Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Simon opened his eyes to the most beautiful sight he'd seen since he'd been welded into that awful death trap.

It was The Last Tree. Green and bright and graceful, towering over him and shading him under its ethereal canopy.

Simon made some sort of joke in his head about the wording, because, maybe even more divine to him (though he knew that was a blasphemous thought) was the picture of the man, Ryland Grace, utterly tangled in her roots.

Simon stood there a moment, mouth slightly agape, as Ryland caught sight of him and started. "Hey, could you, uh, maybe help me out here?" The man stuttered nervously, eyeing Simon's automatically tense stance and cruel scowl.

Simon was lurching forward before he had even decided to, kneeling down quickly beside Ryland, who was slumped in what looked like an extremely uncomfortable position with his back against the tree and both his arms flung out to the sides and secured in immovable roots. Before Simon could even think of what to do to free him, though, the dream already had the roots slowly creaking back to life and leisurely slithering off of Ryland back to the base of the tree.

"Oh," Ryland blinked, drawing his arms back to himself and sitting up, "that works."

Simon stared into the pools of blue that looked nervously back at him from just a few inches away. "Do you… remember me?" Simon asked.

It had been too long since he'd last slept. The strange bangings and groanings and beepings of the sub keeping him awake with anxious knots under his skin he couldn't seem to get rid of. The last time they'd shared a dream Simon had forgotten Ryland, like an idiot. Had been prickly and short and had pulled back and flinched. Had lost a chance at contact, a chance to touch—

God, it had felt like a sickness after he'd woken up from that, after feeling gentle hands after so long, then realizing you had squandered an opportunity, and then not being able to just SLEEP—

Simon very, very rarely cried, but he had come close when he remembered the phantom fingers carding through his hair, those soft cheeks that he'd cupped in his hands, the ever so gentle, ever so light brush of skin against skin that didn't hurt—

He needed that again. He needed it more than oxygen, more than air. He needed it to keep him sane in that hellhole, and he'd be damned if he let another opportunity slip through his fingers.

The other just looked confused at Simon's question for a moment, but then furrowed his brow. "I… maybe? Have I—"

"We've shared three dreams," Simon interrupted quickly, heart beating fast. "I was a prisoner, then you were on a medical cot, then we were in… I think you called it a classroom?"

Ryland's eyes finally lit up with recognition, and Simon's whole body nearly went slack. "Simon!"

Simon all but threw himself onto the man, then, gripping around his waist tightly and stuffing his face into his chest as little sobs wracked his body.

He was back. It was okay. He was safe. He was with him. He wasn't alone, not alone, not alone.

Ryland gave a little "Oof!" with the impact, but, surprisingly, didn't immediately shout in anger and shove Simon off of him. Instead, even stranger, he gently wrapped his own arms around Simon's back, rubbing softly up and down, and placed his head on top of Simon's, in his hair, with a grateful(?!) hum. Simon gave an involuntary shiver, but somehow it felt… nice. Good. Simon pressed closer.

Ryland chuckled at that— a sweet, soft, high sound tinting the air with vocal glitter, but it snapped Simon out of his stupor. He immediately pulled back, releasing Ryland's waist and shoving himself back to put more space between them, panic hammering hard in his chest.

No. No no no!

How did he think he could just do that?! After Simon had gripped a knife while Ryland had struggled helplessly, after Simon had questioned him and shouted and yelled, after Simon had forgotten him.

After all of that, Simon had the audacity to throw himself on the man without asking, without apology, without warning?

What if Simon had just sealed the deal? One last act that convinced the man never to touch him again. Maybe he'd be too scared, maybe he'd be too angry, but it didn't matter— Simon would never feel the gentle touch again until he died on that execution of a mission, probably slowly, probably painfully.

Simon didn't know why he needed it so badly, but he did. And so he threw himself down in front of the man, folded over almost like he was praying— to apologize. To beg. To do whatever it took.

