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“Whoa!” Grif yelped as he felt the tight grip of the Meta’s hand on his ankle, and his body was yanked towards the ground and the cliff.
Simmons’s eyes went wide under his helmet, and yelled out the other’s name as he dove forward. His arm extended to try and catch the orange-suited man, and their hands clasped each other dearly, holding on for dear life.
Both of Grif’s hands went to Simmon’s one hand, the maroon’s other hand gripping the hard snow to keep himself from falling as well. They both shared a look when Grif started slipping, and Simmons desperately gripped him tighter to keep him up. No, he couldn’t let him fall. This was his best friend, his love, he could not let go.
But of course, gravity won out, and Grif slipped from Simmons’s hand and immediately started screaming. “Grif!” Simmons yelled loudly, as if that would be enough to stop gravity and give him back his best friend. It wasn’t, and Grif’s screams soon faded out.
Simmons slowly pushed himself up to standing, his form shaken and rattled. “He’s… gone.”
“Yes, Grif is dead. It’s a sad day. But he died as he lived! Flat on his belly and trying to get someone else to do his work for him. He will be missed. Until we get a replacement. And then forgotten immediately!”
Simmons doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t acknowledge that Sarge even said anything. His voice drips with hardly choked-back sadness as he says, “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“You know,” Tucker piped up from the background, trying to help out, “sometimes when someone falls off a cliff in movies, he’s actually just over the edge hanging on a tree branch or something.”
“Nope. He’s definitely dead,” Sarge said, shaking his head.
“Maybe we should look, just in case,” Simmons replied, staring at the last place he saw his best friend, getting his hopes up that maybe his friend isn’t dead.
“I think looking would get our hopes up. Grif wouldn’t like that. Grif would have wanted our expectations to be as low as possible. Let’s honour him by not looking, and then have a nice one.” The rest of the words fall on deaf ears. Simmons desperately wants to look, but his fucking Daddy issues were stopping him from disobeying Sarge.
“Are you sure? I can just peak right over the edge,” He half-pleads.
“Sounds like a waste of time.”
“Wouldn’t even take a second.”
“Nope.”
Simmons couldn’t take it. He flipped Sarge the bird before rushing to the edge, looking over.
His heart dropped into his stomach at the sight.
There it was, the orange armour Simmons had grown to love, laying on a broken piece of ice, limp and unmoving. Simmons watched, hoping, waiting for the man in the armour to make some sign of life. He waited for what seemed like forever for the man below to make a wave, a groan, to get up and move,something. But it didn’t happen. Instead, Grif’s body slid off the ice and into the ocean, floated for a second, then slowly sunk down, weighed down by the heavy armour and weapons.
Sarge and Tucker peered over the edge just in time to see Grif’s armour be swallowed by the freezing waters, and a frown formed on both their faces.
No one said a word. Simmons was glad for that, because it would be impossible to cover up the breaks in his voice or the fact that his face was now wet with tears. I didn’t even get to tell him I loved him. He’ll never know. Simmons mind was a broken record, replaying those two sentences with an occasional he’s gone thrown in there. He felt like an anvil was resting on his chest, crushing him slowly and torturously, not being kind enough to kill him and put him out of his misery.
Sarge, no matter how he acted or treated Grif, did care about him. He thought of Grif as a son, and that’s why he got so mad at him most of the time. Never did Sarge think he would be here, having just watched the man die in front of his face without him trying to help save him. He failed Grif, he failed himself as a sergeant, and most of all he failed Simmons. He knew about the man’s feelings, it was easy to see they were in love, just too shy to really admit it to each other, so he knew the maroon-armoured soldier was having a hard time with this.
The southerner kneeled down next to Simmons, one hand clasping his shoulder. “C’mon, Simmons,” he said softly, being easy and careful with the shock-stricken man. “Let’s go.”
Simmons thought briefly of jumping over the edge to join Grif, but he pushed it out of his mind and just nodded. It didn't stop him from taking his time to stand up, however. It took a lot of effort to stand up, and even more effort that he didn’t know he had to actually walk away from the scene.
Which leads to now. It’s been several years since the death of Grif. Simmons has never been the same. He doesn’t kiss ass any more, because Grif isn’t there to tease him about it. He can’t look at Oreos or alcohol without thinking of Grif. Orange reminds him of Grif. Everything he does, everything he says, reminds him of the man he had grown to love, respect, and miss.
Simmons is back to the same spot on Sidewinder that ruined his life all those years ago, sitting on the ledge and looking down. It is all solid and mostly fixed up now, but the ice is jagged and sticking up everywhere. Along with the ice sticking up, there are cracks in the ice, still Grif’s body under the ice, still the place where his life completely changed for the worst. After that day, Simmons lost the will to live, the fight to go on each and every day, but he hadn't been taken by the war like he hoped he would have been.
“I miss you, Grif,” he murmurs softly, pulling his helmet off and setting it in his lap. His tears stained his hot face, bitten by the sharp coldness of the planet around him. The tears on his face started to freeze slightly, but his burning cheeks kept them from freezing fully, and it hurts him. He doesn't want to feel pain any more. He doesn't want to continue to fight against the world and against himself just to move each day. Simmons is tired of it all. He tries to wipe his eyes and his cheeks free from the tears, but he’s already cried so much that he is now just smearing the wetness around on his face.
Simmons starts talking to the man that has been gone for several years now, catching the dead man up to speed. Hours, he sat there, talking to Grif, telling him all about everything. “Caboose, Tucker, and Wash are well. Church was upgraded to sergeant, like I am. I'm a sergeant alongside Sarge, because I don’t want to leave his side.” he finished, fidgeting with the helmet in his lap. “I didn't want to leave his side.” Simmons corrects himself. “I'm leaving him now. I never thought I’d make it this far without you. I never imagined my life without you, especially in the army, and I hate it. I hate living without you. There’s no point any more. So now, I'm going to join you.”
He places his weapon on the ground, and slides his helmet back on. He then stands up and slowly backs away from the ledge, then runs towards it at full speed, launching himself off the ledge as far as possible.
Simmons couldn't live without his best friend, without the love of his life.
Sarge finds his gun laying on the edge an hour later, he understands what happened.
Simmons finally hit his breaking point.