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When he sees Simmons again his heart jumps, like, a million times, like when he’s swallowed three meth-mushrooms whole and the burst of energy roars through his veins.
It’s enough to make him stumble forward and – geez, the world takes a tumble again because the world is too weak and slow to handle a handful of mushrooms and some poor life decisions. Stupid world. But eventually it pulls itself together again, and his vision becomes actual shapes instead of blurs.
Maybe Simmons hadn’t been wrong when he’d said that the meth-mushrooms were gonna kill him. But, hell, better than starving to death, right? So fuck you, Simmons.
Actually, no, not fuck you, Simmons. Not when he’s actually here. And he didn’t even call first.
“Simmons,” he says, a bit breathless ‘cause his lungs haven’t woken up from that past-past-midday nap.
He mustn’t have seen him yet, ‘cause his helmet snaps towards him in surprise, and he’s so, so maroon, it’s awesome.
Even better – when Grif throws his arms around him, Simmons is solid beneath his touch, solid and real. Oh shit, is he hallucinating again? Wait, he’s done that before, a lot actually, and his hands have always gone through them. ‘sides, that Simmons always yelled at him when he’d tried to hug him.
But this Simmons – Simmons Simmons – doesn’t yell at him.
He does shove Grif to the floor.
But that’s, you know, to be expected. Simmons doesn’t like all the touch-and-feel stuff. Makes him all nervous and red-faced. Kinda cute, actually. He hadn’t been bothered by all the hugging and squeezing and, well, more, during the temple fun time. But that’d been the temple’s fault, of course. No one in their right mind would have liked that, the hugs and kisses and the fucking noises they’d made, with Grif. Pfft.
‘sides, it’s totally fine that Simmons doesn’t want Grif touching him. It’s fine. Bueno. Like, who wants to hug a guy who told you he doesn’t like you? And who, like, put extra effort into making that sentence sound super serious and not the usual “Oh-how-I-hate-you-you-asshole” banter? No one. No one wants to hug that guy. Especially not Simmons.
So now Grif’s fat ass is on the floor, and his palms hurt a bit from the impact, but at least he’s now totally super one-hundred percento sure that Simmons is real.
Note to self – don’t hug people that don’t want to be hugged. That’s not how you gain friends. That’s how you get left behind, Grif.
“What the fuck?” Simmons says, and surely he’s surprised because Grif isn’t in his bed, napping, like the lazy fuck he is. Then again – this is the kitchen, and it isn’t the first time Simmons has caught him half-passed out on the floor here. (Though the other times it’s been due to a food induced coma, or so Simmons had called it. This time it’s like, the opposite of that. Lack-of-food induced coma? Or, wait, that’s just starvation.)
And funnily enough, this isn’t the first time that Grif has caught Simmons trying clean up the base in the middle of the night. Like the cleaning-freak he is.
So to be fair, Grif has missed his hysterics since Simmons left – since Grif quit. No reason for finger-pointing here, unless they’re blaming Grif.
He’s done quite well without Simmons, actually. He’s felt like shit but that’s probably just the whole lack of sleep/lack of food/too many meth-mushrooms thing. Like, the base is all clean, spotless, actually.
Took a while but it isn’t like Grif had anything else to do. So much time on his hands. Tiempo. Manos. He knows this shit.
So there’s no need for Simmons to be cleaning now. Floor is washed – and polished. Clean enough to eat off. If you had something to eat.
Simmons places the two cannisters on the shiny tiles. Grif hopes he at least has chosen the cleaning supplies that doesn’t make Grif throw up blood. That’s sorta counter-productive, isn’t it?
The world is spinning again.
“Simmons,” Grif mutters and he’s so fucking slow – it takes forever to blink. He should eat some of those methshrooms again. When his eyes finally open again, he’s staring into the barrel of a pistol.
Oh.
“Stay-stay right there,” Simmons barks and his free hand fumbles against the side of his helmet. It’s such a nice color. Maroon. Grif has missed that.
He gets lost in the color. It’s very nice to stare at. Simmons must have left the door open, and the wind is rushing past his ears, muting the rest of the world. It takes a while before it passes, and Grif reaches to see why his stupid helmet isn’t helping and-
He isn’t wearing his armor. Oh, that’s right. He keeps forgetting -forgetting stuff, important stuff and sometimes not so important stuff, just- It’s hard to focus. Sometimes. Like the wind is stuck inside his head.
