Work Text:
The Winter King won’t stop touching him.
It’s inconspicuous at first- a hand casually placed on his shoulder, as though they’re old friends. Simon supposes one could describe them as such, in a weird way. To his mind, Ice King was more like his captor than himself or a companion- but this isn’t Ice King, he has to remind himself.
He does notice the touch, as well as the chill that seeps into his shoulder along with it. “Oh, dear sweet Simon,” says Winter King, as though he is a baby deer walking for the first time. He wants to say something biting, but it isn’t as though the other man is wrong to regard him as such. With everything he’s accomplished, Simon must look like a child stumbling through the dark.
Simon’s throat starts to close up when he describes escaping the crown's influence like it’s something as straightforward as wanting it badly enough.
If Simon were better, would Betty not have needed to merge her consciousness with Golb? Would she never have had to endure the sadness and madness of magic in the first place?
Would she be with him?
He’s thinking about Betty when Winter King grabs his lapels and pulls him out of the throne room. His hands encircle Simon’s as they skate through the kingdom he’s clearly so excited to show to him. They’re nothing like Betty’s hands, warm and calloused and confident. He’s confident, sure, but his grip makes Simon’s skin numb with its temperature.
Simon grabs onto him instinctively the first time he loses his balance and a jolt of anxiety pulses through him. It happens quite a few times, and most times after the first the Winter King grabs him and tugs him back into place with ease.
Winter King says it was easy- like all the years of torment he endured meant nothing. Like Simon just wasn’t trying hard enough.
Winter King also said a hundred years. Nine hundred years, then, he was trapped just like Simon. When he says he might, perhaps, be able to show Simon how to defeat that animal he was reduced to under the crown’s influence, Simon almost believes him.
‘No more ice,’ Simon said, but that Simon was tearing himself apart and getting nothing for it. He arranged clamps and executed the vile creature in just the same way Betty killed a girl for him. He curled around its corpse and it was the closest he’d held anything- save for the statue he’d safely tucked away in his secret room- for years.
Winter King places a crown of ice upon his head and bows before him. It feels almost like coming home until it melts in his palms.
~
“I almost forgot, hah- I don’t intend to allow you to keep walking around in that ratty… well, whatever it is you’re wearing,” Winter King tells him with a wince and a general gesture toward his outfit.
“It’s… well. I got it off of a scarecrow,” Simon explains.
Winter King nods solemnly. “This is not surprising. Come along, then.”
He guides Simon through the castle, grand sparkling corridors that reflect distorted images of them. Simon’s feet are long past numb, spikes of pain stinging his heels with every step he takes.
They veer to the left and make their way into a dressing room, with rows of hangars full of clothing and a full-length mirror. Winter King dives in headfirst, tugging random articles of clothing out of place and glancing over them before abandoning them for the next one that catches his eye.
“You’re, ah… a bit vain, aren’t you?” Simon murmurs, not intending the taller man to hear from across the room. He laughs and Simon cringes on instinct, though he doesn’t look particularly upset. “Perhaps. Nothing wrong with that. You seem like the type who wouldn’t enjoy being himself if it killed him.”
Winter King casts a knowing glance over his shoulder. Simon rubs his arm, looking to the side evasively. “Not… exactly.”
He didn’t used to be, back when ‘himself’ was something he aspired to be. He remembers Betty holding a syringe to his skin and smiling up at him. He must have cried when he took that first shot, Betty insisted he did, but all he remembers is how happy he was to be alive.
“But?”
Simon snaps out of his thoughts, looking up to meet Winter King’s gaze. The man was standing a foot away from him, a suit much like Simon’s own folded over his arms.
“But… what?” Simon asks, narrowing his eyes.
“But something made you feel like you needed to, right?” Simon doesn’t respond, just stares up at him blankly. Eventually the Winter King hands the clothing off to him and nods to the back of the room. “If you want privacy.”
“Of course I… of course I do,” Simon half-snaps, though there’s little heat behind his words. He feels off-kilter, and nothing the Winter King is saying is making him feel any steadier. He shuffles across the room and ducks behind a curtain, shrugging his jacket off once there’s a layer of division between him and Winter King.
