Chapter Text
Simon arrives precisely at ten am as promised; Grace is very casually vibrating off the kitchen stool closest to the door, shoes on, decidedly not watching the clock. The buzz of the intercom sounds through the loft and Grace yelps, nearly twisting his angle in the legs of the stool as he shoots up.
“Careful, honey,” Adrian says. They’re lounging on the couch, coffee in hand as they work through the crossword.
Grace shakes it off and ducks his head in front of the mirror near the door, running his hands through his hair. “Does my hair look okay?”
“It looks like it always does,” Adrian tells him, which Grace can’t help but note is not exactly a yes.
“That’s still my robe,” he says, just to be a bitch, and Adrian shrugs at him.
“Nine tenths of the law, and all that. Don’t make Simon wait! Your hair looks good, so stop worrying. And take a jacket, it’s supposed to rain around three.”
Grace shrugs on his raincoat and gives his hair one final pass. “Okay. Okay!” He says, and does a little shimmy to get the jitters out. “I’ll see you later, wish me luck.”
“We won’t wait up,” they grin at him, and shoo him out the door. “Now go!”
Simon sits on the low wall outside of their building, and Grace can’t help but think he looks unfairly cool. Most of the guys in San Francisco in work wear look like they’re trying too hard, but the utility pants and big jacket look good on Simon. Really good. Even better, in his hands he holds two thermoses.
He brightens and stands when Grace pushes open the door. “Hey, morning,” he tells Grace, and raises one of the cups. “You had coffee yet?”
“Yeah, three cups, so I’m right on track,” he says, making grabby hands at the thermos.
“That seems like too much coffee to me, but I’m not the doctor,” Simon hands over the cup.
Grace takes a grateful sip, and then another. “Oh my god? Did you make this?”
Simon nods, a little smug.
“It’s good. Wait, are you one of those guys who’s really into coffee?”
“I’m a normal amount of into coffee.”
“That’s what you would say if you were too into coffee,” Grace says, and takes another long drink. “But that’s not a complaint. This is great.”
“I’m glad you like it. Wanna get going?”
In the car, Simon pulls up his navigation app and hands his phone to Grace. “I’m pretty sure I know the way, once we get out of the city, but I might need some help until then,” he says.
Simon drives carefully through the morning traffic at Grace's direction, and soon they’re on the freeway, driving over the Golden Gate Bridge. He locks Simon’s phone and places it in the cup holders between them.
“Hey!” He points at the dashboard where there used to be a stereo shaped hole. “You put a radio in?”
“I finished restoring the original,” Simon glances at him, “wanna try it out?”
“Yeah, how do I”—
“Cassettes are in the glove box,” he points with his chin.
“Cassettes!” Grace rummages through them, “where did you even find cassettes!”
“I gotta guy.”
“You don’t have a cassette guy.”
“Thrift stores,” Simon admits.
Grace fishes out a recording of the Mamas and the Papas.. “Hey, I love these guys.” He pulls out a few more late sixties tapes, half of them new and still wrapped in cellophane. “Wow, I like a lot of these, actually.”
“You mentioned,” Simon tries to say it casual, “during dinner.”
Ryland feels the world sappiest grin stretch across his face. “Cool.” He picks out one of the tapes that’s already unwrapped, and starts poking at the stereo.
“Here,” Simon fishes a yellow pencil out from the cup holder. “You might have to rewind it, you use the end to”—
“I know how to rewind a cassette tape, Simon, they’re practically all we had at home growing up,” he laughs. “I was rewinding cassette tapes when you were a baby.”
Simon says something Grace doesn’t quite catch —“put that out on me”—
“Hmm?”
“Talking to myself,” Simon tells him, holding out his hand for the tape and popping it into the player. “Don’t mind me,” he smiles.
It’s not a long drive up to Muir Woods. They arrive, park, and they’re alone in the midst of massive redwoods by late morning.
“Alright Doc,” Simon says, gazing up. “Tell me some tree facts.”
“I don’t know any tree facts! Uh, trees big?”
Simon nods seriously. “Astute. I thought you were a biologist, what do you mean you don’t know tree facts?”
“Microbiologist,” Grace corrects, pinching his fingers together. “Emphasis on the micro. These guys have way too many cells for me.”
Simon chuckles and they walk in silence for a moment, carefully picking their way over the slick leaves and puddles that line the paved trail. Simon walks close to him, the back of his hand ever so often brushing Graces as they walk.
“You tell me a tree fact,” he says after a moment. “Isn’t this more your domain? Are redwoods good for furniture?”