“I told you not to move!” Simmons snaps at him, waving his gun back and forth, and Grif feels nauseous just looking at the motion. He can’t throw up, though. He almost did yesterday, when he’d eaten the last remains of his methshrooms stash, but all that’d left his mouth had been some bitter and sickly colored water. It’d hurt too.
Grif freezes. Because Simmons has told him to, and because Simmons sounds so angry. Like, Grif gets why he’s mad. Grif doesn’t deserve to be forgiven. Doesn’t really expect it either.
He’s kinda hoped that Simmons would just punch him in the face and- and give him the cold shoulder. Shit like that. Sarge is the one always shoving guns into Grif’s face.
And now Grif’s is sprawled on the floor in his nightwear, looking like the idiot he is.
“I didn’t know there’d be people!” Simmons says. His voice is all high-pitched. He must be upset. “Temple just told me get rid of all evidence of the Reds and Blues! What am I supposed to do? Should I just blow him-“
There’s a small pause. Grif looks at Simmons, watching him stomp a foot against the floor.
“Up. There was gonna be an ‘up’ at the end of that sentence, Cronut! I don’t need you disturbing me! Urgh. Just go ask Temple is he wants him back alive or whatever.”
Temple. There’s, like, too many words to focus on. Grif can’t keep up ‘cause he’s so tired and- and hungry, even if his stomach doesn’t really rumble any longer. Maybe it’s tired, too. It feels like his entire body just wants to lie down and nap. Nap. That sounds good, actually, but-
But he’s caught the word temple. That’s important. Muy importante. It’s- He still remember. The temple back on Chorus. It’d been nice. All fake, of course, just alien shit causing weirder shit to happen, but still. Simmons’ fingers in his hair, Simmons’ lips against his throat, Simmons whispering into his ear-
It’d been nice.
“Simmons,” Grif says.
Then Simmons kicks him.
It’s not the first time that has happened. It’d been the second step in the daily get-Grif-out-of-bed procedure. First step had been yelling. Then the kick. Then Sarge’s shotgun.
But it’s worse this time. Maybe it’s because of the nausea or maybe there just hadn’t been any air in his lungs in the first place, but when Simmons’ boot connects with his stomach his vision goes black for a moment.
It’s almost kinda nice. Peaceful.
Then the world returns to him, all blurred colors as he tries to focus on Simmons. It’s like-
He gets it. Alright. Simmons is mad. And there’s a ton of reasons why he is right to be mad. So maybe- maybe the whole gun-in-his-face and kicking is a bit excessive. But Simmons has always had weird coping methods. At least- at least he isn’t punching mirrors.
And maybe this is all just Sarge rubbing off on him. It’s Grif’s own fault. He shouldn’t have left him alone. Shouldn’t have-
Fuck, he’s so tired.
“Simmons,” Grif says but it comes out all choked. Like, his tongue is too swollen. Too fat. A fat tongue for a fat idiot who does stupid things and now Simmons is mad at him again.
“Geez, it’s like a broken record.”
Simmons is hovering above him, head tilted. He’s judging him. That’s the look Simmons always has when he thinks Grif is being an idiot.
His stomach still hurts. Grif tries to lift a hand to rub the sore spot but his fingers shake too much. It feels- it feels all wrong.
But at least Simmons is back. Sure, he’s a little bit angry and twitchy and Grif isn’t even sure where he got that knife from, but people are right to be angry after you tell them you don’t like them, so Grif can’t really complain.
“I think I’m supposed to stab you,” Simmons says.
Okay, so maybe he’s more than just a little bit angry.
Grif blinks.
When his eyes are open again, he can’t tear them away from the knife.
“Okay, so Buckey said that I make a shitty killer!” Simmons gasps and he begins to pace back and forth. The nausea hits Grif again. “And that’s- that’s some highly inconsistent bullshit when it’s coming from someone who- who can’t even shoot that straight with his stupid sniper rifle! It’s all- It’s all about practice, right? Like, he could spend all day in the gulch shooting at rocks. What am I supposed to do? Stab rocks? It’s not- You need something soft and- and alive-“
Simmons looks down at him. Grif stares back, into the blue visor, and the colors start to swim again. Something is ringing inside his ears.
Something is wrong. Simmons is- Simmons is-
“Just lie still.”
There are hands all over his body – well, only two hands, actually, since Simmons is the only one in the room. But Simmons is touching him – Simmons is touching him – and Grif can feel it, and it’s real, and it’s good, and he leans into the touch-
He can feel the floor against his back, but when he thinks hard enough it’s like he can ignore it – like it becomes a super soft mattress and he loves those and it’s nice and he sighs and he’s become really good at thinking, after all this time here.
