Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

One morning, about a week later, Simon is especially on edge – his hair keeps falling into his eyes, even as he pushes it back. Ryland taps his fingers against his mouth and fidgets with his glasses as he watches him sigh with agitation.

“Just say it, Ryland.” His delivery is flat but not mean. Ryland nudges his glasses with the heel of his palm. “Ryland –”

“Do you want some help?” He gestures awkwardly, and Simon stares at him with a raised eyebrow. “With your hair, I mean. Do you want me to like. Help?” He narrows his eyes and exhales sharply, so he blows a piece of hair out of his face. It falls back down gently and curls against his cheek. Ryland tries very hard not to laugh.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Please.”

Ilyukhina had a small pouch of hair supplies in her duffle – a headband or two, a little pack of elastic ties – and Ryland sifts through her bag carefully to find it. Once he regained his memories of his doomed crewmates, he felt waves of guilt at how he pawed through their belongings early in his trip. He did his best to set it all back to rights after.

(Even though he still thinks about wearing Ilyukhina’s dress sometimes. Even though he thinks she wouldn’t care if he did it again. She was fun like that.)

“Do you want, like, a braid situation? Maybe more of a man bun? What’s the vibe here?” He rambles and gestures to the top of his own head, as if Simon has somehow forgotten what they’re doing. Simon stares, which is a pretty normal response for him.

“What’s a man bun?”

“Um, it’s like. A bun? On a man?”

“Wouldn’t that just be a bun, then?” Simon scowls in confusion, and Ryland shrugs helplessly. It’s not like he’s wrong.

“I mean, yeah. Gender’s pretty weird. I don’t know if people think it’s, like, gay if you don’t put man in front of things or –” he cuts himself off when he realizes, very suddenly, that he doesn’t know what Simon thinks of queer people – what Eden might have taught him about the broad spectrum of sexuality and gender.

Yikes.

Ryland awkwardly fumbles with the little black elastic bands. His face feels hot, and he swallows roughly around the panic clogging his throat.

“Just, do whatever,” Simon tells him with an unbothered shrug. “Just get it out of my face.”

“Yup, sure,” Ryland takes a deep breath and gestures for him to take a seat. Now isn’t the time for some kind of revelatory freak out. Ryland knows who he is. How he is. He knows he’s too much and too little. But that’s not important right now. He musters up a wobbly smile and Simon nods.

He drops into one of the low med bay chairs, and it squeaks under his weight. He sighs and almost immediately starts bouncing his knee.

“Let me know if I hurt you, okay?” Ryland instructs mildly. Simon grunts, which Ryland takes as permission, and lightly runs his fingers through the dark, swooping layers of his hair.

It is. So soft.

The inky strands snag on his calloused fingers, and Ryland delicately untangles them before they can pull and tear. The last thing he wants to do is make Simon uncomfortable. Ryland refuses to betray the fragile trust that’s building between them. Simon hates asking for help, and he’ll only accept it when Ryland offers first. And it’s so obvious that the whole painful process exhausts him.

Ryland doesn’t want to be something that exhausts him.

He smooths Simon’s hair back and uses his fingers to catch any loose strands – he doesn’t want anything hanging in his face or getting in his way. His nails scratch gently against his scalp, and Simon shivers around a sharp, sudden inhale. Ryland freezes, his hands still buried in the lush thicket of his hair.

Why is this more intimate than crying on each other in the middle of the night?

His heart is pounding so loud, throwing itself against his chest like waves crashing on the shore, and Ryland takes his own steadying breath. He’s suddenly so very aware of the scant space between them, the warmth spilling off Simon’s body and into his own. Simon’s eyelashes flutter, sweeping against his cheekbones like moth wings, and Ryland bites hard on his lower lip.

He wants to kiss him.

The thought burrows deep in the marrow of his ribs and makes a home in his heart. He wants to taste his breath and learn the shape of his mouth and feel the bite of his monstrous teeth and – Simon glances up at him, eyes wide and trusting, despite the tension in his muscles.

“You okay?” He asks quietly and Ryland feels absolutely dreadful. Sometimes Simon just needs a break from the everything of it all, so he’ll track a few rounds through the ship or go sit with the plants for a while, and Ryland and Rocky keep themselves busy with their science. Ryland is fully prepared to step back so he can go on one of his walkabouts.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he gruffly clears his throat, “just get it over with.”

“You got it,” Ryland gathers his hair into a thick wolftail, high on the back of his skull, and ties it off with the elastic. Simon holds himself rigidly still, but his scowl drops into a grateful quirk of the mouth. He looks almost shy when he looks at himself in the mirror.

“Thanks,” he says cautiously, and Ryland grins.

“Anytime.”

After that, Simon lets Grace do his hair most days. Sometimes, it’s just a headband to keep his bangs back. Other times, it’s a full wolftail or bun. Grace almost offers to trim it for him, or cut it off completely, but he doesn’t think Simon would appreciate having something sharp so near his face. (And also because the long hair suits him in a way that makes Grace’s stomach squirm.)

With this new adjustment to their routine, it becomes impossible not to touch Simon, like, all the time. Grace always makes sure to telegraph his movement, and he goes at half speed, so Simon sees him coming. And, on a few occasions, he flinches, twitches away from Grace’s fingers. One morning, he jerks back so violently that he stumbles into a table. He looks at Grace with eyes like a junkyard dog – beaten too often and loved too little.

The bruise on his hip lingers for days.

And, Grace retreats, smiles like it’s nothing because it is. Even as Simon’s mouth goes slack with grief, and his eyes dart away. It is nothing to hold himself back, to let his hand drop, to shuffle out of the way, to lean around him. It is nothing to respect this boundary and show Simon that he can be trusted. That his needs and his wants are important. That he’s more than a body to be left at the bottom of a dead ocean.

But, also, it isn’t nothing.

Because, for every time that Simon shrinks away from him, there are three times when he doesn’t. When Grace reaches out a hand, and Simon leans into his space without blinking. When Grace puts his feet in his lap, and Simon rubs his ankle with his thumb. When Grace drops his head on Simon’s shoulder, and Simon just sighs and brushes his fingers against his knee.

He peeks shyly at Grace from under his eyelashes, and Grace smothers his own yearning with a harsh hand.

Rocky watches all of this, quiet and contemplative and clicking his little claws together.

- - -

After their brief dive into rabbit videos, Simon starts doing his own research on Earth’s fauna. Grace is more than happy to set him up with over-the-ear headphones and one of their spare laptops and let him loose in their databases.

It’s a sort of parallel play situation: Grace and Rocky with their taumoeba, Simon with his animal documentaries. He devours everything he can get his hand on. He finds more Attenborough videos and digs into National Geographic, though he refuses to watch The Green Planet without Grace and Rocky.

Sometimes, when Rocky is asleep, he and Ryland sit together, practically in each other’s laps, so Simon can nudge his shoulder and show him a particularly cute penguin chick or wolf cub or bison calf. And Ryland will always, without fail, pause what he is doing and gasp theatrically at the baby animal offerings. They spend an entire hour marveling over footage of Arctic Fox kits gamboling and roughhousing in a snowbank.

It’s hard not to be charmed by his wide-eyed curiosity.

Eden had their own archives of life on Earth and Mars, but it wasn’t like this. It was all past tense, through the wistful lens of what was lost. This is current, present tense, life as it is happening. Polar bears chase and play on a frozen lake. Frost-covered flamingos struggle against gale force winds. Baby seals wrap themselves around their mothers in frigid, underwater caves. A super pack of wolves chase a panicked pair of bison through snow-tangled trees.

Simon presses his fingers against the laptop screen and leaves smudgy marks.

Today, he has a very specific question to answer. He perches in a corner of the lab like some kind of zoologist gremlin and starts looking up information on bats. There are at least 1,500 breeds, and he has to take a moment to just sit with that. There are more species of bat on Earth than there were humans left after the Quiet Rapture.

Simon doesn’t know what to think about that.

Grief makes a home in his chest, swollen with rage and helplessness, and he wastes a few minutes staring at a photo of a Kitti’s hog-nosed bat (the smallest recorded species of bat, also known as the bumblebee bat) while he tries to process what he’s feeling. He came from a universe without these animals (they’re so tiny, barely bigger than an inch in length), and he feels irrationally sad about it.

“Everything okay over there?” Ryland asks when it becomes obvious that he’s experiencing an emotion. Simon glances at him over his laptop screen – his hair kicks up in stupid tufts of spun gold, and his glasses hang adorably off one ear. Simon has the sudden and irrational urge to do something stupid, like smash their faces together, so he turns back to his research.

“Yeah,” Simon sniffs loudly and ignores how his face burns. “You were wrong, by the way – bats aren’t rodents. They’re a totally different order of mammal.” The words feel clumsy in his mouth, but Ryland smiles all the same.

“Well, look at that,” he tilts his head cutely to one side, and Simon’s heart pounds, “you learn something new every day.” Simon grunts and hunches his shoulders as he hides behind his laptop.

Ryland turns back to his own research – a personal project, not associated with any of his and Rocky’s ongoing experiments. He’s been working on it in fits and bursts ever since Simon shared the name of his old ship and, now that Simon has thrown himself into his studies, Ryland has more time to work. He smiles privately to himself and hooks his glasses back into place. They probably have another hour or so before Rocky wakes up, and he doesn’t want to waste it.

- - -

They’ve graduated from documentaries to narrative films, and Grace falls into a bit of a spiraling fit trying to figure out what their first pick should be. He’s putting a not inconsiderable amount of brainpower into it – he feels almost like a war room strategist, trying to find something for them to all watch together.

