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Only a few hours ago the valley below had been a sea of green. But now the snow's unending, a veil draped over the forest like a sheet in a morgue. The cold seeps through everything, burrowing through fur, through wool, through flesh until Simon's bones feel like shards of ice.
The fire's grown low but he can't bring himself to throw another log onto it, not when it means turning his back from the warmth. Instead, he pulls himself closer as he glares into the flames.
A voice claws at the back of his mind. Incessantly reminding him, isn't this nostalgic? Stuck in a frozen cave with him. Even worse, he's sleeping. He gets to close his eyes and forget everything.
Simon jabs the fire with his iron sword, stoking the flames. Before sundown, things had been good. They'd been joking, sharing a few bottles of mead. Ignoring the cold in the air and laughing as old friends do.
But now everything's come back and he can feel it choking him. He wants to leave. He wants to stay. He wants to run. He wants to curl up under the sheets and steal away every single bit of warmth Horace has to offer, and more.
No. Not Horace. Not now. That's too close. Too personal. But what the hell does that make Simon? A fool who's all too ready to fall into Knightley's arms if he asked?
He takes another vicious stab at the fire and one of the logs tumbles into the ashes with a soft thump. Another hit. Another fall.
"Simon?" Damn it. "You can't stay up all night-"
"Go. To. Sleep." Simon snarls out the words through gritted teeth.
"You think I can sleep?"
"Don't know. Don't care." Another jab at the fire pit.
"Great." Simon doesn't look away from the flames, but he sees Knightley get up from the corner of his eye. He’s bundled up warm with the blankets from his bedroll draped over his shoulders. "Simon, if you've got something you need to-"
"Don't." Shut up. Just shut up and go back to bed.
"I'm just saying-"
"Do you want me to hurt you?!" Simon whips his head around to glare at him, his voice bordering on shrill. "Because I can do that. I can verbally tear you to shreds until you finally give up! And then maybe, just maybe you'll finally shut up and get it into your skull that this isn't worth dealing with!"
Knightley's expression is almost unflinching, but Simon doesn't miss the way his knuckles clench around nothing. He's trying to be patient.
"Or maybe we can cut right to the endgame where you tell me what's on your mind."
"Forget it, Knightley." Simon pretends not to see how the name deepens the other man's scowl. "You don't want to hear this."
"And you need to quit assuming you know everything about me," Knightley says as he walks past him to the cave entrance. Simon watches as he steps outside and looks up at the cliffside above them. "We'll be alright. There's not enough snow to cause an avalanche."
"...Good." Simon knows that already. It doesn't do much to help.
"And even if it did, we can break through. We've got those scrolls to melt our way out."
"If they still work," Simon mutters. Knightley has spent the last few nights tampering with them, engraving ruins onto one of his old crossbows. He's refused to say what he's trying to achieve, all Simon knows is there's been a lot of swearing and a lot of sparks.
"They'll work. There's enough power left in those things to bring the sky crashin' down around us."
"So you're saying we'll cause a cave-in? Perfect."
"We're not going to cause a damn cave-in!" The unexpected burst of anger is enough to silence Simon. Normally, it takes more to drive him to that point.
Wordlessly, Knightley drops down by the fire, a few feet from him. Their eyes meet, and Knightley shakes his head before grasping a half-drunk bottle of mead. He takes a swig before pouring the dregs over the waning flames.
"Try and get some sleep, Simon. I'll keep an eye on the fire."
"...I don't feel like sleeping," Simon admits. He tosses the makeshift poker down by the fire, the sword clanging as it hits the stone.
"Sure, but the offer's there if you want it." He had attempted to push Horace away, but despite everything the other man is still trying to help. His patience surprises him yet again. They fall into an uneasy silence and Simon watches as Horace grabs a couple of bottles of mead. He tosses one over and Simon mutters a quiet word of thanks.
Horace is trying. It might not be doing much good, but at least he's making an attempt. Perhaps he owes him an explanation in return.
"...It keeps coming back," Simon says the words carefully, watching as Horace looks at him through tired eyes. "Things can feel good for a while. Really good." Despite everything, Horace smiles, and Simon feels a strange fluttering feeling in his chest. "Great, even. But then it comes back and... and it's like..."
"It's like we never left."
"...Yes. That's right."
"...And it doesn't matter how many years go by, there's always part of us trapped in that cave."
It's unnervingly accurate. Simon tilts his head to look at him, studying him in silence. Horace’s shoulders are slumped in quiet defeat, and the pain is evident in his eyes. All this time, he thought he'd been the only one to remember the details of their ordeal. Carefully, Simon places his drink back down.
"Horace?"
"Yeah?"
"...How much do you remember?"
"That's…" Horace glances towards him, brows knitted in confusion. "Why'd you want to know?"