The one hand that is pressing against his shoulder isn’t enough when the pain starts to blossom. It’s like a lightning near his ribs and he yelps and his eyes flies open. He scrambles backwards, and the pain doesn’t disappear, it just travels down towards his empty stomach.
“Fuck,” Simmons says, taking a step backwards.
Grif’s head slams against the kitchen counter – not enough to make him black out again, just enough for him to bite his tongue. But at least that stinging is somewhat distracting. His night shirt is red now, wet, and he remembers how much Donut hates dealing with bloodstains and- Well, Donut won’t have to deal with them ‘cause he’s gone.
Unless the others are here. Maybe they’re with Simmons. Maybe they’re also angry.
Something falls from the counter and bounces against tiles until it rolls against Grif’s knee. Even with his fuzzy vision, he catches a glimpse of the tinfoil and the maroon and- and-
“What the fuck?” Simmons says before lashing out with his leg.
Grif tries to bite his lip but he’s pretty sure he lets out a sound – which proves to be stupid, of course, and nothing hits him. He sees the blur of tinfoil though, smashing against the fridge. It rattles – all the empty bottles and containers. He gets hungry, just thinking about it. But he’s always hungry. Isn’t he?
And then he understands Simmons’ confusion. Things get weird, actually. Pretty fucking weird. Life in a rotten nutshell.
He stares at the golden tinfoil until it begins to speak. But it’s okay. He’s heard the voice before so it’s normal at this point. Well, not normal normal, but when has he ever had that? It’s laughable, really. He wanted normal and he tried to get it, and now look at what he’s stuck with. No wonder Simmons is pissed off with him.
“Now look at what you’ve done,” the voice says. Simmons’ voice. With that disappointed edge to it. Very familiar, it makes him forget the blood on his chest.
“Simmons,” Grif says.
“Seriously?” Simmons says but it’s not that Simmons. It’s the other Simmons. The one staring down at him. That Simmons.
Grif is so tired.
“Are you brain-damaged or something? I mean, the others said you were stupid, but this- Is this the only word you can say? ‘Simmons’. Kinda pathetic, actually. I should take a picture. No, wait. That wouldn’t capture the sound.”
Simmons sighs and sounds disappointed. He probably is. Disappointed, disappointment. It’s all connected like that. Grif is a disappointment and Simmons is disappointed. That’s how it goes. Like. Grif and Simmons. They’d been that. Like a thing. Or a title. Like a shitty title for a sitcom. It has this ring to it. When the ‘and’ becomes a fancy ‘&’.
They’d been that. Grif & Simmons. Tastes good in your mouth.
Except, it doesn’t. Not really. Not when he tries. Grif gulps and it just tastes like blood.
He stares up at Simmons until his head becomes too heavy and it falls to rest on his shoulder, and then he’s just staring at the other Simmons instead.
“So you’re really just going to lie there and bleed out? That’s lazy. Even for you.”
Is he bleeding? He-
He is. Actually. Grif looks at his fingers and they’re all stained. All red. Red. Fuck. He misses Sarge. That’s just sad.
“I don’t get why Temple would want you on the team. It’s- it’s probably all about the color for him. And isn’t that just a little bit racist? I mean, if I had to judge you, I’d focus on your brain-damage, like a decent human being! You’re not- You don’t even seem like him. Not that orange. I mean, Biff didn’t go around wailing my name! Thank the gods!”
“Really, Grif? You’re just going to lie down and take that? What happened to standing up for yourself? Wait – I think I know that. You really learned your lesson the last time, didn’t you?”
“And I know that Temple would just make you his favorite. That’s just unfair! Do you know how many people I’ve stabbed to get this far? Thirty-seven. That’s right. I keep count. And… We should probably just make that thirty-eight. It’s not like you’re going to say yes to the offer. Can you even speak? Say ‘apple’. Apple.”
The voices all mix together into a blur he can’t quite catch. Like- like Simmons talking about nerdy facts, all that theory that Grif can’t keep up with.
It’s just lulling him to sleep.
But he forces his eyes open again and stares into maroon. Such a nice color. N-nice…
It’d hurt when he ships left. He should have expected it, really, and he’d- he’d known the insults would come, of course. He misses them, almost, the insults, because they sorta worked like a greeting, and he- he really wants them back.
When the small spots on the sky had grown smaller and smaller and then, just, gone, it hurt like a punch to the stomach.