Rocky has already seen a few human movies, and he’s not keen to rewatch any of them, not when they have such a vast catalog available. Grace also makes the unilateral decision to avoid anything with horror or over-the-top violence. At least until he better understands Simon’s nightmares and triggers.

Tragically, musicals are also off the menu, at least while Rocky is awake. Early on in their time together, Grace discovered that he had a hard time understanding humans when they sing, because it’s like they’re speaking two languages at once: the words they’re saying and the musical notes that they’re singing. It makes for a very uncomfortable viewing experience, so they avoid them altogether now.

(Which is a shame, because Grace’s mom loved Broadway and musical theater – they spent a lot of weekends together, watching their way through her favorites. And his step-dad took them to New York to see Phantom once. That was really fun.

One day, though, Grace will show Simon Cats. He’s probably going to hate it. Grace can’t wait.)

But, because he still worries about overwhelming Simon with culture shock, Grace decides to try something light – something for children, though still enjoyable for adults. He’s actually kind of proud of his choice, and he gives himself a little mental pat on the back. And then a real life pat on the back. Rocky mimics him.

Tonight, they’re watching Kiki’s Delivery Service.

They have both the original Japanese and adapted English versions in the ship’s archive and, while Grace is typically a purist when it comes to dubbed films, he isn’t sure that Rocky’s translator app will keep up with a non-English audio track.

Something to explore in the future, he thinks as he rubs his chin.

So, for now, they’ll watch the English version. It’s still good – a sweet, wholesome story that Grace thinks they’ll all enjoy. And Rocky hasn’t seen any animated films yet, so this will be a nice change of pace.

The three of them settle into the dome, and Grace sits down, cross-legged, with his quilt wrapped around his shoulders. Rocky curls up next to him, and he rests an elbow on the top of his jar.

Rocky taps his little feet in excitement as the movie starts, and Grace shakes his head fondly. Simon stares up at the screens, his face lit bright blue and green by the hand-drawn scenes of sweeping hills. The wind rushes through the grass, and he sucks in a breath.

“Pretty,” Rocky sings, and Simon nods without realizing it.

Grace ducks his head – he can’t help the wave of fond nostalgia that crashes through him at the opening score. Suddenly, he’s a kid again, all bundled up on the couch, sick from school. His mother is in the kitchen, quietly heating up soup or grabbing a popsicle from the freezer.

Kiki excitedly rushes through the preparations for her trip, bouncing through her house and chatting away with her black cat, Jiji, about their plans to leave that night.

“The cat talks,” Simon mutters, and Grace nods.

“He’s a magic cat.” He whispers, and Simon nods carefully. “Kiki’s a witch, so she has special powers. Jiji is, like, her guide.” Simon doesn’t say anything else, and Grace panics for a moment. Maybe Eden had some weird views on witchcraft and magic.

On the screen, Kiki is crashing her broom into a tree, and Simon huffs under his breath.

“Cute,” he rubs bashfully at the scar on his nose, and Grace hides his smile behind one hand. Okay, so he doesn’t have to worry about any anti-witch prejudices.

Bouncy music starts playing as Kiki switches her portable radio on, and Grace cannot help but bop along with it. Rocky bobs his little hands up and down, and Simon rolls his eyes at the both of them. Grace knocks their shoulders together and, when he shifts away, Simon pinches at the edge of his quilt.

“You can stay,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the movie. Jiji is complaining at the prospect of living in a bustling, seaside town, and Grace leans more solidly into Simon’s warmth. “That cat is such a bitch.”

“Hey, you can’t say that – this is a kids’ movie.” Simon raises an eyebrow at him, and Grace shrugs. He’s a little protective of his younger self, feverish and friendless, but he buries the self-conscious itch building under his skin. “What? It’s good – just watch, okay?”

Simon tucks himself in close, so his hair brushes against Grace’s cheek, and they focus on the rest of the film. His whole body relaxes with a heavy exhale, and he drops his head on Grace’s shoulder. They’re practically fused together, and the warmth of him seeps through the layers of clothing and quilt between them, until Grace feels him pressing up against his skin.

His heart is pounding so loud in the dark of the movie pod, and Rocky shifts with a curious chirp on his other side. He needs to get control of himself. Grace closes his eyes and forces himself to calm down.

“You good?” Simon asks, and Grace nods shakily.

“Yeah,” he whispers, and tucks his quilt more tightly around himself. “All good.” Simon hums, like he doesn’t fully believe him, but he turns back to the movie without another word.

Grace watches his friends’ faces as much as he watches the screens around them. Rocky sways along with the music and clicks his claws nervously when Kiki gets herself in trouble. Simon tries to keep his reactions more subtle, but his eyes still shine like a little kid’s as he chews on his lower lip.

Kiki does her best to get used to her life in her new city – she meets Osono, the baker, and her practically silent husband; rebukes Tombo’s flirtatious attempts at friendship; starts her little delivery service; and suffers the ennui of teenagehood.

Rocky panics when Kiki gets caught in the rain during her potpie delivery. He trills sadly at the screen as she curls up under a downy blanket, her little face painted with a fevered flush. The worst part is when Kiki loses her magic powers. Jiji stops talking, and when she tries to fly on her broom, Kiki collapses to the floor with a loud thud.

“Oh, she’s just a kid,” Simon whispers, and Grace nods against his shoulder. “She’s just a baby.” He shifts to untuck the quilt from around himself and drapes it over them both. Simon relaxes into the cocoon of warmth, and Grace wraps a loose arm around his waist.

They make it to the climax of the story – the helium dirigible breaks free, and Tombo is dragged off into the sky with it. Grace has seen this movie a few dozen times. He’s even shown it in class during finals week, when they have nothing else to work on. He knows exactly how it ends. (Plus, it’s a movie for children. They’re not going to seriously hurt their main character.)

But even so.

Grace’s throat tightens as Kiki races to save her friend. She stands in the middle of the street on her borrowed broom and shoots off into the sky. Grace peeks a glance at Simon. He’s hunched forward, chewing on his lower lip, and his eyes shine with the dancing lights of the screens.

“Come on, girl,” he says, and Rocky whistles in agreement. He’s pulled out one of his dice, and he’s turning it over anxiously in his claws. Kiki bounces off buildings and careens through the town square as the music swells. “You can do it.”

Grace wonders what kind of stories they told on Eden, if they all ended with bloodshed and morality. Fairy tales and fables are supposed to reflect the world they’re written in. He imagines that Simon is used to stories about children dying – swallowed by stars and mauled by monsters.

But this is not that story.

Tombo dangles from a rope off the side of the dirigible, and Kiki reaches for him. Simon inhales sharply, and Grace rests a hand low on his back so he can feel him breathing. Rocky presses his claws against his hamster ball and shivers, like a single, plucked harp string of nerves.

This is a story where children get to live.

The soundtrack falls as Kiki snags Tombo out of the air. Simon hunches forward, his eyes wide, and Rocky does his version of a gasp – a sudden, discordant screech. Even Grace has his fist pressed against his mouth as he watches the children on screen.

Noise comes rushing back, and the crowd cheers. Rocky snaps his claws together along with them, and Simon shakes his head in disbelief, like he didn’t mean to get so caught up in the drama.

Grace glances at Simon and they share a brief, if embarrassed, smile.

Yeah, this was the right call.

- - -

“Rocky have important question.” Rocky twiddles his claws together and makes a sound like rain collecting in a Mason jar. Grace hums in acknowledgment without looking away from his laptop – Simon is taking loose laps around the ship, and he’s using the break to work on his little side project. He’s almost done.

“Grace attention please.” His little translator voice is mild, but Grace can hear the underlying sincerity of his request. Grace quickly saves his progress and twists around to face his favorite Eridian. He hooks his glasses back into place and tucks his hands between his thighs.

“What can I do you for, bud?”

“Human grammar dumb,” Rocky shakes his head so his little top plates bounce. “Rocky have important question. Not sure how ask.”

“Okay,” Grace starts slowly, “let’s talk it out together. Is it about going back to Erid?”

In the early days after their reunion, Rocky was plagued with guilt over Grace’s decision to abandon his trip to Earth. He hated that he was one more reason that Grace couldn’t go home like he deserved. He was all too aware of Grace’s sacrifices – first, that Hail Mary was a no-return trip and second, that Grace was forced against his will to take it.

Stratt is very lucky for the light-years between their planets. Grace may have forgiven her, but Eridians live long lives, and Rocky plans to spend the rest of his forever hating her. She didn’t have to spend sleepless nights curled up beside him, watching him writhe and whimper his way through a nightmare, like a prey animal caught in a trap. Rocky never resented that thin, vital pane of xenonite between their bodies more.

(That’s a lie. He can think of one time when he hated that barrier – despised it, despaired of it, disregarded it despite the near fatal aftermath.)

But Rocky was so sure that Grace would grow to resent him; that his awkward, earnest smiles would shift into something wan and performative; that his eyes would dim with resignation. He never wanted to see his friend like that.

It took too long for them to finally talk it all out

“We went over this, bud,” Grace smiles. “Earth is getting what they need, and I’m excited to go back with you. I want to meet Adrian and see your home.”

“Your home soon. Simon also.”

“Simon also,” Grace nods. Rocky shifts and pulls out one of his dice to play with. He nudges it absentmindedly around in his hamster ball, and Grace hides his smile behind his hand. “I’m glad you two are getting along now.”

“Simon tolerable.” The sounds scrape out of him, as if under duress, and Grace rolls his eyes. “Grace like Simon question?”

“Oh.” Blood rushes to his face, and he drops his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

Halfway through his third year of teaching, they hired a long term sub for the other eighth grade science teacher. She was young, fresh out of school herself, and very cute in an entirely unapproachable way. The kids were all convinced that the two of them were dating, and it became a running joke that “Mr. Grace and Ms. Parker are gonna get married”.