"I- I'm-" he stuttered with a catching breath, his hands shaking violently as he squeezed them into fists under himself, "I'm so sorry. Please, I'm so sorry. I-" He didn't know what to say. He never did. Not even when he needed to most. "Please," he whispered, "please, just—" He gulped and took a shivering breath. "Please, I need it, I need you, I need—"

A hand in his hair, and Simon went boneless with relief, hiccuping out a little sob. And then an angelic voice in his ear, "Whoa, whoa, it's okay. You're okay," it soothed in musical tones. "You need this?"

Ryland drew himself around Simon, one arm resting on his back and the other in his hair drawing to the nape of his neck as he rested his head on the back of Simon's shoulder. Everything in Simon went limp, and he thinks he might've whimpered as his hands scrabbled for a hold, and in response Ryland drew Simon's head into his lap and his arms around his waist again. Simon let out a pleased hum as Ryland once again scratched Simon's scalp, and he drew his head up to rest on the man's chest again. Simon dared to rub his thumbs over the other's torso where his hands rested, and was rewarded with a shiver.

"So this is what you needed?" Ryland asked into where he rested his head into Simon's hair again.

"Mhm," Simon mumbled into his shirt.

Ryland was quiet for a moment, before finally speaking in a low, almost, apologetic tone, "I needed this too."

Simon is surprised for only a moment, before he remembered how desperate he looked in their first interaction, and then immediately panicked again at another revelation. He lifted his head up to questioning blue eyes.

"I-" he stumbled, trying desperately to find the words. "Then shouldn't I be touching you, too?"

The other blinked, pink rushing hurriedly to his cheeks to match what Simon is sure his looked like. "You-you aretouching me," he stammered, glancing downward to indicate Simon's hands.

Simon huffed frustratingly. "No, I mean-" and yet again what he was trying to convey escaped him, so he stared agitatedly down for a moment before finally deciding, once again, to just show him. Simon brought his hands up hesitantly to the man's face, waiting for a moment as Ryland stared wide-eyed at them before making up his mind and cupping his cheeks.

Ryland's eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into the touch with a seemingly involuntary soft noise of bliss. "Like this," Simon almost forgot to whisper, too lost in the reaction.

"Yes," Ryland mumbled into where he turned his face into Simon's palm. The motion made Simon's heart skip a beat and a shudder run pleasantly down his spine. "Yeah, you should touch me, too."

They stayed like that for a while, simply feeling and being felt, before Simon's mind supplied that this would be much comfier on pillows or in a bed and the dream suddenly granted what seemed like a nest of pillows and blankets with a plush mattress underneath. Neither were expecting the shift, so when it happened they both gripped onto the other as they landed in the heap, Ryland gave a little yelp, and they toppled over with Simon ending up almost on top of the other. Simon's face quickly heated as he scrambled off, but Ryland only giggled and grabbed his waist to try to playfully drag him back down to lay right next to him. Simon exhaled his own laugh as he let him, dropping down next to the other and finding their faces only inches away.

His mind quickly latched onto the twin pools, closer than they'd ever been before, and everything else faded away. Ryland seemed to do the same, smile fading into slightly open-mouthed revere, which was frankly absurd given he was looking at Simon. The only thing that slid through the fog that started to settle pleasantly over Simon's mind then was Ryland's hand, coming up to cup his cheek. To stroke it and mold it in open wonder. Almost automatically Simon's hands moved too, and one found Ryland's other set of fingers which he hesitantly tangled in his own, looking to the other to make sure. He got a smile sweeter than honey and a gentle squeeze of his hand in return. Encouraged, Simon started to migrate his other, paused and second-guessed himself, started again, paused again, and then finally wrapped a shivering hand around Ryland's waist. In getting eyes that fluttered shut and a hum of bliss in return, Simon dared to then use the grip to pull Ryland closer, closer, closer, until Simon was able to tuck his head into the crevice of his neck and slip a leg over Ryland's own, letting out a sigh of complete contentment.

At the movement Ryland retaliated, shimmying one of his legs in between Simon's and tucking an ankle around his heel, trying to get every and any point of contact. Simon agreed, and tried, impossibly, to wiggle closer, pressing his face sharply into Ryland's bare collarbone and inhaling. (Their shuffling had skewed his shirt to expose that and most of Ryland's stomach, and Simon's had done much the same.)