Or like now, when Simmons’ knife disappears into his stomach.
He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand ‘cause he’s stupid and- and tired and it hurts and he can’t focus, can’t push Simmons away even when he hits his arms over and over.
He is hitting Simmons. He realizes this. So he stops and lets his weak fists fall against the floor instead.
The world is all blurry and unfocused and so fucking cold that it reminds him of Sidewinder, when the others had fucking finally pulled him over the edge, back into safety and he’d just lied in the snow, mind repeating the fact that he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s-
The knife is pulled out again. He screams but it’s- It comes out as a name, he realizes. Simmons, Simmons, Simmons-
His teeth won’t stop clattering. Sometimes he bites into his own tongue. That hurts, too. Just a little. Not as bad as his stomach that’s on fire and cold at the same time. It’s- Is this what dying feels like? He should’ve asked Tucker before he’d asked him to fuck off. Should’ve-
“Now you’ve done it,” Simmons voice says. Grif stares back at him. His cheek is resting against the floor that is- is wet and red, and he’ll have to take care of that, have to clean it before – before Simmons comes back-
But- but Simmons is already here. Two of them, actually.
Grif just can’t wish for anything without the universe fucking of him over.
The Simmonses – man, that’s weird to say in plural. It’s like a slur. But that’s fine. His tongue won’t really work anyway. But the Simmonses, they won’t stop talking…
“Oh, so now you’re calling me back, Cronut? Took your sweet time!”
“Did you really have to make a mess in here? Couldn’t you get stabbed in your own room?”
“I don’t fucking care if your nails were still wet, Cronut! What did Temple say?”
“I think you’re supposed to put pressure on that. I know this from all the medical classes you didn’t care to attend. Really comes back to bite you in the ass, doesn’t it?”
“If he’s alive?” Something kicks his foot. He can feel it, just barely. Doesn’t really hurt that much. It’s like all the pain is just gathered in the stomach and doesn’t care to go elsewhere. “Yeah, of course he’s still alive! I wouldn’t just kill him! Pffft!”
“You never got Church that pump, by the way.”
“I’m going to ask him and then I’m burning this place down.”
“But that’s okay. He already knew you were going to let him down.”
Someone moves his head. Tilts it so he’s looking at the ceiling. It just makes the blood gather at the back of his throat. Makes him want to throw up. Then Simmons steps into view, and Grif wants to smile but it’s like his lips freezes when he notices the visor is blue…
Sarge would hate that. Sarge would really, really hate that. Grif kinda hates it as well.
“So, uhm, I’m supposed to ask if you want to join our team but I don’t think you’re going to answer. Is ‘Simmons’ a yes or a no? So, I’ve come up with a solution. If you want to join the team and, well, not die, you crawl out of the base. And if you don’t want to join the team, you’ll just stay inside and burn to death! It’s an effective solution, really, I’ll be saving time like this!”
Grif’s head falls over again to rest on the floor. So fucking tired. “Simmons…”
“Yeah, I thought that’d be your answer. So we’ll just stick to my idea.”
The cannisters are blue. It’s all wrong. Simmons shouldn’t be touching those, shouldn’t be emptying them all over the base-
Something cold splashes against his leg. It’s- it’s cold. He’s cold. So fucking cold.
He misses the heat. Misses Blood Gulch. Misses-
“Okay, so, I’ll be leaving now. I’ll just repeat the plan in case you don’t remember it, brain-damage and all that. You want to live – leave. You don’t want to live – just die. Pretty simple. You should figure it out. I think. Oh well. I suppose this is goodbye? Maybe. I’ll give you like, three minutes to die. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
Grif closes his eyes.
When he opens them, the room is a lot more orange. Hotter, too. He sighs, crossing his fingers it’ll force the cold away from his body. But he doesn’t really keep his hopes up – it’s not like things usually go the way he wants. Better- better to get used to it.
He won’t stop shivering, even with the heat growing painfully hot.
He crawls forward, palm slipping in the red that’s…
His thoughts won’t focus. They just spread through his brain like smoke, filling his head and then disappearing before he can grasp them.
Grif stops moving when his eyes manage to settle on the tinfoil. It’s nice. Golden.
“So, fatass. Seems like you got a choice to make.”
Grif’s body jerks in panic. He coughs and it- it hurts in his side again. A lot. But he can’t focus on that. Not when Simmons’ voice sounds so far away, like he’s leaving. It’s all muffled…
The smoke is reflected in the tinfoil.
“You staying or leaving this time?”