Simon hooks his thumbs into his pockets and hums. “So redwood is mostly used for decks, actually. It’s too soft for furniture, it’ll get banged up easy.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Redwood is a soft wood, and it is soft, but the whole hardwood softwood classification isn’t really about the actual wood density, but how they reproduce. Softwoods are coniferous, and hardwoods have flowers.”
“You’re a brave man to get up in front of a class of eighth graders and talk about hardwood and reproduction.”
“Oh, I know,” he laughs. “Multiple classes of eighth graders.”
“Jeez,” Grace laughs too. “But that’s really interesting, about hardwoods and softwoods,” he says. “I mean, I know about pinecones and tree types, we do a whole unit on pollination, but I never really thought about them once they were turned into wood.”
“Yeah, it’s a cool process,” Simon says, “I got into processing my own wood a few years ago, after a storm knocked out an oak that barely missed my house. I made some cool stuff with it.”
“That’s unbelievably cool,” Grace tells him. “Lucky the tree— wait, house? You’re a home owner? But you’re so young?”
"I'm thirty seven,” he says. “Two glasses of wine knock me out for a week, and my back hurts like all the time.”
“Still!”
Simon holds up his prosthesis. “I wouldn’t say it was worth it, but financial stability softens the blow.”
Grace nods. “It is a really cool arm.”
“I think so too,” Simon smiles, “wanna see it in action?”
“Sure?”
Simon takes Grace's hand in his, interlacing their fingers as they walk. “Works pretty well, right?”
Grace grins, and nods so he doesn’t say anything too stupid.
“Okay, so I’m pretty sure, if memory serves, that Tree 76 is down this way,” Grace says, pulling Simon down a path by the hand. “It’s the biggest tree here, I think it’s like seven hundred years old?”
“You came here a lot as a kid?”
“Yeah, there are bigger and closer forests to where I grew up, but this one has the paths. My dad couldn’t get around too well when he got older, and the paved paths here were better for his cane, and then his chair.”
“When did he”—
“Grad school,” he says.
“Im sorry,” Simon tells him. “And your mom?”
“It was a long time ago. But thanks. My mom's still up in Ukiah,” he says, “she runs the community garden up there like the navy.”
“She sounds like a fun time.”
“What about your— no, sorry, never-mind,” he corrects quickly. Simon had clammed up at the diner the last time Grace had brought up family, so maybe this is too heavy for a first (Second?? Oh god.)
“Do you”— he starts again, and flounders. Now he can’t think of a single normal question to ask Simon in return.
“It’s okay,” Simon tells him, hand twitching where it still rests in Graces. “It’s the sort of thing that comes up, and I guess it’s probably better to talk about it sooner rather than later.”
“About you parents?”
“About my whole,” he gestures vaguely in the air, “deal. So I did grown up on a farm,” Simon tells him, “that part is true.”
“Okay…”
“It was also… very religious.”
Grace is doing his best to not put on his mandated reporter face, but the alarm bells sure are loud.
“How religious? Like they didn’t like you learning about evolution in high school science or…”
“I didn’t go to high school,” Simon admits. “The kids were needed on the farm, so I got pulled out of school when I was ten.”
“Oh. And your parents?”
“Never met my dad, and my mom passed when I was really little.” He’s looking up at the canopy now, avoiding Grace’s eyes. “I was mostly raised by the… group.”
Grace furrows his brow, thinking, and he looks like he’s connecting the dots a little faster than Simon had hoped he would.
“And you said you’re from... Vermont, right?”
Simon grimaces. “Yeah.”
“Oh, oh! That cu— were you raised in Sons of Eden?”
“Yeah,” he nods, eyes shut.
“I remember that!” Grace says, trying to keep his voice even, “weren’t there a ton of arrests a while back?”
“I was long gone by then, offshore,” he says.
“Wow. Good. Wow. Okay.” Grace’s brain isn’t working. He’s not sure how to handle all of this. “And you’re… good?” Christ, what a ridiculous question to ask. “I mean, you’re safe?” This is way beyond his area of expertise. He’s seen movies, but how accurate can movies about this sort of thing really be? “There’s not, like, I don’t know, guys coming after you?”
Simon's grimace breaks into a small smile as he can’t help but chuckle at him. “No, there are no guys, Grace. The group is totally disbanded now. I mean, I’m sure there are still a few nut jobs in Vermont who still pray to the trees, but I’m okay.”