It got to the point where they couldn’t even pass each other in the hall without the kids breaking out into a loud chorus of ‘ooooh’s.

Grace doesn’t feel exactly like that right now, but he doesn’t not feel like that.

“Yeah, pal, I like him. I know we had a rough start, but,” he shrugs, face still burning, “he’s a good guy. He’s trying.”

“Grace not understand.” Rocky complains and tosses his die from claw to claw. “Grace want Simon courtship question?”

“Buddy,” Grace covers his cheeks with his hands and moans in humiliation. He gets fingerprints all over his glasses, but he can’t really focus on that. “I don’t even know how to answer that.”

“Grace make Simon present,” he gestures at Grace’s laptop with one arm. “Like courtship. Grace show care. Simon like Grace back.”

“I need to lie down.” Grace mumbles against his palms, and Rocky makes an unimpressed hissing sound. “This isn’t about courtship or whatever,” he forces himself not to gag around the word. “This is about giving Simon a little bit of his identity back, I guess – and I don’t even know if he’ll like it.” He glances over his shoulder at his laptop. “He might hate it.”

“Not possible. Simon will love.”

“I sure hope so,” he rubs nervously at the back of his head and scratches his nails through his hair. “I don’t want him to hate me.”

“Not possible,” Rocky says again. “Simon will love.”

“We’re talking about me now, Rock,” Grace corrects and drops his hands to his lap. His glasses are all smeary and hazy, and he hides in that blurry space for a moment. “Not the present.”

“Rocky know. Still same answer. Simon will love.” He warbles and burbles confidently, lingering on the notes for ‘love’ like they’re his favorite song. He sounds like crickets after a rainstorm. “Grace love Simon question?”

Grace shrieks in the back of his throat like he’s been stabbed, pained and panicked and pathetic. He breaks out in a cold sweat and mentally tries to calculate where Simon is on the ship right now and if he potentially heard Rocky’s earth-shattering questions. He has to believe that Rocky wouldn’t ask something so personal if they were overheard.

For being such an observant species, the Eridians really value their privacy.

“Rocky not want upset Grace.” He hums apologetically and wobbles from side to side. Grace can hear the sheepish tapping of his legs as he shifts, and he reaches out blindly to rest a hand on his terrarium.

“I’m not upset,” he mumbles, admittedly sounding adjacently upset. He clears his throat and presses the heel of his free hand against his forehead. They should really get a fainting couch.

“Hmmmmm not sure true.” If Rocky had eyes, he would be squinting. Grace amuses himself with the image for a minute. “Not want hurt Grace. Only want Grace happy. Like Rocky Adrian happy.”

“And you think that’s me and Simon.”

“Could be,” Rocky stretches and drums his claws against the xenonite between them. Grace feels the vibrations through his palm and smiles. “If brave enough. Grace deserve happy. And Simon too,” Rocky pauses and tilts to one side. “Rocky guess.”

“Don’t be a brat,” Grace admonishes fondly and lets his hand slide off Rocky’s jar. He slouches in his work chair, like a poorly made marionette. Self-reflection does not look good on him.

“Hmmmm not know what word mean.” He knocks his knuckles against the xenonite, and Rocky hisses like a startled cat. “So rude. Grace lucky Rocky like.”

“Yeah, he really is.” Grace sighs wistfully, and Rocky mimics him with a rush of wind chimes. It might be Grace’s favorite sound of his – easily in the top five.

“Grace think Simon will hate if feelings share. Why question? Explain please.” Grace exhales loudly and scrubs his hands over his face.

“Remember my ex? The one who’s with Mark now.”

“Rocky remember.” Rocky is a drum solo, promising vengeance, and his little top plates rumble threateningly. “Rocky hate Mark.”

“It’s not Mark’s fault,” Grace reminds him, and he really means it. Mark was always respectful and, from what he saw on his ex’s Instagram, he took good care of her. They were happy together. So he’s happy for them.

“I just don’t think I’m meant for love like that. It’s like no matter how hard I try, I can’t give my…” He gestures uselessly, his hand flopping in the air like a dying fish dropped on a dock. “My sweetheart? Whatever. I can’t give people what they want. I’m not good at it. And, I don’t want to trap Simon with something he’ll regret.”

“Even if Grace want love question?” He follows up with an inquisitive chirp, like a bird taking flight, and Grace snorts, charmed despite himself.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he says softly, because he doesn’t want to admit that Rocky’s right. Rocky whistles mournfully. “I’m okay, bud. Think I just need to…” He wiggles his fingers next to his head. “Need to think on some stuff.”

“Rocky want Grace happy.” He sings like a river slipping over slick-dark stones, and Grace smiles the smile of a damned man.

“I am happy, pal. How could I not be?” Rocky looks at him and shakes his head.

“Grace so bad at lying.” Rocky hums flatly, and Grace laughs. It’s a hollow, brittle thing. “Rocky let Grace think. Go play dice and win.” He holds up his little gaming pouch and shimmies.

“Don’t be a sore winner,” Grace reminds him as he tumbleweeds out of the lab.

“Not know what that mean. Cannot hear Grace anymore. Goodbye,” he sings, a one-man Broadway show, and Grace covers his face with his hands as he wheezes.

“Simon friend,” Rocky calls, much louder than he needs to, practically drowning out his own translator. “Simon friend, come play dice! Rocky want learn new words.”

“Calm down, you little gremlin – fuckin’ hell.” Simon complains, and Rocky snickers.

“Yes yes yes, new words like that one!” Grace groans through a laugh and flops back in his chair. He stares up at the ceiling of the lab, and the voices of his two favorite lifeforms fade. His eyes start to burn, and he pinches at the bridge of his nose.

Something cold and heavy settles in his chest, right under the bruise Simon gave him so many weeks ago, and he rubs at his sternum. Because Ryland knows himself – he is an acquired taste, hard to love and easy to leave. He is finicky and twitchy and overwhelming and off-putting.

He knows himself.

And he knows Simon, with the sad, brown eyes; and the bitter, sneering grins; and the derelict heart, prone to grieving. Ryland wants to hold him close, feel the weight and warmth of his body pressing against him, until they only exist inside each other.

There is no known universe where Simon would want the same. Of this, Ryland is sure. Despite the blurring boundaries, the lingering stares, the slow increase in physical touch… Simon does not look at him like a man wanting. He looks at him like a man used to losing. And Ryland refuses to be something that Simon will lose.

Because he will, eventually. Or Ryland will lose him. All of his relationships have time limits. He knows this.

So he cradles that feeling – that flickering candlelight of yearning – and snuffs it out.

Like he’s done so many times before.

“Oh, you idiot,” he mutters under his breath and shuffles back to his workspace. His slippers drag on the sterile tile floor, and his laptop comes to life with a few listless taps. Loneliness drapes over his shoulders like an old cardigan, and Grace wraps it tightly around himself. The stars outside scrape against Mary’s hull, lighting her up like a beacon in the vast expanse of the quiet dark.

She’s a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam.

With an empty sigh, Grace jumps back into it.

- - -

“Your little friend cheats,” Simon complains as he kicks his way into the lab.

“Pretty sure he’s your friend too,” Ryland mumbles, so the words slur together, and adjusts his glasses with the heel of his palm. Simon makes an offended noise and slouches into the chair next to him. He hooks his feet around Ryland’s leg, trapping him between Simon’s ankles, and taps his toes against his calf.

“You’ll never prove it,” he claims, and Ryland absentmindedly drops a hand down to pat his knee. It’s a struggle to pull back and resume typing, but he does it. His palm tingles with the warmth of Simon’s body, and he shakes his head.

“I’m not the one playing dice with him, babe,” he mutters, frowning at his laptop screen. There’s one sticky line of code that’s tripping up his program, and Ryland grumbles under his breath as he scrolls. Stubborn little jerk. “Is it even possible to cheat at dice? You know they’re all perfectly balanced.” Simon has gone still next to him, and he glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

Simon’s cheeks are flushed pink, right along the scar across his nose, and he’s staring at Ryland, starstruck and wobbly. Ryland squints at him. Does he have a fever? That can’t be good. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Simon croaks and looks away. He rubs at the back of his neck and stares out the window. “What’re you workin’ on?”

“Something… very annoying,” Ryland bares his teeth in a frustrated grimace, and Simon snorts under his breath. “But, I think –” his scrolling comes to a jarring halt as he isolates the issue. “Heck yeah, here we go.” A few quick keystrokes, and the universe is balanced again. He wiggles merrily in his seat, reflexively tapping his fingers together in a mimicry of Rocky’s happy dance.

The chair turns slowly as he shimmies, and he has to lunge to catch himself on the table when he stretches the reach of his pinned leg. His knee bends awkwardly, and he tries to straighten himself with some amount of dignity.

“Hng,” he groans pathetically, fingers splayed on his desk like a particularly frantic cat, and Simon laughs – an actual, real laugh, where he squints his eyes closed and tips his head back, so all the points of his teeth are showing. His knees bounce as he tilts back, though he still refuses to release Ryland from his prison, and he wheezes until his breath clicks in his throat.

“Holy shit, you’re so fucking cute,” Simon gasps, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, and Ryland is too stunned to complain. He is so beautiful. “Christ, it’s like they made you in a lab or somethin’. Goddamn.” Ryland’s cheeks flush with a violent rush of blood, and he fumbles with his glasses until he finds his voice.

“You’re such a jerk,” he pouts, face half-buried in the sleeves of his cardigan. “I hope Rocky kicked your butt.” Simon snorts and uses his ankles to tug Ryland closer. He lurches to the side with an undignified gurgle. “Oh my gosh, stop yanking me around.” Simon rolls his eyes and untangles their legs, so Ryland can straighten up in his chair and to realign his spine. “What new terrible things did you teach him?”