Something occurs to him as he tugs the tattered shirt over his head. “If you don’t like privacy, why do you have this?”
An uncomfortable silence settles between them while he waits for a response. He drops the shirt on the floor, staring at the folds of the curtain as though they have some information for him to uncover.
“In case I have guests, of course,” Winter King says in a strange tone.
“You have-” Of course he has guests, Simon chides himself. Even he has guests, and this is a better version of himself. “Does Marceline..?”
“No,” Winter King answers instantly. “She’s not a guest.”
Simon presses his lips together, unsure of how to interpret that. He quietly redresses himself, tugging the shoes on last. It’s a weird sensation, encasing the freezing appendages in a protective layer, keeping the cold inside and the cold outside separate.
He steps back out to find the Winter King staring at the mirror with a blank expression. As soon as he notices Simon he perks up, a smile stretching across his face. “There you are.” He walks around Simon before taking his shoulders and pushing him up to the mirror. He leans in close enough that Simon can see the second his cheeks grow red from the nip of cold. “You look wonderful, see?”
“Sure,” he mutters, but he’s not looking at his own reflection.
~
Simon finds out about her on the first night spent there.
He can’t sleep. Of course he can’t sleep in what might as well be the Ice Kingdom, in a room just like the room Ice King slept in, now back in a body with warm blood and aching muscles.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the cold as Ice King. He felt every second of the chill, felt it melt into him until he couldn’t tell where it ended and he began. He remembers exactly how it hurt to exist as Ice King, even if Ice King never remembered how it hurt to exist as Simon.
Simon is starting to realize that the problem was never the Ice King. He only truly felt the misery of being changed when he returned to himself. Simon was always the one hurting from it.
He drags himself up out of bed on autopilot, not knowing anything except that he needs to move. He wanders the halls aimlessly, arms wrapped around himself in a weak approximation of a hug. Surprisingly, he hasn’t slipped once, aside from when Winter King was flinging him around. He supposes one doesn’t just forget how to after they spent the better part of a thousand years walking around in corridors just like these.
He steps outside- inside and outside aren’t all that different here, but he can see the night sky unimpeded, so he’s definitely more outside than he was before. The Candy Kingdom, or whatever the equivalent is called in this world, is illuminated by the light of the moon far above it.
Bubblegum was uncomfortable around him for a while even after he returned to himself, with good reason. She probably won’t ever be able to look at him without seeing the Ice King. He was so desperate for some echo of what he had with Betty, he’d have done nearly anything to achieve it in that state. He sewed together disparate body parts in a living quilt of his wife, and even his creation was repulsed by what he’d done.
And now he’s trying to bring him back. What does that say about him?
He shakes himself. She’d understand the circumstance- and, well, it isn’t as though he’ll see her again. The likelihood of him making it back to Ooo at this point is slim.
The likelihood of him being able to say goodbye to Marceline before he returns to the comfort of ego death is even less.
The likelihood of him ever seeing Betty again is practically none.
He’s snapped out of his contemplating- or wallowing, if one was being ungenerous- by the faint thrum of music. He turns around, straining his ears to focus on the sound. All the time he’s spent with Marceline helps him recognize the sound of bass playing within a few short moments.
It’s not hard to find the source of the sound. It’s not like it’s hidden, he just never happened to notice the room until now. The music is messy and inexperienced, a far cry from his Marceline’s, and he sees why as soon as he finds them.
Winter King is sat on the edge of a bed, clumsily holding a bass and plucking at the strings. A little girl made of ice sits on her feet next to him, pointing and gesticulating as she explains something to him. When he gets a little closer and sees the pointed ears, his heart drops.
“You’re doing it all wrong. Hold it up higher, like this.” The girl shoves the bass up until it’s nearly touching Winter King’s neck. He chuckles but does as he’s instructed, shifting his grip to keep it in place.
“Is that the secret to music, then?” Winter King plucks out a few chords, pausing between each one to find the proper strings. The girl’s face screws up at the sound.
“Clearly not… hmm.” She taps her chin, deep in thought. “Maybe you just need to watch how I do it better.”
“How do I watch you better?” Winter King asks, tilting his head. “I think I’m a fine audience, myself.”