“Okay. Okay, cool,” Grace says, trying to get his emotions under control. If someone tells you about their tragic backstory, it feels gouache to make it all about you. “Wait,” he says, face paling as the thought occurs to him, “was your arm really”—
“No, that part was all true. When I left I took the first offshore job I could find, and rigs that hire sixteen year olds pretending to be eighteen don’t usually follow all the other rules either.”
“Simon I— can I hug you?”
Simon nods, his mouth presses into a thin line, and then Grace wraps his arms around him. Simon is broader than him, but a little shorter too, and his chin fits so neatly into the crook of Grace’s neck. He smells like sawdust and motor oil and soap. Grace rubs his hands down Simon’s back, and he very respectfully does not notice the solid planes of his shoulders through the jacket. Wowza yowza. “Thanks for telling me,” he says after a moment, and gives Simon a squeeze before he pulls away.
Simon keeps his hands loose on Grace's forearms.
“Thanks for listening,” he says, and Grace can feel his eyes prick with tears.
“Jeez,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face, “sorry, I”— but Simon’s eyes are shining too.
“It’s okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats, sniffing, and then he blinks hard and smiles. “Would seeing a really, really, big tree help?”
Simon's face cracks into a warm, wide grin. “I really think that it would.”
“It is a really, really, big tree,” Simon says after a long few moments. They’re sat on a bench, staring up at her when Simon checks his watch and stands.
“Ready for a late lunch?” He asks, holding out his hands to Grace, who takes it.
“Absolutely, I think the cafe is down that way”—
“What? No, I’m not treating you to a soggy prepackaged sandwich,” he smiles. “Lemme cook you lunch?”
Simon drives them back towards the city, but then keeps going, turning down a wooded path south of San Francisco.
“It’s a little farther out, but not too much,” he explains. “I like the peace and quiet.”
The house is an older build, one story and wooden, with large windows that open up to the trees outside. They slip their shoes off in the entry, and Simon takes his coat, and hangs it on an honest to god hanger in an actual closet. He leads the way into the kitchen, and gestures for Grace to take a seat at the island while he turns and starts pulling things out of the refrigerator. It’s a wide open space, but still cozy, all clean lines and warm wood. As if to underscore his thoughts, there’s a soft crack of thunder outside, and rain starts to patter on the skylight.
“Man, Adrian was right,” Grace says, pulling out his phone to check the time— and it’s dead. “Sorry, do you have a charger I can borrow? I don’t want Rocky and Adrian to worry if I don’t text back and”—
“Sure, hang on.” Simon pads out of the room and returns a moment later, holding a small pouch. “What type,” he asks, "I have USB C, micro, eight pin,” he lists, sorting through the compartments.
“C, please,” Grace says, and Simon hands it over.
Grace watches him work for a moment. Simon cracks eggs into a bowl one handed, salts and whisks them.
“That’s just showing off,” Grace says, and Simon grins.
“A little.”
“You’re just so… I don’t know,” Grace says, searching for the word. “You have a coat closet and you organize your cables, even your socks are matching! I wore two different colored shoes on Thursday and didn’t notice until my third period pointed it out!”
Simon laughs. “Were they at least the same type of shoe?”
“No! That’s the thing!”
Simon laughs some more, and shrugs. “I like things tidy. I realized that after, you know, everything,” he waves with his left arm as he sets a pan on the stove to heat, “that having everything in order helped.”
“That makes sense,” Grace nods. “It's impressive. I can’t seem to ever get it together.”
“I think you have it plenty together,” Simon tells him. “Sometimes I feel a little bit… rigid, I guess.”
Grace hums noncommittally. “Maybe. But anyway, what’s for lunch?”
“Ever had a French omelette?”
Grace lights up. “I’ve paid twenty dollars for one at the cafe down the street from my house.”
“I can cut you a deal, first date special.”
Simon swirls the eggs in the pan, scraping at the sides, and before Grace knows it, Simon is sliding a plate across the counter to him.
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” Grace tells him, because it really is.
“Try it,” Simon says, turning back to the stove to make another. “Don’t wait on me, it’ll get cold.”
Grace does what he’s told, and tries not to swoon when he takes a bite. “Holy guacamole,” he says, and Simon laughs at him.
“That good, huh?”
“It’s so good,” Grace says around his fork, trying to get as much egg into his mouth as possible. Simon looks at him with a fondness that’s almost as good as the omelette, and plates up another, joining him at the island.
“So,” Graces says, coming up for air. “Can I ask again how you got into teaching? The real story?”