“Hey now, I’m not a snitch.” Simon props his arm on the table and leans on his hand. His hair has fallen out of the wolftail Ryland gave him this morning, and it tumbles around his face in loose, messy waves. “He promised not to say it around you, anyway. We don’t wanna make Mom mad.”

“Oh, I’m Mom, huh? Does that make you Daddy?” Ryland asks, nudging at his glasses, and Simon nearly brains himself on the desk as his elbow slips. His words catch up with him in a sudden, humiliating rush, and Ryland shrieks in the back of his throat. “Wait! No! Not like that, oh my gosh. I’m so – oh gingersnaps, I’m so sorry.” He covers his eyes with his sweater sleeves again and whines. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine,” Simon wheezes and takes a steadying breath. He brushes his bangs back and laughs under his breath. “I know you’re too pure for that shit anyway.”

“Well, now I’m offended.” Ryland sniffs. “I’ve had relationships before, you know. I’ve been with… people,” he finishes lamely and tugs on a loose piece of yarn hanging off his cardigan.

“Mhmm,” Simon hums indulgently. “And how’d that work out? With your… people?” He mimics Ryland’s pause, voice heavy with intention, and Ryland shrugs.

“Not that great, admittedly.” His shoulders drop even more, and he fiddles with his glasses so he doesn’t have to look at Simon. “People don’t really stick around for very long. I’ve only had one long-term relationship, anyway and she…” He swallows around the loneliness piling up in his throat.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m kind of difficult to love, I guess.” His voice trails off, and his stomach squirms around a block of ice. This isn’t fun anymore. “Yeah, okay, so anyway –”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Simon cuts him off like a car crash, words shattering across the table like splintered glass and metal shrapnel on wet pavement. Ryland curls his hands into fists and tucks his arms around himself.

“It’s really not a big deal,” he argues in a small voice, and Simon scoffs. His eyes start to burn, and he desperately wants to hide. He and Rocky have talked about his past relationships, and that was just fine. (It really wasn’t.) It didn’t feel like this. He’s scooping out his heart with his bare fingers and holding it in his palms, like a subpar offering.

Look, this is all I have. Why isn’t it enough?

Ryland doesn’t really want to know the answer to that.

“Where’s Rocky?” He asks loudly, so he has something to say, and turns back to his laptop. Simon sucks on his teeth in frustration, and Ryland flinches. He tells himself that this is good. That it’s better if Simon gets annoyed with him now, if he realizes that Ryland isn’t worth the effort.

“He’s eating.” Simon’s voice is clipped, and Ryland nods to himself – that makes sense. It’s been a few days now since he’s had food, so Ryland is more than happy to give him the privacy he needs right now. He’s also not convinced that Rocky didn’t strategically plan his little meal break so Simon would come pester him.

“What the fuck do you mean, you’re difficult to love?” Simon throws his words back at him like an accusation, like they’re bullets in a loaded gun, and Simon is just looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. Ryland’s heart makes a pretty good target.

“Oh, you know,” he takes a deep breath and exhales noisily. Simon raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, and waits him out. He has the patience of a predator, and Ryland caves under his unblinking gaze. “I just… people don’t really stick around. Can’t seem to give them what they want. Guess I’m not worth it,” his voice catches, wobbles, and he bites down hard on his lower lip.

“Ryland…” He stares stubbornly down at his lap and starts bouncing his leg. His sneaker squeaks pathetically against the tiled floor, and Simon leans over to settle his hand on his knee. He rubs his thumb soothingly against the seam along the inside of his thigh, and Ryland feels the touch as if it’s against his bare skin.

His whole body burns.

“You’re worth it,” Simon whispers, tilting his head so he forces Ryland to meet his gaze. He looks wrecked with grief, eyes wet and mouth soft, and some quiet, fluttering thing cracks open in Ryland’s chest. He doesn’t know how much of this he can take. “You’re worth so much – how can you not see it?” Ryland shrugs again, and he’s so ashamed to feel a tear track down the side of his face.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Simon croons and cups Ryland’s cheek, and Ryland leans into the touch without realizing. He’s so starved that the calloused press of Simon’s skin on his is enough to make him shiver. “Come on now, why are you cryin’?” He brushes the tears away with a rough swipe of his thumb, and he knocks sweetly against the bottom of Ryland’s glasses.

“I don’t know,” he whines, and Simon shushes him gently. He uses the hand on his face to hold him steady as he leans forward to press a firm kiss to his right temple. Ryland lets his eyes flutter closed, and he grabs fistfuls of Simon’s shirt.

“Don’t waste your tears on them,” Simon whispers against Ryland’s skin, his nose buried in the downy corn silk of his bangs. “They’re not fucking worth it, you understand?” Ryland feels the words as much as he hears them. He nods, pressing his knuckles into the bellows of Simon’s ribs with a hopeless desperation.

“You’re perfect,” Simon growls and shifts his hand to the back of Ryland’s head, and Ryland whimpers as he reaches up to grab at his forearm. Simon’s muscles tense under his touch, and he holds on tight. If this is all he’s going to get, he’s going to be selfish. “You’re a fucking genius, and you’re so beautiful. You’ve given me so much – I would destroy the goddamn stars for you.”

“Please don’t,” Ryland hiccups through his tears, “we just went through a whole thing to save them.”

“Funny too,” Simon laughs and bumps their noses together. He pulls back enough just to meet Ryland’s watery stare. “You sayin’ you don’t believe me? You sayin’ I need to prove it?” Ryland’s lips part, and Simon’s eyes dart down to follow the motion.

“I can work with that,” he rumbles and ducks down until there’s only millimeters between them. “Will you let me?”

Ryland nods frantically, even though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing to, and Simon rubs at the sensitive skin behind his ear with his thumb. Ryland gasps, breath jumping in his throat, and tilts his face up.

“Please,” Ryland’s dizzy, desperate, and begging. He’s convinced he’s breaking his own heart, but he doesn’t care. Fire licks through his veins, lighting him up from the inside, and his pulse pounds loud enough to drown out his sense of dignity. “Simon, I –”

“I’ve got you,” Simon promises and dips forward to press their mouths together. He threads shaking fingers through Ryland’s hair to gentle him. His nails scrape softly against his scalp, and Ryland shivers. He moans, high and keening, and Simon swallows the sound with reverence.

Ryland digs his fingers into Simon’s arm and whines as Simon pulls back.

“It’s okay,” Simon assures him, and Ryland bobs his head in a hazy nod.

He leans forward, practically falling out of his chair to close the distance, and Simon pulls him in until he’s draped over his lap. Their chests press together, and the heat builds between their bodies. Their first kiss is a brief, tender thing.

Their second is not.

Simon kisses like a starving man – he licks his way into Ryland’s mouth and sucks on his lower lip until it’s blood swollen and sweet. Ryland claws at his shoulders, and his feet slip uselessly against the lab floor as he burrows as close as he possibly can.

It’s overwhelming and impossible, and Ryland feels like he might be dying. Simon wraps his arm tightly around his waist and squeezes until he whimpers. Ryland’s nails catch and drag on Simon’s shirt as he slides his hands to rest over his chest. The muscles are so firm under his touch, and Simon inhales sharply when Ryland accidentally rubs his thumb over his nipple.

He freezes as Simon growls deep in his chest, gravelly low and heavy like a thunderstorm, and everything gets dizzy and blurry. Or that could be the lack of oxygen. Simon catches his lower lip in a teasing bite, and Ryland tastes iron when they pull apart.

His chest heaves, and he struggles to catch his breath, as Simon nuzzles against the slope of his neck. He sucks a bruise in the hinge of Ryland’s jaw and holds the pulse of his blood between his too-sharp teeth. Ryland’s brain goes all fuzzy, and he tangles his fingers in the wild thicket of Simon’s hair. He accidentally tugs when Simon bites a little too hard, and Simon groans in the back of his throat.

“Can we…” Ryland gasps, trying like the devil to breathe, and Simon hums against him in curious acknowledgment. The sound shudders through their bodies, and Ryland’s thighs tighten around his hips. “Um, can we please…” Simon slips his hand down to palm his ass, and Ryland honest to God squeaks. “Oh gingersnaps – can we slow down please?”

Simon pulls back and gazes up at him with dark, concerned eyes, and Ryland offers a trembling smile in return. His glasses are knocked askew, and he’s sure his hair is a frazzled mess. He drapes his arms over Simon’s shoulders in a loose hug and links his hands behind his neck.

“Um,” he shrugs lamely and forces himself not to look away. “Sorry, I was just. Um. Getting overwhelmed, I guess. Sorry,” he says again and twists his fingers together. His thumb brushes against the soft skin behind Simon’s ear, and he shudders. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say that. It’s okay,” Simon tells him, dropping his head to one side to press his cheek against Ryland’s arm. He peers up at him through the curtain of his hair, and Ryland’s smile shifts into something genuine. His lower lip pulls, and he tastes another rush of iron.

“You’re hurt,” Simon jerks back and his eyes go wide with alarm. “Wait, you’re bleeding. Fuck, was that me?” He runs his tongue over his teeth, as if searching for any trace of Ryland’s blood, and Ryland isn’t ashamed of the thrill that runs through him at the sight. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m so sorry –”

“I’m okay,” Ryland assures him and cups his face in his palms. Simon’s stricken eyes dart to one side as he refuses to meet Ryland’s searching gaze. “I’m okay – that’s not why I wanted to stop.” He rubs his thumbs across Simon’s cheekbones until his face softens and presses a quick kiss to his forehead in reward.