“But a really bad student…” the girl mutters, making grabby hands at the bass. He hands it over and she makes to stand up on the bed. He throws a hand out to catch her if she falls, but she only sways a bit before regaining her balance.
She starts to play, a tune that sounds vaguely familiar to Simon’s ears if only in the quality of her playing.
He doesn’t know when it happens, but at some point the Winter King’s eyes slide past her to the shadows Simon stands in. They lock eyes for a brief second and the small smile on his face sours.
Winter King doesn’t acknowledge Simon. He waits for her to finish her song and claps while she bows, which she does at least five times by Simon’s count. Afterward he stands up and ruffles her hair- or at least pantomimes doing so, since her hair is made up of icicles.
“I have to go talk to a friend now, alright? I’ll be back later,” he tells her.
The girl’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “You have a friend? Where are they? Can I meet them?”
Winter King glances at Simon, clearly unintentionally. She follows his gaze, clearly very excited by the idea. Simon shuffles his feet, feeling as uncomfortable as Winter King looks.
“You can’t meet him yet, but someday,” he settles on.
The girl narrows her eyes, clearly doubtful. “Okay… but you better not be lying.”
“I’d never lie. Promise.” Winter King holds out his pinkie and, after a moment of consideration, the girl wraps her finger around it and shakes their hands together. After their hands part he stands there for the length of a steadying breath and then scurries out of the room with the urgency of someone escaping a house fire.
He’s grabbing onto Simon’s arm as soon as he reaches him, dragging him away from the room and back into the halls. Simon pries it out of his grip, suddenly irked by the way he manhandles him when he wasn’t before.
“Care to explain who that was?” Simon asks, leveling a glare up at the man opposite him.
“Not in particular,” he says unhelpfully, hands twitching restlessly at his sides.
“Too bad, because I expect you to.” Simon folds his arms, hoping his sternness comes across as threatening rather than pitiful. Blessedly, he does manage to make the wizard shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze.
“She’s Marceline,” he says tersely.
“Marceline. Made of ice.”
“She’s Ice Marceline.”
Simon’s brows furrow, a sigh escaping him. He feels like his heart might give out. “What did you do to her?”
“I didn’t- what do you even mean?” Winter King huffs out a breath, running a hand through his pale hair. “I didn’t do anything to her. She just-” He’s looking everywhere that isn’t Simon. The walls, the floor, the Candy Kingdom he was so insistent they didn’t pay any mind. “She just died.”
Hearing it said out loud doesn’t make Simon feel any better. Because that girl- Ice Marceline acted so much like her it was nauseating. He could picture the little girl he guided through a broken world with perfect clarity as she spoke to Winter King.
“So you didn’t…” he trailed off. It was hard to picture any version of himself doing something like that, but he couldn’t pretend the thought didn’t occur to him.
“No, I didn’t fucking kill her!” the Winter King shouts, stepping closer to Simon and making him wince. “I’m not- I’m not going to have this discussion with you.” He turns around resolutely, walking away.
“Who else are you going to have it with?”
“I’m not,” he says curtly. Simon watches him go, unable to formulate an answer that he could imagine making him stay.
“‘Unethical’, sure…” he mutters to nobody in particular, kicking the ice beneath his feet weakly.
~
Simon watches the crown start to crystallize from nothing, some bizarre transference of energy he can hardly pretend to understand. It’s not like staring at it will make it go faster, he knows, but it makes him feel a bit better to see it. It feels more like he’s making a choice than giving up if he watches it happen.
He sits in the corner with wires and cables, not far from the spot Winter King dismissed Betty’s death as inconsequential. He doesn’t have to do anything from this point on, really. He just has to wait for Winter King to make it better, like he apparently makes everything better.
Everything except the little girl he swore to take care of.
Simon digs his nails into the skin of his arms, pushing his sleeves up just far enough to feel the heat of pain and the chill of the laboratory collide. It’s not fair to revile him for things he doesn’t know about, not truly. Still, an uncomfortable feeling has settled into his stomach like he something too sweet without realizing.
