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Simmons felt lighter than he had in years, and he couldn't stop grinning. He knew he looked like a freak to the people on the street, smiling at nothing as he walked by, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He almost started to skip as he rounded the corner, but he had to draw the line for "socially acceptable public displays of elation" somewhere . So he walks with a spring in his step, and his smile only widens as his apartment building comes into sight.
He can't wait to tell Grif.
He climbs up the stairs two at a time. Grif thinks it's weird to not take the elevator when they live on the fourth floor, but Simmons likes the exercise, even if it takes him a little longer.
When he opens the front door, he deflates a little. Grif’s not here. He checks his phone.
There's a text from Grif. He's bitching about his bus being late. He normally gets home right before Simmons, so this is a change in routine. And the perfect opportunity, Simmons decides, to surprise him with the news.
A tabby cat, slightly overweight, wanders into the room to greet him. The cat meows at him.
"Hi, Meatball," he greets, scooping the cat up and into his arms. The cat purrs, curling in closer. Meatball is always a sucker for cuddles.
Grif brought Meatball home while drunk after hanging out at a bar with Tucker and Church. Apparently, he found him in an alley by a dumpster eating a meatball sub, hence the name. Grif was crying when he came home that night, and Simmons had to stroke his hair and tell him “Yes, we can keep the cat,” so many times that the words started to sound weird. But the wobbly smile Grif gave him when he finally understood was worth it.
Meatball took a few weeks to warm up to them but constant food, affection, and a clean litter box quickly won him over.
"Wanna help me cook, buddy?"
Simmons knows he shouldn't and normally doesn’t, but he's a sucker for their cat. He puts him on the counter, and the cat easily drops into a lounging position on the space he’s never allowed to touch, watching Simmons move around the space with mildly curious eyes. Simmons wonders how many times he gets on the counter when he isn’t home.
Simmons gets to work prepping the space, double-checking they have all the necessary ingredients, and he dons his favorite maroon apron. His name is embroidered on it, and Grif always teases him for it.
"We're making his favorite," Simmons whispers to Meatball like it's a secret. Meatball's tail swings in a lazy arc. Simmons hooks his phone up to a wireless speaker and gets a playlist going as he starts to cook.
He’s singing along to a particularly cheesy love song when Grif finally walks through the door. He’s saying something, too, probably a complaint about the bus before his voice dies in his throat.
Simmons turns around at the sound of the front door closing, a wide grin on his face and a spatula in hand. “Hey,” he greets cheerfully.
Grif’s eyes flick between the spatula, the apron, the cat lounging on the counter, and the stove behind Simmons. He raises an eyebrow, but a smile starts to build on his own face as he starts to shrug off his jacket.
“Someone’s in a good mood. You never let Meatball on the counter.”
“I’m willing to make an exception today.”
“Oh?” Grif throws his jacket onto the counter. Normally, Simmons would reprimand him for it. They do, in fact, have a coat rack, but he’s still feeling too good about everything to care. Grif notices. “Who are you, and what have you done to the real Simmons?”
“Grif,” Simmons says, grin widening. Grif joins him in the kitchen, pulling a beer out of the fridge. “I got the job.”
Grif freezes before immediately straightening in surprise. “Holy fuck,” he says, incredulously.
They both move at the same time, wrapping their arms around each other in a celebratory hug. Grif’s large, warm hands on Simmons’ hips and Simmons’ arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Simmons can’t help that laughter that bubbles out of him.
When they pull apart, Simmons feels like his face is going to crack from how hard he’s smiling.
Grif eyes the stove, and he looks confused.
“Are you making...breakfast food?”
Simmons nods. “It’s your favorite, right?”
“Aside from snack cakes and Oreos-”
“Neither of which are actual food.”
“-Yeah.” Grif still looks perplexed. “But it’s your night. Why are you making my favorite?”
Simmons turns his attention back to the stove. “Well, you’re the only reason I applied for the position, so I figured I owed you one. Plus,” he says, looking over his shoulder, “I figured I’d give you something to celebrate tonight, too, even if it’s just food.”
Simmons’ gaze is so focused on the various foods cooking simultaneously that he doesn’t see the intensely soft look of longing that Grif gives him.
“That’s pretty gay, dude,” Grif says.
“Oh, fuck off,” Simmons says, but it lacks any real bite. “Wanna put something on TV? I’m almost done.”
Grif’s eyebrows greet his hairline. “We get to eat in the living room?” He studies Simmons’ face closely. “Are you high?”
Simmons rolls his eyes. “Just this once,” he says, a mischievous smile on his face as if he’s not the one normally enforcing the ‘only at the table’ rule.
Grif snags a willing Meatball, the cat making a soft “mmrrphfh” sound as he gets picked up. “He’s gone crazy,” Grif stage whispers to the cat, who meows back enthusiastically. Grif looks pointedly at Simmons. “Meatball agrees with me.”
“Then starve,” Simmons says simply while he divvies up the food between two plates. He also opens up a fresh can of cat food for Meatball, who jumps out of Grif’s arms at the sound and smell.
They settle into the couch, watching Star Trek reruns and eating. Grif’s shoveling the food into his mouth while Simmons takes his time. When they’re done and Simmons takes their plates to the sink, he looks at Grif from the kitchen, rinsing their plates. He looks soft and warm, comfortable. Meatball, who has finished his own dinner, jumps onto Grif, curling up on his soft stomach. Maybe it’s the elation he’s still feeling, or maybe it’s the satisfaction from a good meal, or maybe it’s everything working in tandem or none of those things at all. But Simmons feels something inside him settle at the sight, and he thinks he’d like this forever.
He freezes.
Oh fuck, he thinks. I’m in love with him.