Simon slides his hand to rest on the small of Ryland’s back, and his fingers dip under his shirt to graze against his bare skin. Ryland shivers reflexively and bites his lip.

“Sorry,” Simon mumbles and drops his head to Ryland’s chest.

“Please stop apologizing,” Ryland hums and runs his fingers through Simon’s hair – he can’t stop playing with it, and Simon accepts the attention with a rumbling sigh. “Can we talk? Maybe?”

“We can talk,” Simon grunts against his shirt, and the doubt starts to creep in. His words were nice – calling him perfect and beautiful and sweetheart (and doesn’t that make something sugar spun and soft turn over in his chest) – but maybe that’s all Simon wants from him. Maybe he doesn’t want the talking part that comes along with access to his body. He wouldn’t be the first.

Ryland can’t pretend that the thought doesn’t hurt, even if he doesn’t blame him for it.

He becomes very aware that he’s still perched in Simon’s lap, and he shifts his feet like he’s about to get up. Simon’s arm immediately tenses around him. “You wanna move?” Despite his question, he doesn’t loosen his grip.

“Do you want me to move?” Ryland asks in a wobbly voice, and Simon exhales loudly.

“I asked you first,” Simon lifts his head to squint at him with thinly veiled frustration for a long moment. The annoyance shifts into something fond, and Ryland wonders what exactly is happening on his face right now. “No,” Simon tells him and buries his head in Ryland’s chest again. “You stay right where you are.”

“Okay,” Ryland swallows noisily and settles his weight more firmly on Simon’s thighs, and Simon relaxes. The tension drains from his body, and he leans against Ryland with another gravelly sigh. “So, um, how are you feeling?”

“Pretty damn good.” The words are muffled but genuine, and Ryland nods. “What about you?”

“I’m okay,” his voice kicks up in pitch at the end there, and Simon snorts in disbelief. “I am! I just want to know how you, um, maybe feel about… this. Us. Being like this. Together.”

“You wanna know how I feel about you sitting in my lap?”

“That and the, um. Other stuff.”

“You mean kissing?” Simon bounces his leg, and Ryland bounces with it. He squeaks, high and frantic, and tightens his grip on Simon’s shoulders. “I had my tongue in your mouth, and you want to know what… if I liked it? Yeah, Ryland, I fuckin’ liked it. Liked it a whole lot.” His face changes into something less confident, less flirty, and he studies Ryland closely. “Did you… like it?”

“Yes,” Ryland blurts out, cheeks burning, “I liked it too. I just want to know what else you might want from… me.” He picks at a loose thread at Simon’s collar and looks away from Simon’s piercing stare.

“From you? Nothing,” he says it like a closed door, and Ryland’s heart twists. Guess that answers that then, and he nods around the swollen knot in his throat. Simon runs his hand up and down his back in broad, sweeping strokes, so the heat of his palm seeps through the fabric of Ryland’s shirt.

“With you? For you? Everything. Whatever you want. If you just want the physical…” He cups the back of Ryland’s neck and squeezes. “Hell, not like that’s a hardship. I can do that.”

Ryland just closes his eyes shut and shakes his head, because he doesn’t want that. Well, he does, he definitely does. He wants the sturdy, steady press of Simon’s body against his, wants to learn the map of his skin and scars, wants to know what he tastes like, sounds like. He wants his teeth and his hand and his mouth and his… He wants Simon to get loud and heavy and hot on top of him.

But, also...

“And what if I want more?” He forces himself to be brave, because Simon deserves his honesty. “What if I want to be with you for real? Like a relationship. I want to be committed… to you.” He doesn’t know how to explain it, because all the terms from his life on Earth fall short. It feels so silly to call it ‘dating’ when they’re literally the only two humans around for light years. They don’t have other options, not really, but it’s important that they’re making the choice.

Ryland wants Simon to know that he’s choosing him.

“I want to be your partner. Your other half. I want to take care of you. And I want you to take care of me.”

Simon’s smile lights up his whole face, and he gazes at Ryland like he’s something holy, like he’s the answer to every question he’s been asking. His eyes squint into little half-moons, and Ryland leans down to press their foreheads together. He cups Simon’s cheeks in his hands, cradling him in the heart of his palms, and they laugh into each other’s mouths.

Their peaceful little pocket is disrupted by the familiar sound of a xenonite hamster ball bouncing off the walls.

“Rocky here. And Rocky promise not listen. Simon Grace stop doing please.” Rocky sings from the corridor, far louder than he needs to be, and Simon’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. Ryland’s face burns with embarrassment and he smacks at his chest, which only makes him laugh harder. “Congratulations. Now stop doing please.”

“It’s safe, you little gremlin,” Simon calls, refusing to let Ryland off his lap, “you can come in.”

“Rocky not believe. Grace friend confirm question?”

“Just…” He pushes insistently against Simon’s shoulders in a desperate struggle to get free. “Give us a second – will you please let go?” His voice drops into a harsh whisper, even though he knows Rocky can still hear them. He fidgets awkwardly in the hall. Simon’s arm is a metal band around his waist, and he flails.

It is super dignified.

“Okay, okay,” Simon loosens his grip just enough for Ryland to wriggle free. “Don’t hurt yourself.” Ryland straightens his clothes as he stands up, and Simon slouches in his chair to watch. He drags his eyes over Ryland’s body, and Ryland feels his stare like a physical thing. “Okay, that’s enough of that.”

“Not doin’ anything,” Simon shrugs and tucks his hand behind his head.

“Neanderthal,” Ryland hisses under his breath and straightens his glasses. “All right, Rocky, the coast is clear!”

- - -

Privacy is incredibly important to Eridians.

Which is why Rocky goes to great lengths to construct reinforced xenonite panels, so Grace and Simon can have their own space. For their own human activities that Rocky wants to know nothing about please and thank you.

“Adrian Rocky build home together. Very thick walls. Important. New mates need privacy. Rocky understand.” Rocky chirps, and Grace cringes as he slots a large, trapezoid plane into place. He doesn’t super love using ‘mates’ to describe what he and Simon have. It feels a little too close to ‘lovers’ for his comfort, and he’s always hated the word ‘lovers’. He shudders as Simon welds the two panels together.

“Careful please. No dropping. Supplies limited.” Rocky admonishes quietly and clicks his claws together.

“Who’s Adrian?” Simon asks, eyes narrowed with concentration. A lock of hair falls across his eyes, and Grace forces himself not to reach out and tuck it behind his ears. They have to focus.

“Adrian Rocky mate. Together long long long.” His little top plates dance as he sighs, wistful and loving. He sounds like rocks skipping on a lake, and he sings Adrian’s name like it’s his favorite song. It probably is. “Want have younglings when Rocky return. If Adrian accept.”

“Awe, that’s great pal,” Grace stretches out his back with a groan. “You’d make a great dad. Parent?” He squints thoughtfully and carefully picks up the next panel.

“Human language so dumb,” Rocky chides him. “Why so complicated question?”

“I ask myself that everyday,” Grace huffs under his breath, and Simon snickers.

“How long you two been together?” Simon powers down the welding tool, and Grace glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Simon meets his gaze with a soft, private smile.

“191.5 years,” Rocky replies instantly, and Simon whistles under his breath as he taps his little claws together. Grace wonders if he keeps an internal clock, tracking the time since he last saw his mate. It wouldn’t surprise him. Eridians, he has found, are a very sentimental people. They love fiercely and without end. “Want more. Want forever.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Simon nods, and something flutters in Ryland’s chest. He tucks a smile against the soft inside of his cheek and forces himself to focus on the xenonite panel in his hands. “They must be happy you’re on your way back, right?”

“Adrian not know.” He trills sadly and does his version of a sigh, so his little body sags. “Erid too far communicate. Rocky make Adrian wait long time. Hope still waiting.” Simon pauses in their chore and turns to face him properly. He fixes his face into something stern, earnest, as he crouches down to Rocky’s level.

“Your people – they mate for life, is that right?” Rocky bobs and sings an affirmative – it’s a cautious note progression, like he’s scared of giving voice to his hope. Simon rests his hand on his little terrarium, and Rocky taps his claws against his palm through the xenonite. “Then they’re still waiting.”

Grace swallows around a sudden lump in his throat and wonders where Simon got all his faith from. How he hasn’t lost it all yet. With everything the universe’s put him through, he wouldn’t blame him. He takes a deep, fortifying breath and looks over the rest of the sheer panels. They don’t have many left to install, and then Grace is going to do his part to give Simon a little bit more to believe in.

- - -

Ryland finishes his little side project in the next few days – it takes longer than it probably should, because Simon has made it his mission to climb inside Ryland’s skin at every possible moment. He’ll drape himself over Ryland’s shoulders and press his cheek to the top of his head; or he’ll curl up on the floor next to him, face buried in his hip and arm draped over his knees.

It’s easy for Ryland to reach for him, loop a hand around his dangling wrist or bury his fingers in his lush, dark hair.

Comforting, but it does make typing significantly harder.

And, now that he’s done, he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. Rocky has said his piece multiple times before refusing to discuss it any further. (Grace dumb stupid. Simon will love. Go give. Stop bother Rocky now please thank you.) Logically, he knows that Rocky is right, but he still can’t shake the sense that he’s about to cross some invisible boundary and ruin everything forever.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

It’s late, or whatever counts for late on a ship that has manufactured days and nights, and Simon is sprawled out on the lab’s utilitarian couch with his laptop balanced on his stomach.

He’s researching Baikal seals with the focus a PhD student prepping for their dissertation. The light from his screen catches in his dark eyes so they’re practically glowing, and he furrows his brow as he scrolls. Ryland chews anxiously on his lower lip. He really doesn’t want to disturb him, but he finds himself hovering nonetheless.