He hears the footsteps approaching long before he sees the man, but he doesn’t move until they’re near enough to touch. He lifts his head and the back of his skull thunks against some kind of complicated metal circuit in the process.
“Excited, are we?” the Winter King asks. His inflection has returned to how it was before that night, lighthearted and flippant.
“I guess,” Simon says, drawing his knees close to his chest. “I think I’m just ready for it to be over with.”
“That’s no way to look at it! You’re thinking of this as an ending- but really, it’s the start of your new life.” Winter King kneels down by his side, holding out a hand. “Come along?”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay.”
~
The Winter King plays piano while Simon sits by his side, arms limp at his sides. Simon hasn’t played the piano in years. Simon’s hands don’t make wonderful things or even terrible things. Nothing he makes is of any use to a world made of magic.
Winter King is much better at piano than he is at bass, he finds himself thinking. His fingers, lithe and delicate as an ice sculpture, dance across the keys with ease.
“Did you know how to play before, or was it after you… conquered the crown that you learned?” Simon asks, glancing to the side. They’re very close, though they weren’t when Simon first sat down. The other man must have shifted closer without him realizing it. That or he leaned in to the Winter King and didn’t notice, which he really doesn’t want to consider the implications of.
“After,” Winter King answers, carrying on playing without missing a beat. “I needed something to make me feel like myself again. It took a few years to find it, but I’ve played ever since.”
“And this…” Simon waves his hand over the instrument. “Makes you happy?”
“It helps. Why do you ask?”
“I just don’t know how you could live so long and not…” Simon worries his lip between his teeth. “Regret it.”
“Regret… what?”
“Living.”
The Winter King’s hands freeze in place. The silence they leave in their wake is deafening.
An awkward smile creeps its way onto Simon’s face. He halfheartedly shrugs his shoulders. “I mean… surely you understand what I mean. And you’re… well…” Even worse off? A better man, sure, but without Betty or Marceline, it can’t mean all that much.
“What other choice is there? I’m not going to…” Winter King swallows, Adam's apple visibly bobbing. “I’d rather you didn’t keep bringing up such morbid subjects, dear.”
“I’m not trying to, it’s just- what did you say?” Simon’s face is suddenly warming up despite his internal protests.
“I’d rather you didn’t-”
“Dear?” he clarifies.
“Oh. Well, yes.” The Winter King pauses, considering. “Is there a problem?”
“I- you said it before, as well.” Simon wrings his hands together, squeezing his own palms like they’re stress balls “Are you making fun of me? I know I’m not as- as great as you, but I’ve lived a thousand years of life. Horrible, terrible life. I’m not a… a weak little creature that needs protecting, or whatever you think I am.”
“Simon,” Winter King sighs out, reaching over to wrap Simon’s hands up in his own again. This time is nowhere near as animated as before, a gentle touch like an ice pack settling upon a bruise. “You really think that?”
Simon grits his teeth, shoulders as tense as a wind-up toy.
“I’m not making fun of you, Simon. I just like you.” Winter King pries his fingers apart so that he can hold each hand individually, resting them on the edge of Simon’s knees. “You’re kind, cautious… human.”
“Human,” Simon echoes. He wonders how much the word is worth in the kind of world he woke up in. He wonders if it means anything anymore. Is Winter King- and Ice King, for that matter- inhuman? He has no way to know the truth of their genetic makeup, but he certainly didn’t feel human as Ice King. He felt like a corpse on legs, stumbling through dreams and nightmares.
“I call you dear,” Winter King says softly, “because you are.”
“And you just… knew this? Upon seeing me?” Simon murmurs doubtfully. The growing numbness at the tips of his fingers isn’t as unpleasant as he’d like it to be. “It’s not like we’ve had much time to get to know each other.”
“Let me, then.” Winter King levels a serious gaze at him, drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. “Let me get to know you.”
Simon pulls his hands away, clutching them close to his chest. “Not until you talk about what happened.” He doesn’t have to say what he’s referring to- he can see the second Winter King’s smile drops at the mention of that night.
“Why are you so fixated on my past? I’m happier now. You could be happier,” Winter King hisses, baring his teeth. They’re sharper than Simon’s own, though not as sharp as Ice King’s.