“That was all true,” Simon says. “I did look after the younger kids on the farm. Cult. Cult- farm. I got my GED while I was working, and went to school once I was mostly recovered. Wait, hang on, drink? What can I get you to drink?”
Grace grins. “More of that coffee, maybe?”
“It’s nearly four, Ryland, you can have decaf,” Simon tells him, “I can’t be responsible for you having a heart attack.”
“Fine, decaf,” Grace says, sitting up a little straighter to watch Simon make the coffee. “How do you make it so good?”
“You grind the beans fresh,” he says, flicking on his kettle as he measures out the coffee. “And then you weigh the grounds.”
“That sure seems like a lot of steps.”
“It’s two.”
“Yeah, but sometimes the pre-ground stuff comes with its own little scoop.”
“Stop, stop,” Simon says, pulling out a scale. “My machine tastes best with sixty- seven grams, by the way. Just so you're aware. If you ever wanted to make coffee.”
“Good to know,” Grace smiles, and mimes taking notes.
“God, dork,” Simon tells him warmly, waiting for the machine to finish before he pours two cups, and passes one to Grace.
He cups his hands around the warm mug, closing his eyes for a moment. “This is so nice,” he says, “and I’m so full of eggs. I might fall asleep.”
“How about a movie instead?”
“I’m serious, Simon, if I sit on your couch there’s a good chance I’m taking a nap.”
“It’s a good couch,” Simon shrugs. “Or I’m happy to drive you home! But if you want, maybe movie instead?”
“Movie,” Grace says after a moment. He stretches, setting down his coffee and gently slapping his face. “Okay, I’m awake again. Lemme at least clean up first, since you cooked”—
He stops and looks around at the kitchen. With the exception of their dirty plates, the kitchen is just as clean as when they arrived. He’s managed to do what has never been done at Grace’s house, despite great effort in collaboration from Rocky and Adrian, which is cleaning as he cooked.
“I got a dishwasher,” Simon says, picking up their plates and depositing them in the sink, “come on.”
Grace joins Simon on the low leather couch, sitting what he estimates to be an intimate yet normal distance away from him. Simon smirks at him. Maybe he’s not great at estimating.
“What do you want to watch?” He asks, and suddenly Grace has never seen a single movie in his life.
“Uhhh”
“What do you put on at home when you’re sick?”
“Lord of the Rings,” he says, instantly.
“Never seen it.”
“What! How!”
“If it had wizards in it, I couldn’t watch it when I was a kid. I started working through a lot of those top hundred movies lists when I was on my own”—
“Lord of the Rings is on, like, all those lists.”
—“But I skipped Lord of the Rings because it seemed… boring.”
“It’s not”— Grace starts, and then stops himself. “It's okay, I’m normal,” he says as much to himself as to Simon. “We totally don’t have to watch it.”
“No, now I wanna watch it. Maybe I’m wrong,” he says, grabbing the remote and navigating through the tv menu. He props his feet up on the coffee table and slouches, stretching his arm over the back of the couch.
“You can come closer, if you want,” Simon tells him, eyes glued to the screen. “It is a date.”
Grace does want, so he shimmies closer, and tucks himself into Simon’s side as the opening credits begin.
Grace wakes an indeterminate time later, his head on Simon’s thigh and Simon’s fingers gently petting his hair. It’s still barely light out, but the sun is nearly dark behind the clouds. Rain beats steadily on the windows, and Simon has dimmed the lights to a golden glow and turned the volume down low.
“Wha?”
“Good nap?” Simon asks from above him, stilling his fingers. Grace hums and stretches, and twists where he lays to look up at Simon.
“Yeah, I haven’t been sleeping enough, I guess.”
“Probably the four pm coffees,” Simon says, and Grace shakes his head.
“No, that can’t be it.” He turns to glance at the screen. “Do you like the movie?”
Simon bites his lip in a grimace. “It’s well made, I”—
“You can say no!”
“Ryland, it’s so boring. I’m so sorry, but it is.”
“It’s a classic!”
“Sure, but even you fell asleep in the middle,” Simon points out. “You had a whole nap, and this movie still isn’t over.”
“I”— Regrettably, Simon makes a strong point. “Okay, not your thing,” he concedes, “maybe it was a bad pick”—
“No, I’m still having a great time,” Simon assures him, his fingers combing through Grace’s bangs. “This is a good date,’ he smiles.
“Do you keep repeating that this is a date because I had a hard time figuring it out at first?”
“I’m just making sure we’re all on the same page,” Simon grins down at him. And Grace has to admit, it’s not a bad tactic. Clear and open communication is a turn-on.