The air is fresh with the scent of freshly watered plants, and Ryland can see a smudge of dirt on his his cheek.

“You’re staring, sweetheart.” Simon observes without pulling his gaze from his studies.

“Yep,” Ryland agrees, nodding foolishly to himself. He sure is. His laptop almost slips out from under his arm, and he dips awkwardly to save it from tipping to the floor.

“Did you need some…” Simon glances up at him and squints. “What’s wrong?” His voice flattens, like he’s watching someone squaring up with a punch, and Ryland really isn’t sure what his face is doing right now. It must be bad if Simon’s looking at him like that.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says quickly, and Simon closes his own laptop. The lid clicks with a foreboding finality, and he twists to sit up properly on the couch. Ryland shifts from foot to foot and tangles the fingers of his free hand in the hem of his shirt.

“Ryland,” Simon sighs, not quite exasperated, and Ryland feels a cold prick of fear, deep in the pit of his belly. It’s not unfamiliar, and he scratches at his elbow. He’s doing it all wrong. He’s ruined it. Certainly didn’t take long. Simon rubs across his scar with his index finger and shakes his head. “Listen, if you want to call this off, that’s fine. I get it. So just say what you gotta say.”

“Call this off…?” Ryland repeats to himself and tilts his head in confusion. Simon raises an eyebrow and gestures emptily with his hand – it’s the most patronizing encouragement Ryland has ever received, and he used to present at academic conferences. He’s seen some wild stuff.

“You mean,” he points back and forth between the two of them, and Simon dips his head in a condescending nod. “Oh, well, no, I don’t want – that’s not what I’m. Urgh!” He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and grabs for Simon’s hand, patronizing or not, to link their fingers together. “I don’t want that! Do you want that?”

Simon stares down at their hands and presses their palms together firmly.

“No,” he says simply and tugs Ryland closer. “I don’t want that.” Ryland stumbles to stand between the wide spread of his knees and rubs his thumb over Simon’s wrist, where his pulse is racing the fastest. The pendant on his bracelet bumps against his knuckle.

“Sorry,” Ryland apologizes, suddenly shy, and Simon drops his gaze with an embarrassed shrug. “Kinda got in my head there.”

“S’okay,” he mumbles, and a stripe of blush spreads across his scarred nose and scruffy cheeks. “Just let me in next time.” Ryland huffs under his breath and brings their hands up to his mouth to smudge a kiss against Simon’s calloused knuckles.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out. I actually wanted to show you something,” Ryland mumbles against Simon’s skin before trying to pull away – Simon doesn’t let him get very far, and Ryland laughs despite the anxiety still churning in his stomach.

“More movies?” He asks, and Ryland twists around to settle on the couch next to him. It takes a little fumbling, because Simon holds his hand until he almost drops his computer again.

“Ah, wait, okay, you gotta let me go,” Ryland opens his laptop and immediately freezes. “Okay, so. Hm. Actually. You might actually hate it, and that’s okay!” His glasses dangle off his face, all twitchy and fractured, and his words bump into each other in a frantic sprawl. “That’s okay, but um. I got the idea when you told me about your ship and – oh gingersnaps, I’m overstepping. Shoot, I’m sorry, I didn’t even –”

Simon hooks his hand under Ryland’s jaw and tilts his face into an unbearably sweet kiss. Ryland makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, and Simon nips at his lower lip until he squeaks.

“Better?” He rasps, rubbing his thumb over the spot of blood his bite left behind. Ryland nods dumbly and blinks his eyes open. Simon smiles, blunt and roguish, and ducks down to press their foreheads together. The air between them has gone all syrupy and hazy, and Ryland hums.

“You wanna try that again, sweetheart?” Simon replaces his glasses with careful fingers, and Ryland nods again. He’s slowly regaining the ability to speak.

“Yeah, um,” the words feel too big in his mouth, and he clears his throat. “I have something for you, like a present. I guess. But it’s okay if you don’t like it! I won’t be upset or anything.” Simon rolls his eyes with a fond smile.

“Fuck, Ryland, just show me. Is it one of those musicals?”

“No.” He pauses deliberately. “But we definitely need to watch one soon. Ooh, maybe –” He cuts himself off at Simon’s judgmental stare. “Right. Okay, so,” he taps a few keys and waits while the app loads. The interface isn’t anything flashy, but Simon will probably appreciate the simplicity of it. “You said your ship’s name was Tokki, and that means rabbit, right?” Simon dips his head, and Ryland nods quickly. “Okay, so, I did some research and –”

“Annyeonghaseyo!” A woman’s voice comes through the laptop’s speakers – low and smooth, with just enough rasp to feel natural. Simon freezes beside him, muscles rigid and eyes wide, and Ryland glances at him nervously, hands poised above the keyboard.

“And, well tokki is the Korean word for rabbit. And you said your mom’s name was Yuna, which is also Korean. So, I think that maybe your family is Korean.” He says quietly. Simon still isn’t moving, and Ryland is really starting to think he messed up here. Cold sweat beads on the back of his neck, and he swallows thickly around a wad of saliva.

“So I made a language learning app? So you could learn it, obviously. And I could learn it too. But only if you want. See, it has, um, a pretty extensive dictionary with vocab and stuff.” He can’t stop talking. Why can’t he stop talking? “But I also created, like, lessons and games and stuff, so we could, um, practice.”

“You made this,” Simon’s voice is quiet – Ryland hears him as if he’s on the other side of a closed door – and he’s staring at the laptop with a haunted sort of emptiness. “For me. You made this.”

“I, yeah?” He tangles and untangles his fingers, and his eyes go a little blurry with panic. He can’t look at Simon anymore. “I’m sorry if I overstepped – I promise I was just trying to help. I didn’t mean to upset you or anything.” Finally, his words trail off and die. They’re scattered across the floor, like bystanders caught in the crossfire.

He’s turned his gift into a macabre crime scene.

“I told you one word,” Simon clenches his teeth until his jaw ticks, and Ryland’s eyes burn with humiliation. “One fucking word from my mother’s language, and you built… this,” he flicks his fingers at the still lit screen.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, and tears spill down his cheeks. “I can, um. I can delete it. Scrub it from the whole system – really, Simon, I can. I can make this right –”

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna need you to shut the fuck up.”

“Okay.” It’s easy for Simon to take the laptop from his limp hands.

Silence stretches between them, like razor wire ready to snap, and he peers at the screen. He clicks on a few phrases, and the woman’s voice pipes through the speakers again. “Mannaseo bangawoyo.” Nice to meet you. “Jal jinseayeosseoyo?” Have you been well?

Simon takes a few deep, steadying breaths – his whole body moves with each inhale and exhale – and Ryland wipes his damp face with the sleeves of his sweater. His throat is clogged with shards of ice, bitter cold and burning, and he can feel frostbite creeping down into his lungs. He’s never going to be warm again. He tucks his arms around himself to hide how hard he’s shaking.

This isn’t how he thought this was going to go.

After spending a moment scrolling through vocabulary lists, Simon sets the laptop on the floor, next to his own machine. He moves with the careful control of someone who had to learn how to be gentle. He pauses to collect himself before straightening to face Ryland properly – Ryland sniffs as he cups his feverish cheek in his scar rough palm.

“Always the waterworks with you,” he rumbles, and Ryland’s breath hitches in his chest. He clutches at his wrist and the soft leather of Simon’s bracelet presses against his fingers. “My little crybaby, you’re all worked up.”

“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, and Simon hushes him.

“What are you sorry for? Sweetheart, nobody’s ever done something like this for me. This is amazing. You’re amazing. Thank you, Ryland.” Simon whispers his name like it’s something precious, like it’s a home built of two syllables, like it’s a place he never wants to leave. “I love it.”

“Got a funny way of showing it,” Ryland sags in relief and drops his head to Simon’s shoulder. He laughs through his tears, giddy with nerves, and Simon uses the hand on his face to tilt him up. “I thought you hated it.”

“No, sweetheart – I’m sorry. I love it, I promise. Just got overwhelmed. You’ve given me something...” Simon holds his gaze, and his eyes crinkle into half-moons as he smiles. “Jesus Christ, I could live a hundred lives, and I still wouldn’t deserve you,” he says mildly and swipes his thumb across Ryland’s mouth. The callouses catch on his lower lip and tug, and Ryland whimpers despite himself. “You beautiful fucking genius. How did a bastard like me get so lucky?”

“I don’t…”

“I swear to the stars, Ryland Grace, I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you how good you are.” Simon tells him, and his eyes burn with an unholy fire. The noise that leaves Ryland’s mouth is truly pathetic – a panicked, breathy whine – and Simon smiles like the predator he is.

He leans into Ryland’s space, looming over him with his arm braced against the back of the couch. “I’m going to kiss you now, and we’ll go as far as you want. But, if you’re up for it…”

“If I’m up for it?” Ryland asks breathlessly – he’s dazed and feverish, and he reaches for Simon. He rests a hand on the side of his neck and rubs his thumb over his thrumming pulse. The proof of Simon’s life runs like a river under his touch, and Ryland finds himself comforted by the rapid rhythm.

“I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name.” Simon promises, words raw like they’ve been scraped out of him, and Ryland makes a desperate, keening sound in the back of his throat. He can’t seem to catch his breath and his eyes well with overwhelmed tears.

“Oh, that’s so very much a lot,” Ryland wheezes and unhooks his glasses. Simon leans in close, brows furrowed, as he searches his face for any hint of rejection, and Ryland offers him a wobbly smile.

“Too much?” Simon’s eyes and voice are soft, and Ryland shakes his head fuzzily.