“But she’s not your past. She’s… she’s a part of you,” Simon says carefully. “You wouldn’t have made her look-alike if she wasn’t.”
Winter King watches him. Takes a deep breath, smooths his suit out despite it being as pristine as ever. Inspects his nails- they don’t sharpen into claws like icicles how Ice King’s did. Drapes himself over the piano theatrically, hiding his head by wrapping his arms around it.
Simon waits.
Winter King lifts his head. “Do you want to meet her?”
~
“Marcy, are you awake?” Winter King asks the apparently sleeping form of Ice Marceline, who instantly flips over to face them.
“Hi,” she says cheerily, eyes flickering between him and Simon. “Wait, who’s he? Is he your friend?” She sits up in a hurry, legs swinging against the bed frame as soon as she’s upright.
“Yes, he is. This is Simon,” the Winter King introduces him with a flourish. “Simon Petrikov.”
He almost expects her to react to the name before he remembers that this girl would never have known the Winter King when he went by the name Simon. The girl who did is long, long gone.
“Wow…”
“Yes, I’m his friend,” he says stiffly. Was he ever actually good with children, or was he just the best Marceline could get after the war? He made a child cry not long ago. Her book is still sitting at the bottom of his wastebin, collecting dust.
“How did you meet dad, anyway?” Ice Marceline asks, snapping him back to reality.
“How did I meet..?”
The Winter King rubs the back of his neck, pointedly avoiding looking at Simon.
It isn’t as though Simon doesn’t think of Marceline as a daughter. Of course he does, but this… his throat feels tight. Winter King really is her dad, isn’t he? He made her with the crown, the image of Marceline before she died encased in ice like a bug in amber.
She seems happy, he reasons helplessly. She seems happy even though she was made with the furthest thing from happiness.
“It wasn’t that long ago,” Simon tells her. “He helped save me and my companions from someone very bad.”
‘Companions’ is definitely the simplest way to describe Fionna and Cake, he decides. They don’t care too much about him, he had a breakdown in front of each of them separately as his first impression. They live in his brain and he stole the magic from their world by daring to exist. And… they’re also his traveling companions.
“That’s so cool… did he zap them with his ice powers?” Ice Marceline mimics shooting ice from her fingers. Thankfully nothing actually happens, especially considering how many times she zaps in the direction of Simon’s face.
“Yes, he- he did,” Simon says with a chuckle. He wonders if Marceline would’ve been this enthusiastic about his magic if it hadn’t come with the… side effects. Things would have been different, to be sure.
“Your… dad,” it feels wrong on his tongue, but he says it anyway, “has helped me a lot. He’s very kind.”
Winter King is giving him a strange look, as though he’s said something outlandish. Ice Marceline nods in agreement. “Yeah. He’s not very good at bass, though, did you know?”
“I- I am perfectly serviceable, I’ll have you know,” the Winter King splutters, turning his nose up primly.
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, do you know how to play?” she asks Simon, crawling across the bed and grabbing the instrument from where it leaned against her nightstand.
“Not really. I tried, but I’m no good,” he explains. “I can play the piano, though.”
Winter King’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead at the admission. Ice Marceline, on the other hand, is thoroughly uninterested. “Dad does too. Course he has boring friends that like the least cool instrument…” She hums to herself, strumming the bass skillfully. “I guess I’ll just have to play good for both of you.”
“I guess you will,” Simon says.
~
They walk out onto a balcony together, each equal parts solemn and hopeful.
“She’s a very sweet girl.” Simon buries his hands in his pockets, clinging to the little warmth he can get from fabric and body heat. “Does she know why you made her?”
“Of course not,” Winter King scoffs. “What good would it do her? She’s fine the way it is.”
“She’ll never grow up… or have a life outside of this place,” Simon thinks aloud, watching the Winter King form a throne and collapse into it in one fluid motion.
“Her life is good. She’s happy and safe and alive because of me. If she wants something, I do my best to make it happen.” Winter King leans into his hand, elbow resting on the side of his throne.
Simon opens his mouth to retort, but it dies on his tongue. Would he not do the same if he were in that position? The fact that it’s another version of himself doing it only proves that he would, that the pain and loneliness and despair would lead him to do exactly that. And he isn’t even wrong- she is happy, and she is safe.