Ryland sighed and Simon felt his hand slip into Simon's hair again, tugging gently at the delicate strands. Simon let out a returning rumble.

They stayed like that for a long, long time, pressed as close as a being could be to another, fingers running through hair or over hands or clutching waists closer. They stayed like that until their heartbeats slowing and fading to a wondrous synchronized rhythm, sharing each intake and outtake of breath with another being who cared, another being who didn't hurt.

It was an outright miracle.

Simon had been given an angel.

He let himself drown in it, the silence that wasn't silence (it was the cadence of Ryland's breaths), the boredom that wasn't boring (he would lay there forever, practically melded into the other man), but eventually a hushed, melodic voice swept gently through the fog gently enveloping his mind. "I should probably tell you my backstory, now," it whispered into his hair. "It's only fair— you told me yours last time."

Simon chuckled. "That's because I was trying to convince you I was actually real," he rasped. Ryland flinched.

"I-I'm so sorry about that, I—"

Simon shushed him petulantly, the air against his collarbone making him shiver, he hoped, pleasantly. "S'fine," Simon murmured, "don't worry about it." He dislodged his head from the crevice of Ryland's neck, making him whine. Simon laughed again, instead moving a hand to the spot as recompense as Simon turned his head upwards toward those azure eyes. "I am interested in that… uh… backstory, though," he said hesitantly, averting my eyes at the last second.

Ryland beamed, then faltered. "It's, ah, actually a little complicated, so if I start rambling, uh please stop me." His face turned a shade of red that made Simon let out another rumbling chuckle.

"Alright."

Simon couldn't say he understood all of it (that he was able to comprehend any of it was a miracle with his education, but somehow Ryland explained it so well), but Simon understood enough to be horrified. The astrophage, the having to volunteer to go on a suicide mission, ending up alone, having to make first contact with an alien— Ryland wasn't that physically strong, sure, but he was stronger then Simon ever gave him credit for. When he was finished there was so many questions he could ask, but his brain, of course, decided to blurt his first thought.

"So these, what, bugs?—"

"Eh, yeah, pretty much—"

"—are eating the stars?!"

Ryland nodded. "But we're trying to fix it!! Rocky and I are on our way to Adrian right now, and we're gonna figure out what's making the astrophage not breed, or killing it, or whatever's happening."

Simon hummed. "You're going to do it. You're going to figure it out."

Ryland blinked at him, brows drawing in confusion. "How… How do you know that?"

Simon took a deep breath, focusing all his attention to the pools of beauty above him and— "I don't know. I just know."

He could feel it in his bones. He could feel it deep in his chest. Somehow, the thought of Ryland not succeeding was just impossible, preposterous.

Ryland chuckled, and it reverberated through Simon pleasantly. "Well, thank you." Simon hummed in response, eyes suddenly nearly slipping closed. Ryland glittered the air with a giggle again, and brushed a hand over Simon's forehead. "Getting sleepy, moonlight?" He murmured. Simon's eyes slipped open again, suddenly wide at the nickname. Ryland tightened immediately. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to I just—"

Simon slipped a petulant hand over the man's mouth. "Shut up, angel," he huffed softly. The other blushed and looked away, but Simon felt a smile bloom under his palm. "But, yeah," he sighed, settling in a little closer. "I'm get'n a little tired…"

Ryland gently slipped Simon's hand off of his mouth and captured it in his own grip. "Then sleep, moonlight. I'll watch over you," he whispered, and Simon had the fleeting thought that this man spoke more softly to him than anyone had in his life.

"Thanks," he mumbled, the curtains of sleep already pulling heavily at his eyes when Angel suddenly began to hum a soft, melodic, almost liquid tune.

That was the last straw.

The last thing he heard was the ringing of his angel's lilting voice in his ears and his impossibly soft fingertips drawing ethereal symbols into his palm before he was blinking awake.

Simon let out a long breath, utter relief breezing from the sigh. He let his eyes close again, a smile just tugging at his lips.

If that, that touch, that sound, that gaze, was all he would get before he died, if that was all he would ever get again…

Simon thinks…

Simon thinks he'd be okay.

Simon thinks he'd be okay with that.

Simon was wrong.