“Nuh uh. It’s just…”

“What?” He’s curious but not unkind, and Ryland takes a breath. His mouth is suddenly, overwhelmingly, dry, and his teeth catch on his chapped lower lip. Humiliation bubbles in his belly, and he tucks his hands between his thighs. His leg starts bouncing, until Simon hooks a foot around his ankle to steady him.

This is always the hardest part.

“It, um. It can sometimes takes a little extra work to, like, get there? Like, I want it, but,” he exhales nervously and glances down at his own lap. Simon follows his gaze with an interested quirk of his eyebrow that has his face burning. “I get stuck in my head, so it takes a minute for my body to catch up. Or, um. More than a minute.”

“I’m not sure I’m following, sweetheart,” Simon admits and rubs his thumb over the tender skin of Ryland’s cheek. He leans into the touch with a jerky sigh and darts his gaze to a random point over Simon’s shoulder. Simon hums encouragingly.

“So, like, even when I’m interested or in the mood,” Ryland pauses and frowns, even as Simon nods – gingersnaps, why is this so dang difficult? He is a grown man, a full adult, capable of having incredibly complex conversations. “Even if my head and my heart are into it and ready to go, my… um. I don’t…”

“You don’t...?” Simon prompts, and Ryland sucks in an aggrieved breath.

“I don’t get hard,” he blurts out, his eyes squeezed shut. “Or, like, it takes me a while to get hard. Or it takes me a while to finish, and I know it’s not fair to make you do all the work – I’m not trying to be selfish. It’s just… difficult. Sometimes.”

“Oh,” Simon exhales, and his breath ghosts over Ryland’s feverish skin in a shivery rush. He wishes he could see what his face is doing, but that would mean opening his eyes, and he’s not sure he can handle that right now. His body is on fire, and he’s shaking all over, and Simon slowly pulls his hand from his cheek.

Yeah, okay, that kinda makes sense.

Discounting Ryland’s recent trauma-dumping about his own failures, they haven’t talked a whole lot about past relationships – he doesn’t even know if Simon’s had past relationships. But he probably, like, hooked up with people on Eden. Had flings. Or whatever. They probably didn’t come with an asterisk attached. He definitely didn’t sign up for this.

Simon presses a firm kiss to the center of his forehead, and Ryland flinches, eyes scrunching tight until he sees stars. Simon’s beard scruffs over his nose, and he stays there for a long moment. He feels Simon’s fingers, spider-silk soft, gently slip his glasses back into place.

“But, you want to do this, right? With me?” His voice is low, cautious, and Ryland slowly blinks his eyes open to look at him. Hair falls across his face in dark, shaggy waves, and Ryland reaches up to tuck a lock behind his ear. Simon shivers, and Ryland lets his hand rest there, settled safely in the warm curve of his neck and shoulder.

“I want to do this. With you.” He confirms, and the smile he gets in response – nervous and bashful and unbearably relieved – is nothing short of beautiful. Ryland’s heart flips over in his chest and he sinks into the fond feeling with a breathless laugh.

“And we’ll stop if you want to stop.” Simon assures him, as if Ryland ever doubted him.

“And we’ll stop if you want to stop.” Ryland parries, even if Simon scoffs, because the rules go both ways. He never wants Simon to feel forced into a corner with him. His autonomy is hard fought and hard won, and Ryland refuses to let him forget.

“I don’t want to stop,” Simon promises him, hovering over him so he leans back against the arm of the couch. “I’m willing to work for it,” He slips his arm around his waist to grab Ryland’s hip and yanks so he’s spread out on his back. His shirt rides up, and Simon’s approving rumble is the only reason he doesn’t tug it back into place. “If you’re okay with that.”

“I’m okay with that,” Ryland nods, face flushed and lips parted, and he looks up from his ungainly sprawl – his left foot slips to the floor, and Simon slots himself between his open legs with an easy grace. His bicep pops as he braces his hand on the back of the couch and studies him with a heavy, hooded gaze. Ryland feels his stare like a physical thing as he drags his eyes down Ryland’s body.

“Fuck,” he groans under his breath, and Ryland squirms. His too-sharp teeth gleam in the lab’s artificial light, and Ryland swallows loudly. “I’m going to touch you now,” Simon informs him, and Ryland jerks his hand in a shaky nod.

“Okay,” Ryland’s voice kicks up in a squeak when Simon hooks his hand around his right knee – his touch burns, even through the fabric of his flight suit, and he hikes Ryland’s leg over his hip so their bodies slot together. Ryland fails, elbows wild, as he clutches at Simon with breathless desperation. His heart slams against his chest, as if to escape and make a home in Simon’s rib cage, and he digs his fingers into Simon’s shoulders until he groans.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Simon ducks down to press their foreheads together. “You just hold onto me.”

- - -

“Simon,” Ryland whines, and the sound punches out of him in a wavering keen. He can feel Simon hiding a smile in the column of his throat, and he thumps his fist against his broad shoulders in a weak reproach. Simon laughs, and Ryland shudders. “You’re such a jerk,” he complains, high pitched and reedy, and Simon pats his thigh encouragingly.

Whatever else Ryland has to say is lost in a gasp as Simon smears a blazing line of kisses down the side of his neck. Ryland tightens his knees around his hips and bucks – it’s uncoordinated and ugly, but he can’t help it. Thankfully, Simon’s a little too busy sucking a bruise on his pulse point to judge him for the lack of grace.

He laves his tongue over the needle pricks of blood his teeth leave behind, and Ryland whimpers, toes curling in his socks. He threads his fingers through Simon’s lush, ink-dark hair and barely holds himself back from pulling. They have time. They have so much time, but he’s overwhelmed and desperate with the heavy press of Simon’s body over his. He’s surrounded, drowning in the heat building between them, and his breath catches in his lungs, as Simon grinds down against him.

“Hnng,” Ryland seizes, yanking at Simon’s hair until he groans, and lightning zips through his veins. Simon settles his hand on his heaving chest to gentle him, and Ryland takes gulping breaths of air. “Sorry, sorry,” he rasps and drops his hands to clutch at Simon’s waist instead so he has the space to sit up. “I didn’t mean to – sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Simon assures him, sitting back on his knees. He pushes his bangs back, but they immediately fall across his flushed face in messy waves. “You doin’ all right?” Ryland wants to answer, but he’s a little distracted – his gaze drops to the spread of Simon’s thighs, and he can’t help but stare. He’s big. Something selfish and hungry simmers low in his belly, and Ryland fists his hands in Simon’s shirt. “You with me?” Simon tries again, and he blinks.

“Uh huh,” he mumbles, dazed, before he shakes his head. “Sorry, what?” The air shifts between them, charged with dangerous potential, and Simon tilts his head slowly to one side. His eyes glow, lit from within by twin, burning embers, and he leans in close. He braces himself with his hand on the back of the couch and hovers over Ryland with a razor blade smile. Ryland stares up at him, breathless and wanting.

“What’s goin’ on in that beautiful brain of yours, huh? What’s my baby thinkin’ about?”

“You,” he leans forward to press a kiss to Simon’s cheek and his palms against his shoulders. Simon’s eyes widen in surprise, but he lets Ryland push him back. A thrill of desire lights up Ryland’s nerves, and his pulse sings – there’s something unexpectedly dangerous about Simon letting him move his body around the way he wants.

He guides Simon to sit back against the couch, so his feet are planted on the floor, and swings a leg over his thighs. Simon gazes up at him as he settles awkwardly in his lap, knees pressing against his hips. Blood rushes to his face, and the scar across his nose flushes bright red.

“What about you?” Ryland winds his arms around Simon’s shoulders and scratches his nails against the sensitive skin of his neck, and Simon’s hand comes to rest on his waist. “What’s my baby thinking about?” Simon’s throat bobs as his breath hitches in his chest, and he stares up at Ryland. He’s so frickin’ cute.

“Thinkin’ about how to make you feel good,” he says and bounces his knee, so Ryland bounces along with it. The jolt sends Ryland sliding down his thigh and solidly into his lap and he can feel how big Simon is, all pressed up against him, heavy and tight and hard. Ryland knows he doesn’t feel the same, that he’s barely half-hard in his flight suit, and he hides his face in Simon’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into his shirt, and Simon’s hand flexes and grabs him hard. “I told you it sometimes takes a minute, but –”

“Sorry nothin’,” Simon groans, and his voice vibrates through his chest and into Ryland’s. “I said I’d work for it, and I meant it. As long as you’re good,” Ryland lifts his head, and Simon peers up at him – and Ryland swears he can see all the stars of the universe reflected back in the bottomless wells of his eyes. He cups Simon’s face in his hands and soothes his thumbs over his scruffy cheeks.

“I’m still good,” he promises and dips his head to slot their mouths together. Simon opens under him, and he licks over the sharp points of his teeth. His hand sneaks under Ryland’s shirt to trace over his spine, so the callouses on his palm catch on his sensitive skin. Ryland shudders, moans against Simon’s tongue, and buries his hands in his tangled hair.

Simon presses hard against his lower back until he grinds his half-hard cock against Simon’s. Something sharp and sweet builds in his belly, and he eagerly tries to chase that feeling. He burrows in close, locks his elbows around his shoulders, and tries to find a rhythm with his hips. It’s choppy and uncoordinated, and he whines as his eyes burn with frustrated tears.

This is so unfair – he’s finally feeling it, but his body won’t cooperate.

“Easy, easy,” Simon murmurs and rubs his thumb over the notches of his spine. “Lemme help.” He slips his hand down to brace Ryland’s hip and guide him through a slow, sinuous roll. That’s so much better. He falls into it, desperately working his thighs to find a steady pace. Ryland’s mouth drops open in a stuttering gasp, and he presses his forehead against Simon’s. “Feelin’ good?”