“I’m sorry,” Simon murmurs, walking up to the throne. He sinks to his knees beside the other man, gripping the icy armrest with a hand to steady himself. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“You didn’t kill her, so don’t start feeling guilty over it like you did.” Winter King reaches out to take Simon’s hand where he left it resting on the throne, sliding his fingers between Simon’s.
“You’re hardly one to talk,” Simon deflects.
“I don’t feel guilty.” The throne melts back into the floor like it was never there, depositing Winter King right next to Simon. He’s still holding his hand. “I feel sad, sometimes. Never guilty. I have no room for it.”
Simon sighs, eyelids falling shut. “I’m not like you.”
Something cold touches his shoulder. It isn’t his hand, still entwined with Simon’s comparatively soft fingers. Simon peels his eyes open and forces himself to look only to see the man resting his temple on his jacket, hair falling in a messy cascade around his face. It’s a bit damp compared to his skin, slowly seeping into Simon’s sleeve.
“Are you okay?” Simon asks, unable to hide the concern in his voice.
“Better with you here,” the Winter King mumbles into the suit he gave him. Simon stills, acutely aware of every breath he or his mirror image takes.
Winter King lifts his other hand, but it floats suspended in the air, like he knows he needs to reach for something but he doesn’t know what. Simon knows how he feels- his entire existence as Ice King was spent grasping at straws trying to find something to make him whole. He shivers, wondering how awful he must be for what he’s about to do. Then he reaches back, painstakingly slowly, and takes the other man’s hand for the first time since he arrived.
The Winter King startles at the touch, clearly as unused to Simon initiating as he is. Simon holds it there in the space between them for a few seconds before pressing it to his back. He releases it and it stays there, just barely touching him through several layers of fabric.
“It’s lonely here, isn’t it?” Simon asks, already knowing the answer. Winter King holds him more resolutely, lifting his head to meet his gaze.
“You know it is. It’s like the world ended, but I kept living after it was all said and done,” Winter admits. It’s not far from the truth, or at least it wasn’t for Simon. When he woke up from the dream of being Ice King, his entire world had been dead for a dozen lifetimes. Every person he fought with in school or kissed once on a whim or bonded with over work was erased. The only person who left more of herself than a breath on a mirror became an entity beyond God.
“Are you lonely now?”
Winter King watches his eyes, searching for something he’s sure he can’t give him. Simon doesn’t smile or frown under his scrutiny, just looks forward. All he can do is look forward.
“I am not,” the Winter King says. Simon rests his hand on the wizard’s leg.
“Me neither,” he lies. The Winter King knows he’s lying. Simon knows he knows he’s lying. Neither of them says it. Winter just leans in and presses their mouths together.
Simon doesn’t try not to think about Betty. There would be no point in attempting it- he wouldn’t be capable of such a thing. When Winter bites his lower lip in the same way she used to, the gasp that escapes him is for both of them.
Winter’s lips aren’t warm or soft. They hurt upon his own, which are chapped from being routinely peeled open. They sting and they bite as surely as his teeth and it feels good nonetheless.
He’s vaguely aware that Winter has dropped his hand to grip his lapels again, pulling him closer. They press up against one another, limbs and glasses and lips falling into place. His heart feels like it’s scrabbling at his rib cage, trying to get out. He prays to Golb it isn’t actually, for both of their sakes.
They part when Simon’s lungs start to throb from lack of air, something he’s fairly sure isn’t a concern for Winter King. He sits there and breathes, chest heaving and bangs stuck to his forehead where Winter’s hair wept on them. Winter’s glasses are askew, so he reaches up and pushes them back into place.
“You do like me, then,” Winter says with a self-aggrandizing grin. “I was almost worried you didn’t.”
“Mm.” Simon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the tiny ice crystals that come off of it. They melt within seconds, leaving a smattering of little droplets on his skin. “I guess I do.”
“You guess,” Winter deadpans, disbelieving. He giggles, the kind that makes Simon wonder whether he’s quite as free of madness as he initially thought. Then he grabs Simon’s shoulders and pushes him onto his back, grip tighter than it’s been since his song. “I guess we’ll just have to put it to the test, then.”