“People often kiss on dates,” Grace starts, and Simon nods.
“It’s been known to happen,” he agrees.
“Can I,” Grace starts to ask, but Simon cuts in.
“Ryland, come here.”
He struggles up gracelessly (hah) to more of a seated position, half in Simon’s laps sideways with his hand on Simon’s shoulder. Simon cups his jaw with one hand, his other at Grace's hip, and places a firm kiss on his lower lip.
“Good?” He pulls back slightly to ask, but Grace closes the gap, kissing him again. It’s very good, he thinks.
Simon seems to think so too, hooking his fingers in Grace's belt loops to pull him closer as he licks gently into Grace's mouth, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Grace whines low in a way that he can’t remember ever doing before, and shifts, slinging a leg over Simon and sinking into his lap. He feels hands trace up his back and down his spread thighs as Simon breaks to mouth at his neck, and he can help but roll his hips in a way that makes Simon’s fingers dig into the soft at his hips. He ghosts his hands up Grace's sides, fumbling with the hem of his shirt and stroking his thumbs over bare skin when suddenly, Grace jerks and pulls back.
“Wait!” he gasps, pink faced, his hands on Simon’s shoulders. Simon hovers his hands immediately. “I don’t want to have sex,” he says.
“O...kay,” Simon smirks at him, eyebrows raised as he looks between their fully clothed chests, “I didn’t know that we were.”
“No, I,” Grace scrubs his hands over his face, “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I’m not a sex-on- the- first-date kinda guy. Or even on the third date, sometimes. Sex is… it’s hard for me.”
Simon snickers under him, and Grace flexes his thighs, which actually does not have the desired effect of getting the conversation back on track.
“Hard emotionally,” he clarifies, trying to give Simon a dirty look.
Simon smiles up at him, soft. “Got it. Is this okay?” He looks between them, and when Grace nods, settles his hands back on Grace’s hips over his shirt.
“It just takes me a while to get there. Emotionally. Physically too, actually, but mostly emotionally. I— sorry, I know it’s weird, I”— Grace starts to say, but Simon squeezes his hips.
“Ryland, I have so many hang ups about sex,” he grins, and Grace gives a small smile.
“Really?”
“An unbelievable amount,” he says. “Raised in a religious cult, the occasional body image stuff,” he gestures to the scars that criss- cross his face and run down his neck. “The works. I’m not in a rush, is what I’m saying. I get it.”
Grace smiles wider and runs his hands along Simon’s shoulders. “I'm liable to cry, sometimes, during,” he confides.
“I think being in touch with your emotions is hot,” Simon grins, cheeky. “I might get weird and need lots of reassurance after,” Simon tells him, and Grace beams.
“I never shut up,” he says.
“Then it sounds like this might work,” Simon tells him, rubbing his thumb across his hip.
“I think so,” Grace leans down and plants a single kiss on his lips. Simon sighs, and looks up at him with dark eyes so deep and lovely, he can’t bring himself to care about falling in.
“Spend the night,” he says. “Not for sex. I even have a spare room if you want. Hang out. We can order dinner.”
Grace does not want the spare room. "I don't want the spare room."
“Cool. Good. I want to finish your boring-ass movie,” he says.
“It probably won’t get any more interesting,” Grace warns him, and Simon threads his arms around Grace’s low back and pulls him even closer.
“I don’t actually plan on watching it,” he grins, and Grace laughs, and tries to untangle himself from Simon’s arms.
“Okay! I’ll stay,” he says, “but I gotta text Rocky and Adrian that I won’t be home.”
There are a few kisses and false starts, but eventually Grace manages to stagger to the kitchen and turn on his phone. It buzzes with missed texts, and he opens the group chat he has with Rocky and Adrian.
4:38 Rocky: @Grace eta?
5:18 Rocky: Grace alive?
5:18 Rocky: Too bad my best friend and roommate fell off the trail and perished
5:19 Rocky: @Adrian, should we turn Grace's room into a home gym or something weirder?
5:19 Adrian: weirder
6:02 Rocky: Graceeeewwweeeee
6:48 Grace: Hi sorry I’m alive my phone died :^)
6:48 Rocky: I miss him so much it’s like I can still hear his voice
6:48 Grace: Dint turn my room into a gym
6:48 Grace: Don’t*
6:48 Grace: Also don’t wait up after all
6:49 Grace: I’m staying at Simon’s tonight
6:49 Adrian: So your hair DID look okay?
6:49 Grace: :^)