“Uh huh,” he breathes, eyes squeezed shut, and Simon laughs.

“All right. How’s this?” Simon shifts to nudge his leg more firmly between Ryland’s, and Ryland sobs at the sudden pressure against his throbbing cock. He digs his nails into his own arms and keens – he wants to climb into Simon’s ribs, make a nest behind his lungs, and prove to his derelict heart that he’s worthy of love. That he gets to have good things in his life and keep them.

“There you go, beautiful,” Simon rumbles against his ear. “Take what you need. I’m right here.” That sharp, sweet something in his belly crystallizes into a tight coil, and heat bubbles through his whole body. He turns his head and all but begs Simon for a kiss. Their tongues slip together, and Ryland snags his lip on the lupine cut of Simon’s teeth. Blood smears between their mouths in a sloppy, red-slick mess.

The coil in his belly winds tighter, and Simon slides his hand down to grab his ass. Ryland squeaks, and Simon swallows the sound with a satisfied growl. It’s never felt like this before – he’s usually stuck in his own head, desperately trying to prove that he’s worth keeping.

(He wants Simon to keep him.)

Here, now, suspended in the vast black of space, surrounded by an infinite sea of stars, Ryland doesn’t have to prove anything. He just gets to feel, and his whines reach a fever-pitch as he ruts against Simon’s thigh. And he’s chasing his own pleasure, frantic and staggering, even though it hurts, because he’s good – he’s so good – because Simon’s helping him through all of it.

“Come on, baby, you’re close. I know you are. You’re so fucking beautiful, Ryland, please let me see. Let me see you, sweetheart, show me how good you feel.”

Ryland sobs, fever-foggy and wanting, and his hips jerk. He should feel embarrassed – he doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his entire life, and what was he even doing before this? It’s like his body was just waiting for Simon, for this impossible, blood-soaked man to slip into his life. Like a knife between the ribs.

“Simon,” he pleads and tears slip down his flushed cheeks. “Please, I’m so close. I’m so clo–” Simon silences him with a harsh kiss and sucks his lower lip into his mouth until it’s tender-bruised and bleeding.

“I got you,” Simon snarls through his teeth, and Ryland writhes against his brutal, bruising grip, “I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m right here,” he yanks Ryland down to grind hard against his leg, and Ryland shrieks in the back of his throat. The coil in his belly snaps, and his hips buck against Simon’s grasp in hitching, jerky spasms as he comes. His ears ring, and his head drops back as he whines.

It takes him a minute to settle, and he fists his hands in Simon’s shirt with a stuttering moan. Simon gentles him through it, rubs up and down his back in slow, heavy strokes. Ryland lets himself sink into it with a satisfied hum – he’s boneless and useless, protected by the sturdy bulk of Simon’s body.

“You good?” Simon asks, and he nods wordlessly. All the blinking lights in his brain have gone off, and it’s going to take a second for everything to come back online. “Okay,” Simon laughs and threads his fingers through Ryland’s sweat-dark hair.

Ryland hums again, and his hands drop to play with the hem of Simon’s shirt. He worries his fingers over the stitching and lets his eyes slip shut. His thoughts have gone all fuzzy and soft, and he mouths at Simon’s neck without meaning to. Simon shifts under him, and his brow furrows – he must make some kind of unhappy noise, because Simon laughs under his breath.

“You take your time, sweetheart, we’re all good here.” He moves again, straightening out his legs, and Ryland has the sudden realization that Simon’s still hard. He hasn’t come yet. Ryland sits up, practically toppling out of his lap, and Simon wraps his arm around his waist to steady him. “Whoa, hang on there – you okay?”

“You didn’t –” Ryland scrambles to find his words and he presses his fists against Simon’s shoulders. “Let me – I have to. Simon, you didn’t get…” Simon stares at him in open confusion, brows furrowed with concern, and Ryland groans. “You didn’t come,” he whines, and Simon barks out a laugh, like it’s not the grave injustice that it is.

“That’s okay – I’m fine, sweetheart, really. This was more than enough. You don’t have to – Ryland!” Ryland wiggles free from Simon’s grasp and tumbles to the floor. He shoves himself between Simon’s knees – he’s desperate, goofy, and uncoordinated, but he’s committed. “Baby, stop, it’s okay. I promise.”

“No,” Ryland pouts and stares up at him, glasses askew and bangs sticking up in frantic tufts. “I want you to feel good. Can I? Please?” He braces his hands on Simon’s legs and digs his fingers into the thick muscles of his thighs. “Please?” He asks again and drops his head to rest against Simon’s knee. Simon threads his fingers through his messy hair, as he stares up at him with wide, wet eyes.

“You’re sure?” His stare is serious, but Ryland can see the shift – his breathing deepens into something heavy and wanting. Ryland nods, and Simon smiles down at him. He cups his face, rubs his cheekbone so his callouses scratch over the fever soft flush of his skin. “Okay, baby, whatever you want. Just don’t force yourself.”

Permission granted, Ryland narrows his gaze on Simon’s cock, thick and hard and straining against the front of his pants. It looks like it hurts. He glances up to find Simon watching him with dark, hooded eyes and leans forward to press a kiss to the tented fabric. He laves his tongue over the canvas stitching, and Simon inhales sharply.

Time to get to work.

He attacks the utilitarian zipper fly with a focus befitting his many degrees. He’s a wanton, feral thing – pure desire in the skin of a man – and he buries his face between Simon’s thighs. The smell of him is overwhelming, heady and masculine and so deeply personal, and Ryland inhales with great, greedy gulps. He’s going to be so bad at this. He knows it. He’s never sucked someone’s dick before, and all of his experiences on the receiving end were embarrassing, distracting ordeals.

He doesn’t want to be bad at this. But he probably will be.

But, he’s a firm believer in partial credit.

His fingers shake as he frees Simon’s cock from the confines of his flight suit, and Simon grits his teeth around a gravel-scraped moan. Ryland wonders what it’s going to take to get him loud. He takes a moment to study him. For purely scientific reasons, of course. He’s thick and heavy in Ryland’s hand, and he’s already dripping, slick and desperate, with precome.

What does he taste like, Ryland wonders. He nudges his glasses with his free hand, and Simon makes a choked-off, startled sound deep in his chest. Ryland needs more. He craves it. And Simon’s going to give it to him.

He lets his tongue fall out of his mouth and he licks a broad stripe along the underside of Simon’s cock, just to get used to the salt-musk taste of his skin. Simon inhales sharply and reaches behind his head to grab at the back of the couch. Ryland can hear the creaking furniture protest under his grip, and he smiles to himself.

Good. Let him lose control.

Ryland dives in, licking and sucking until Simon moans and his thighs tremble. There’s no art to this, and he doesn’t even try to fit his cock fully in his mouth. It’s too big, he’s not practiced enough but. One day. One day, he’s going to feel Simon in the back of his throat. For now, he hopes that his eager enthusiasm makes up for his novice technique. He smears an open-mouth kiss to the head of Simon’s cock, lets the tang of his precome settle on his tongue.

“Ryland, baby, please,” Simon begs, and Ryland hums so his whole body seizes. There’s no way he’s close, no way that Ryland’s clumsy affections are enough to get him off, but. Simon is shaking, and he’s staring at Ryland with unrestrained awe. Ryland holds his gaze and seals his lips around the head of his cock and sucks. Simon snarls, as he hollows his cheeks and purrs.

“Wait, wait, wait – Ryland, fuck!”

It’s the only warning he gets, and he pulls back just enough so he doesn’t choke as Simon comes on his face and in his open mouth. He’s a panting mess, sweaty and sticky with cum splattered on his cheeks and smeared across his glasses.

He’s breathing heavy, tongue practically hanging out, and he swallows noisily. Finally, he feels settled, and his head lolls – everything’s a little dreamy, a little hazy. He drapes his arm over Simon’s leg and rests his face on his hand with a drunken grin. Feeling suddenly shy, he glances up at Simon through his smudgy glasses.

And Simon is staring at down at him with an unrecognizable look on his face.

Ah, well. He knew it was gonna be bad. Clumsy, sloppy, couldn’t even use his mouth right. Basically made out with his dick for five minutes and called it a blowjob. No points for trying, he supposes. Ryland sniffs and wipes his hand across his face, which only makes the mess worse, as Simon reaches down to tuck himself back in his pants. Oh, maybe Ryland was supposed to do that. The quiet stretches between them, and Ryland fiddles with his fingers.

“Um, was that –” His voice comes out all raw and raspy, and he tries to clear his throat. The sound scrapes out of him, and he scrunches his nose in displeasure.

“You’re so fucking cute,” Simon reaches for him, and Ryland blinks up at him, dumb with confusion. Sighing fondly, Simon hooks his hand in Ryland’s collar and tugs. “Get up here,” he rasps, and Ryland follows willingly.

He’s all elbows as he scrambles gracelessly into his lap, but Simon helps him settle so he’s bracketing his hips in the cradle of his knees. He burrows himself under Simon’s chin, and Simon threads their fingers together and presses a kiss to the back of his hand. “You’re the best fucking thing in my life,” he mumbles against his skin.

Ryland preens under the attention and burrows into the steady warmth of Simon’s body. He winds his free arm around Simon’s waist and lets his fingers trace over the ladder of his spine. Simon shivers and presses his cheek to the top of Ryland’s head. It should probably feel weird, sitting all tangled together and just breathing in each other’s faces, but.

Something tender and yearning flips over in his chest – a small goldfish with unfurled fins, swimming against the current of a starless ocean. It must be his heart, asking the questions he doesn’t know how to.

Are you mine? Are you mine?

Am I yours?

Simon tucks their joined hands close to his body, and Ryland gets his answer.

Yes.