Simon considers stopping it there, but he can hardly bring himself to entertain the thought. Especially not when Winter leans down close and whispers in his ear. “I like you too, just in case you forgot,” he says. The next time their lips meet, he’s not thinking about Betty.
~
The crown solidifies before his eyes. It’s this universe’s version of the relic that tormented him for hundreds of years, and it’s beautiful.
“It’s quite captivating, isn’t it?” Winter says, reaching out to stroke the iridescent crown. “A byproduct of the way the machine works. It’s as real as the original, but they’re linked together, mine and yours. Almost like wedding rings, but more literal.”
Simon nods, face heating up. He should revel in a mundane sensation like that, he supposes, considering he won’t be able to feel it after this.
“If one is destroyed, so will be the other,” Winter explains, placing his hands on either side of the crown and lifting it up carefully. “If one of us is destroyed, so will be the other.”
“It really is like a marriage.” Simon laughs nervously. “Till death do us part.”
Winter walks around the table, a smirk fitted comfortably onto his face. He steps up to Simon, holding it between them.
“And you’re sure it won’t be… how it was before,” Simon says for what must be the dozenth time, at least.
“It will be nothing like that. You’re going to be so much better, Simon,” Winter whispers. Simon manages a smile and doesn’t ask which of them he’s talking to.
“Can you do it like you did before?” he asks in a small voice.
Winter responds with a flourish, folding himself around Simon in an impromptu dance before delicately placing the crown upon his head. And, just like the first time, he bows down before him.
Simon feels a lot of things. He always felt too much, he thinks, too much and too different to be the way everyone else was. Then, a thousand years later, he was still feeling too much and too different, but he didn’t understand how to fake being like everyone else anymore.
It’s like being split in two. It’s like drinking hot cocoa and feeling the heat spread through your whole body until it reaches your fingers and toes, but in reverse. It’s like the person that destroyed his life is holding him and telling him it’s going to be okay. It’s like the first time someone called him a man and it’s like the first time he broke down crying without knowing why.
Winter is there with him. He holds his hands and his head and his shoulders. He holds him gently and roughly. He kisses him like a bruise- from under his skin, peeking through it like broken blood vessels.
Did Betty feel like this when she tried for a relationship with Ice King? He doesn’t think she did. The hate she felt toward him was desperate and fueled by love. The love Simon feels for the Winter King is desperate and fueled by hate. At least they’re not too different, at the end of the day. Maybe this is karma. Maybe he deserves to be allowed this only after losing her, since he was unable to defeat the crown with his own power.
Winter builds him up from his remains. He feels like the electricity he used to fry Choose Goose alive. He burns in the cold until it’s too cold to feel anything.
“Do you feel awesome?” the Winter King asks when he comes to. Everything is brighter and more colorful than it was before, to the point that it gives him a headache. Something that feels like crushed ice is rising up in his throat.
“Mhm.” Simon nods, or maybe it’s the Ice King. His skin is blue again, bluer than any ocean or sky.
“I told you I’d make it better.” Winter smiles sincerely, brushing Simon’s hair behind his ear. His fingertips feel almost warm to Simon’s skin now. “I’m proud of you, Simon.”
“For what?” he asks, put off by the odd sensation of his tongue moving around in a mouth lined with frigid saliva.
“Choosing life.”
This is life, then? His pulse is slower, he’s sure of it, but his heart still beats. It beats more like toffee and maracas than it did a few minutes ago. The headache has settled into a perpetual brain freeze and he can feel his joints shifting under his skin every time he moves.
He can feel Winter King wrapping himself around him, too. He’s like a constrictor, long arms snaking around Simon’s torso and squeezing his new-old body.
“I guess I did,” Simon laughs, suddenly feeling quite giddy. He grabs onto Winter in a similar manner. He digs into the man’s back, clawing lines into the fabric without a second thought. Some desperate need thrums through him, pronounced by his new body and brain. He might draw blood. He wonders if either of them can bleed, the way that they are now.
When he breaks Winter’s skin and feels something cold spill over his fingers, it feels like coming home.