Because he's never thought about it before. Because when the truth had come tumbling out, it had always been about what Simon remembered. He pushed aside everything else, focusing only on his misery while assuming Horace only had to deal with the briefest glimpses of agony.
"I think it'd help," Simon replies. It's half true. He can't quite bring himself to say the rest, not when Horace looks so perplexed at the idea of Simon showing even the faintest bit of interest in him.
"I don't think regurgitating old memories will do much good for either of us."
"It helped me, didn't it?" Now it's entered his head, he needs to know. It will be gnawing incessantly at him otherwise. "Besides, you said I need to stop making assumptions. Maybe it would help me understand you."
For the briefest moment, a tired smile crosses Horace's lips. Then it’s gone.
"You've already said it's stuck in your head. I'm not gonna make things worse-"
"Horace, you can't make it worse. I can't get these memories out of my head. And right now, there's no way either of us can think of anything else."
"You've got a point." Horace takes another long swing from his drink before pushing it aside. He studies Simon for a moment, and Simon's sure he’s mulling over the fact that for once he's the one pushing for a conversation. "Where's all this coming from?"
"Curiosity, partially. But I can't shake the feeling that it's important. It’s going to keep hanging over our heads until we face it." And they both know how badly that can go.
"...How much do you want to know?"
"All of it."
"Simon, that's-"
"Wouldn't it be better to rip that bandage right off?" Simon asks. It's better to get it over with now, while they're both able to face it.
"...You're gonna hate me after this."
"Been there, done that. I know what happened, but I'm still here, aren't I?" Horace can't reopen old wounds when they've never closed to begin with. Horace leans back and rests his palms against the floor, his head tilted towards the stone above. Enough time goes by that Simon wonders if he’s even going to say anything.
"...I don't even know where to begin."
"From the top?"
"Yeah. Alright. I can do that." Horace takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "I remember finding you. You looked at me like I'd made your day just by showin' up." He slumps forward to rest his head in his hands as his eyes drift shut. "I... I tied you up and dragged you into that cave. I kept apologising, but what good's apologising when I..."
"When you'd already done that." Simon forces his voice into neutrality, his hands clenched in his lap. He knows instinctively that one wrong word and Horace will clam up.
"Y-yeah. Yeah. ...You begged me to let you go. But I didn't. I just kept apologising. For years I didn't know why, didn't understand why. But... after you told me... bits of it came back. Not that it matters. Knowing doesn't fix what I did."
Horace takes another deep breath before continuing. "...The snow wouldn't stop. And it kept getting colder. I’d never felt so much agony, but then the pain stopped. Everything went numb. And you... you wouldn't say anything. You wouldn't look at me. Don't know if you could even hear me. And that's when I knew we needed to get out. ... I needed to get you out."
He's never seen Horace like this before. Choked back words as he desperately tries to hold back his emotions. Once, not so long ago, he would've revelled in witnessing Horace endure the same agony Simon had carried with him for eighteen years. But now, that sadistic glee is nowhere to be found.
"I could see it,” Horace continues. “Running through my head, over and over. We're going to die here. We're both going to die. But the snow had caved in, and you kept slipping out of consciousness. I tried to untie you, but I couldn't. I tried digging through the snow until my fingers bled. I tried screaming for help 'til I couldn't speak."
When the truth first came out, Simon had yelled out every horrific detail, righteous fury filling every fragment of his soul. Horace, with the barest hint of conviction, had protested that he'd been only a child. Just six years old. Now Simon can't help but wonder which of them he was trying to convince more.
"Everything started to turn white. I couldn't think, couldn't feel. All I knew was that soon, it'd be over,” Horace mutters. His voice has grown fraught, almost as if he’s on the verge of an anxiety attack. “... I crawled back to you, and you looked right through me. And I could see it in your eyes. I couldn't help you. You were dying in front of me, and I couldn't save you. It was all my fault. We were going to die, and it was all my fault. I should've died, I should-"
"Stop!" Simon pushes the palms of his hands against his eyes, damming his own tears. Everything makes a perverse kind of sense. Always trying to be a hero, always desperate to be in control. Always trying to be there, even when Simon refused to let him get close. Even when, in the depths of despair, Simon had screamed over and over that he wished he was dead.
"I'm sorry-"
"I said stop!" Horace had apologised so many times that day as well. For anyone else, getting apologies from Horace was like getting blood from a stone. But not for Simon. Anger begins to flicker within, and Simon grabs it with both hands. Rage is easier than whatever else he's feeling.
He pulls himself closer and grabs Horace's shoulders. The empty, numb look he gives him does nothing to soothe his temper.
"Eighteen years! We've had to live with this for eighteen years! And what do they get?! My..." He's not going to call him father, but he has no other name. "He could've looked for us! He should have been the one to save us! But he left us to die! And yours?! He manipulated you, he used you, he nearly got you killed and now he's six feet under, no regret, no worries, nothing! They nearly killed us! But we're the ones who have to suffer?!"
