, his starlight, the chord of his heart’s song swallow him down and moan in pure bliss at the taste of Simon on his tongue.
Simon groans, long and breathy, as he feels Grace take him all the way to the back of his throat, spit pooling around the base of his cock, one of Grace’s hands holding the base of him while the other cups his balls. Simon’s eyes meet Grace’s and Simon is entirely undone by the look of pure adoration in Grace’s eyes, as if right here in this moment is the only place Grace would ever want to be. Because he is making Simon feel heights of pleasure Simon never thought possible to climb to.
Simon comes with a strangled moan, his grip on Grace’s hair tight and he feels Grace moan and hum so happily, feeling his throat work to swallow down Simon’s very essence as Simon lays back against the pillows, stars sparking and bursting behind his eyes as he tries to steady his breath.
He feels Grace rise, kissing back up Simon’s body the way he came and when Simon finally comes down from his high he catches Grace easily, his hand gripping Grace by the jaw, firm yet tender, and pulling him the rest of the way to press him into a crushing kiss, tongue diving in and tasting himself on Grace’s tongue. Grace cups Simon’s face in his hands, the kiss growing sloppier in the rising heat between them.
“Simon…” Grace moans as Simon kisses Grace’s face, his hand moving to grip the back of Grace’s neck, keeping him close, refusing to let him stray too far.
“What do you want, baby?” Simon asks, voice just as wrecked as Grace’s, wrecked from desire and possession and love.
“Name it, Ry. Anything you want, I’ll give you.”
“Want you…” Grace breathes out, noses bumping.
Simon smiles and feels like his heart will burst from all the love inside himself.
“You have me, Ry. You’ll always have me.”
Simon worked him open, a finger quickly turning from two to three, Simon’s back now pressed against the pillows and headboard of the bed as Grace pressed his entire body against Simon’s, hips pushing back to meet the thrust of fingers, crying out when Simon’s deft fingers quickly found every spot and pocket of nerves to make Grace a mess; years of experience mapping out every way to make Grace cry and plead and beg never failing Simon yet.
When Grace finally sank down onto Simon’s cock, hands gripping his shoulders so tight, his head thrown back in pure ecstasy, golden hair catching the rising sun just right to give him his deserved halo, anointing him as some divine being, Simon is suddenly reminded why every sermon in Eden always felt so empty and hollow; of why every prayer to The Great Tree felt pointless. The Father, his Acolytes, the whole of Eden itself had never once laid their eyes on any real piece of divinity, Simon was sure.
Because the divine, the holy wasn’t some sick and dying tree drowning in blood. It wasn’t hymnals and prayers calling for the drums of war and the slaughter of people just trying to survive in a broken world the same as they were, scared and lost and hopeless.
The divine was right here in Simon’s embrace, giving himself over and over and over again willingly, loving him with a heart too big for one planet alone. Nothing was holier than how Grace glowed inside their bedroom then and there as he cried out Simon’s name, cried out his love for him, his hips meeting Simon’s thrusts, his wedding band catching in the light and shining like the light of the stars themselves.
Simon never prayed to Gods or Trees or anything else he was ever supposed to pray to.
He always prayed to the people he loved, to those he thought had loved him in return. Prayed they forgave him. Prayed they protected him, guided him, gave him the strength to keep going when none of it felt like it had mattered any longer, when giving up and waiting out his last breaths in a metal box seemed a far more merciful end than whatever could possibly come next.
And Simon prayed now, watching Grace come undone atop him, watching his face twist into pure bliss and euphoria as he cried out Simon’s name into the sanctuary of their home.
He prayed to his heart, the other half of his entire existence, prayed to the man who saved the stars and redeemed a dead man. He prayed that for as long as he lived, however long that may be, however long fate saw fit to let him revel in his second chance, Grace would keep looking at him with those eyes that held nothing but the kind of love that made him feel wanted, that made him feel human, that made him feel safe.
And as Simon followed Grace over that precipice, clutching him tightly and calling out his name just as fervently, he felt his “God” hold him tightly, pressing his face to the crook of his neck and holding him so tightly, answering his prayer as soon as it left Simon’s lips.
I’ll never let you go. I’ve only just found you in this life again, after all.
They settle back into bed, under the sheets and blankets and quilts, slow, lazy kisses pressed to fevered skin. Simon’s head is in the crook of Grace’s neck, Grace’s cheek pressed into soft, dark locks, arms locking around him to keep Simon pressed to him. Their limbs are tangled together, their breathing synced and their hearts beating as one, just as they should always have been. Simon feels the cold press of the metal of Grace’s wedding band against his skin and catches the hand in his, bringing it into the light for him to see, to wonder at just how he had found himself here in this moment.
How Simon, just Simon, a man who couldn’t even be blessed enough to have a family name to call back to, could possibly find himself in this moment of belonging and acceptance and love.
“Real,” Grace breathes out, voice soft in a way that tells Simon he’s fighting a losing battle to dip back below the waves of sleep once more.
Simon smiles, clutching Grace’s hand and presses it to his chest.
“Real,” Simon confirms, pressing a kiss to the junction of Grace’s neck and shoulder.
When the last Son of Eden joins The Grove, there will be a fount of trees, Simon remembers The Father proclaiming fervently once, what feels like a lifetime ago. A promise of something better beyond the veil, beyond the misery and bloodshed. A declaration that this world no longer had anything left to give so all there was to look forward to was eternal reward.
But Simon doesn’t need the promise of an eternal garden just to find meaning in all the suffering. He has no use for The Grove, not when he has his orchard and his garden and a home he can call his own, filled with harmonious choruses of Brothers and Sisters and Family that see him as their own. He has no need for something better when he has the single greatest thing he has ever managed to hold onto holding him like he is the one thing he can’t live without.
Simon hears the ocean waves through the window, smells the fresh blooming flowers and ripening apple drift along on the breeze. He feels the sunrays warm his skin and basks in the warmth of the blankets and his angel’s embrace, tucked away in a distant corner at the edge of a glittering universe.
And as Simon Grace drifts back to sleep, safe in the arms of his husband, safe in the knowledge that he now has a complete name and a gentle purpose and a full home, he chases Ryland Grace to the distant shores between waking and dreaming, catches his hand and kisses him so fiercely when he laughs.
“Don’t wander too far,” Simon hears himself say to him.
I’m not done loving you in this life yet.