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On his twelfth day of life, at approximately 9:30 AM, Baz—his creator, his master, his friend—takes him outside.
Outside is air that does not smell of metal and latex and oil. Outside is ground that gives spongy and soft beneath heavy feet. Outside is water dripping down the long, spindly branches reaching out like Simon's willowy metal arms, tiny branch-like fingers. Simon doesn't have fingers yet, but Baz says he'll give them to him once he finds a way to numb the pain.
(Pain is when Simon kicked the metal table, dissonant clang and strange, buzzy sting creeping up his calf. Baz doesn't like when Simon is in pain. Simon hasn't thought about it, so he does now. And, yes; it was a most negative feeling.)
Baz is wearing a coat, the hem trailing down to his knees. The fabric's all puffed up to keep him warm, but Simon doesn't need coats or clothing at all. He runs hot, Baz says; that's why Simon sometimes likes to put his hand ('some kind of iron furnace, I swear') on Baz's arm until he sleeps.
Baz does not get enough sleep. Thus, Simon does the Iron Furnace Procedure as often as he can get away with.
Baz says he needs 'exposure to something other than my bleakness.' Simon doesn't know the word 'bleakness,' but he does know Baz—or, he hopes he does. So he assumes bleak means having a soft voice, using a lot of long words, and not needing spectacles.
"Baz," Simon says as they walk out onto the lawn. "Are you—not human—anymore?"
Bleak also means the curator of Simon's mind, which is an exhibit of words by Baz Pitch.
Baz turns. They stop walking. He says in that gentle, musing voice, "Whatever do you mean?"
"You said—humans need spectacles. Now you—don't. So. You are—not human—now."
Someday, perhaps, he will speak like Baz Pitch. He will be… bleak.
"Ah. I'm sorry. I made an error in my explanation. I meant that humans are very flawed creatures, not that they all need spectacles."
Simon suddenly has the urge to reassure his friend. He reaches up and does the Iron Furnace Procedure, his warm hand on Baz's upper arm.
"You—are not—flawed. In—perfect order, actually. Except you—don't sleep enough."
Simon wishes his face could do what Baz's does. His lips (soft, not metallic) would curl into a droop, and his brow would wrinkle like paper.
Baz sits down on a bench. Simon kneels beside him, since he's too heavy for all the fragile things in Baz's world to hold him.
"We need to backtrack," Baz says. "I've gone about this all wrong."
Baz takes Simon's hand, his skin cool and soft. Simon wonders how long it's been since Baz woke up on a metal table. He'll ask when Baz gets done explaining about being human.
Baz carefully lifts Simon's metal hand to his chest, where Simon can detect a dull, rhythmic thudding. He feels a bit startled.
"Broken?" he says hesitantly.
"No." Baz's eyes get all soft and fond, the way they only rarely do. "Though I can understand why that might feel alarming. It's my heart. It pumps blood through my body. That's the main difference between us: oil flows through your joints, and blood flows through my veins."
Very slowly, Simon reaches up to brush his hand along the thin skin at the dip of Baz's neck. "You could—get hurt. More than me. I could—hurt you."
The idea is suddenly so alien and paralyzing that Simon feels the weight of his limbs, feels as though they might drag him down beneath the dewy earth under his feet.
The look in Baz's eyes now is unfamiliar. Further context and evidence are needed to identify the emotion.
"Do you want to?" he says, and his voice is calm in a way that suggests he already knows the answer. Baz knows the answer to everything.
"No." Simon presses his hand to his chest with a dull clang, right over the spot where his heart should be. "I—would never—do that. But someone else? They could—hurt you?"
Baz processes this for a long moment. Then he exhales softly. "Maybe. It's a dangerous world we live in. Beautiful, certainly, but dangerous, too."
"I would—keep—you—safe," Simon says, struggling over the words. "If—you want."
Baz's face is now alight of little joy. Simon has discovered that Baz does not express big emotions on his face or in his words, but one can find the minuscule signs of feeling in his demeanor, if one cares enough to look. Simon thinks that he doesn't know much else besides caring about Baz. That's all right with him.
"It goes both ways, Simon. I promised after creating you that I would keep you out of harm's way, and that you would always have a home, should you need it."
Simon tilts his head, a slow motion prompted by the magnetic field pushing his head closer to his shoulder. "What's—home? I don't know—the word—home."
Baz's creator's hands, always in motion, smooth a patch of grass next to him. "This word is another difficult one to explain."
Simon thinks that this is not a problem, due to his inarguable conclusion from earlier that Baz knows everything.
"Home is a feeling. But it can also be a place or a person. It's anyone, anywhere, or anything that feels safe. When someone is home, they feel like they belong. Like a storm could be screaming outside the windows, but they'd never feel the wind. They'd never be scared or worried."
Oh.
The enormity of Simon's feelings is too big for words. He reaches forward and clasps Baz's hand in both of his. He can feel the gears in his chest sputter and whir as he tries to shape the ache within him into something orderly.
Miraculously, he doesn't have to. "Are you trying to tell me that I'm your home?"
Baz's voice is very quiet indeed. Simon gives a clunky nod.
All of a sudden, Baz seems to have also been struck speechless. His breath hitches once or twice before he seems to give up in favor of resting his head against Simon's. They sit like that, side by side and leaning on each other, for a blissfully long time.
…
While Baz is getting ready to sleep—at a reasonable hour per Simon's insistence—Simon finally gets the chance to ask him his question.
"How many days ago were you created?"
Baz exhales. He does a lot of that, even though it's not strictly necessary for his breathing patterns. "Let me see—well, I was born… It would be around 6,570 days ago."
"Born? Like—on the—table?"
"No, not—well, technically it was on a bed. But it wasn't the same. I was created differently."
Baz's cheeks are a little pink—very curious.
"I wish—I was made—like you—were," Simon says, trying to make his voice soft the way Baz's is. "I wish—I was just—like you."
Baz makes a little hissing noise between his teeth. "I don't," he says gently. "I didn't want you to be a replica. I wanted you to be something new, something beautiful. It's okay to not be fashioned from the same stuff as everyone else."
Simon thinks that if his heart could beat, it'd be racing and skipping and clenching now. "Really?"
Baz smiles at him, and it looks almost reluctant, counterintuitive on him. But Simon likes that he smiles anyway, even though he might not always feel free enough to do it. That he lets himself defy expectation with Simon is… it's something that he doesn't have a word for yet.
"Yes. If I wanted you to be like me, I would talk to the mirror every day."
Simon still hasn't quite figured out how to laugh, but he feels the beginnings of it catch and light up in his chest. Baz grins, then yawns. "You did want me to go to sleep early, yes? Was it merely a ploy to get more questions before I grew too exhausted?"
It takes Simon a second, but then he realizes: this is one of Baz's jokes. His wry humor. Simon can't laugh, so he hums instead. Then he shakes his head. "Go—to sleep."
"Yes, Captain," Baz says as he leans back against the pillow.
"Wait!" Simon turns to the door. "One minute."
He walks into the old storage closet, where a quilt is folded, and lifts it so tenderly with his bulky metal hands. He returns it to the room and drapes it over Baz. "For when—you're cold," he says.
"Oh," Baz says, soft and surprised. "Thank you."
"Pleasant dreams," Simon says, mimicking a character from one of Baz's books.
Baz smiles. "Have a splendid evening."
And yes—that's the word for Baz's smile. Baz—his friend, his creator, his home—is splendid.