Simon slams both hands down against the stone floor, not noticing the pain of his flesh hitting rock. Horace is properly looking at him now, but the wetness around his eyes is impossible to miss. The first time he's seen him cry since they were... since they were...
"I want to claw every little bit of pain out of us! I want to rip it from our minds again and again until there's nothing left! And I want to take it and I want them to feel it! I want them to see what it's like!" He runs a hand through his own hair and savagely pulls at the roots.
"Simon!" Horace shakes himself free of his stupor before disentangling Simon's hands and pulling him in for a hug.
"It's not fair! There's no way this is fair!" His hands go slack as Horace clutches him so securely that he can barely move. With a shaky breath, Simon collapses into him. "It's... it's just not fair..."
"It's not." It's not fair on you. Simon knows that's what Horace is thinking, and it's all so wrong. That someone who's as outwardly confident as Horace, as strong and self-assured, can be so wracked with guilt. That Simon had wanted him to feel guilt, but now that he's faced with it, it's too much to bear.
Simon takes a deep, steadying breath. It's still not enough. He feels Horace uncertainly stroking the small of his back and the tenderness makes it sting even more.
"I would've... I c-could've killed you. It shouldn't have been you. It should never have been you." Simon's hands claw into the fabric of Horace's clothes as he buries himself closer, hoping that affection will do more than words ever could.
Perhaps it's enough. Horace doesn't say anything, not for a long while, but he keeps holding him, his chin resting against Simon's shoulder.
"Simon..."
"If you're going to apologise again, don't."
"...I won’t."
Simon shuffles as he sits upright. Horace begins to let go of him, but he stops when Simon shakes his head. Gently, Simon cups the side of his face, his thumb lightly stroking his cheek. His mind races with emotion, but the anger has faded like snow melting in spring.
"I don't think I can forgive you,” Simon admits. Horace flinches, but he doesn’t move away.
"I wouldn't ask you to. Not anymore." Horace's quiet resignation feels strangely painful. Simon places his slender finger over his lips.
"But... maybe that's okay. I can't forgive who you were. I probably never will.” Horace is almost motionless, his arms still wrapped gently around Simon's back as he waits for him to continue. “But that was so long ago. Since then, you've protected me. You've helped me. You've killed for me." 'You make me feel things I don't really understand.' The thought is there, but he manages to bite it back, even as he can feel a faint blush spread across his cheeks. Awkwardly, he drops his hands back down to Horace's shoulders. Maybe it would have been worth saying, but the way Horace is gazing at him full of gentle wonder and devotion is more than enough.
"...I'd do that all over again. I'd do anything for you. You know that, right, Simon?"
"I know," Simon gives him a grin that hopefully is enough to cover up the way his heart's fluttering in his chest. "Anyway, my point is. The way I see it, you've got nothing to be forgiven for. Not now, not the Horace I know."
"...Thanks." Horace shoots him an awkward smile back, and Simon's sure that he's not the only one whose heart's pounding. "Hey. Uh, Simon?"
"Mhm?"
"I always wondered. You were always asking me why I stayed with you. But I kept thinking the same thing about you."
“Do you think you've got your answer now?"
"Yeah. I think so."
"Good." Simon flops down against him as he pulls Horace's arms closer. It's easier than explaining that even at his worst, he'd felt an inexplicable connection, pulling him in time and time again.
Eventually, sleep begins to take him. Horace gives him a gentle nudge and Simon stares at him, captivated by his grey eyes that shine brightly in the firelight. A tired spark of adrenaline chases through him, urging him onwards.
Simon leans closer, suppressing a smile as Horace blinks at him in surprise. Is it the right time? He doesn’t know. But he’s longed for this moment, and there’s no more barriers between them. What’s the sense in delaying it?
His soft lips brush against Horace’s chapped ones. Their first kiss is tender, full of years of yearning. Horace lets Simon lead, and he can sense the restraint that courses through each touch. When they finally break apart, Horace looks at him in blissful wonder.
“What brought that on? I’ve gotta admit, I never thought you’d make a move.”
“It just felt right, that’s all,” Simon smiles. His friend’s devotion is a fiery beacon set against the freezing cold, and its intensity grows as Horace leans in for another kiss. They lose themselves in each other's touch as they forget about the snow outside.
Tomorrow, when they reach the nearest inn, they can make up for lost time. The promise of a warm bath, a warmer bed and the heat of Horace’s embrace is the perfect remedy against the cold. But tonight, they’ll take things slowly.
Eventually, Horace leads him to his bedroll and they curl up together under the blankets. A feeling of peace overtakes them both as they fall asleep in each other’s arms.