Archive of Our Own

“Hello, my name is Simon, and I’m… doing this against my will.”

Because Ryland Grace was a most unrelenting man.

It wasn’t against his will. Not really. He could hoist himself from his chair and leave that room any time he wanted. But — and there was always a but — whatever this was, it seemed to please Grace. 

The notion of this. Of sitting at a table, before a camera, recording his every word, his every movement. It brought the man some sort of consolation when he’d agreed; the only reason he had in the first place.

Whatever. He’d sit and stare at that small, red light for however long it took for Grace to get bored with this whole thing.

“This is day one of… Therapy.” 

Therapy. A ridiculous concept for a man like him, he’d thought as Grace explained it to him. There was no therapy, no psychiatry at Eden Station, and they had done just fine.

A sinking feeling in his gut, at the very core of him. He tried not to think about Eden. Most days were successful; others lacked proper distraction. He spoke, his own voice the only means of a distraction here; “The date is currently…”

He didn’t know the date. He didn’t even know the year. Time passed differently on this planet. Grace had explained it to him about a hundred times, so had the rock. He hadn’t understood it, from human nor alien explanation. 

“I don’t know the date. Uh,” he tried to think of something to fill the space, to fill the thirty-minute gap Grace had wedged in his day. “I’ve been here for… a few months, at least. I think, anyway.” 

It had been long enough for scars to heal — long enough for the skin of that disgusting lump he’d once called a shoulder to twine itself back together. A useless mass of flesh; that’s all it was now.

The aliens were working on a prosthetic, apparently. Something he could control with hardly more than a thought. Something to do with muscle sensors. He didn’t understand the science behind it, nor the mechanics of it. But he didn't need to, he figured. They understood it — Grace had as well, for the most part. It would take them some time, obviously. They weren’t human biologists by any means. 

And he trusted both of them, somewhat. To whatever extent someone such as himself could, anyway. 

Simon reasoned that they'd kept him alive this long; he felt it would have been entirely counterintuitive of them to put so much effort into his survival just to throw it away after months of effort. 

Simon was a paranoid man, but his rationale was still intact. Somewhat. 

“I don’t really know what to do, here.”

It didn't matter what he said. Not really. No one would see these videos anyway, as Grace had explained quite thoroughly. Something reminiscent of confidentiality. Anything spoken or done was left between him and the camera. And, per their agreement, if, come a week's time, he no longer wished to continue with the recordings, they would be deleted. 

Without ever being seen, without ever being heard. The sentiment made him uneasy, a sort of deja vu. It left a feeling far too familiar in its wake. 

And despite this — what should have been encouragement for him to open up, without fear of outside view — Simon was at a loss for words. What was he meant to talk about, really? Because he certainly was not eager to chat with a camera about his life before Erid. No one wanted to hear his sob story. Not even himself.

Apparently, Grace had done this, too. On the ship. Logs of his days, of his… feelings. Or whatever. He said it brought him some sort of comfort, speaking his thoughts aloud. Even if no one was there to listen. 

Simon didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand a lot of the things Grace talked about. And, albeit, with much reluctance, he’d agreed. 

“I guess, the time is…” He glanced for a clock. There wasn't one. The camera had no screen, so no timestamp. He couldn’t remember when he’d hit record, much less when he entered the room. Beneath the table, his leg jittered. An incessant, consistent, up-and-down movement that rattled the table, and the camera with it. “I don’t… know the time.”

His heart pounded in his chest. God, he needed out of this room. Needed to see something other than these same four walls, that blinking red camera.

No idea how long it had been, no idea how long he had left; Simon sat there, in silence, until Grace had come to retrieve him.

❦

“Hello, my name is Simon, and this is… day two.”

He paused. Had it been two days? Or was it three? God, did he already lose count?

“I think.”

What an idiot. He scoffed at himself. What was he even doing? 

“This is just— ridiculous,” he dragged a palm down the side of his face, recoiled at the jagged, scarred tissue he found there. “Why did I agree to this?”

He knew exactly why he had agreed. That look on Grace's face. The way his eyes had softened at the edges, creases where crows rest their feet. The way his knitted brow untwined itself, a careful ease of muscle. Hardly noticeable to an untrained eye. 

Simon, admittedly, was not the most observant of men. But he imagined it would be quite difficult — not to know what each slight change in expression meant — not to know anything about the only other person one found themselves accompanied by. 

“It’s just,” a hand over his mouth left his words muffled, most certainly indiscernible to the camera, “stupid.” 

Simon hated it — being still. It made his skin crawl. He’d always been like that, even before all of this. Now, though, it was most certainly worse. Where it had once been a dull ache of want to be kept busy, it was now an undeniable, most impossible need for a distraction. 

It was reasonable, though. To him, anyway. There was presumably something much better he could be doing right now, something more productive to fill his time. Rather, instead, he was stuck here. Alone. 

He hated being alone. But he wasn’t all that keen on being in substantially close quarters with another being, either. A living, breathing contradiction. He found himself in a constant state of discontent either way, alone or not.

He leaned his head against the back of the chair, neck craned toward the ceiling. He needed a distraction. Anything to stop his thoughts from bouncing around several various topics, returning every so often to the fact that he could be spending his time doing literally anything else.

The absence of things allowed for a wandering mind. And somehow, it seemed as though Grace had wormed his way between each thought.

“Told him, after the last time, that I have no idea what to talk about. Or what to do.”

It wasn’t exactly therapy, by Grace’s definition, he’d come to learn. More just… talking for talking's sake.

“Said I should talk about what happened to me. Don’t know if he means what happened in that submarine. Or on Filament Station. Or on…”

Eden.

Simon scratched the back of his neck. He still wasn’t used to the charred, burnt skin there. The scarring was different from the rest — smooth, purposeful. Entirely man-made.

“God, let it be over already.”

This was a grave he had dug himself, and he would lay himself to rest.

❦

“My name is Simon, and this is day three.”

Simon cracked his knuckles against the surface of the table. Once a nervous tic consisting of both hands, now just another thing to be adapted. He hadn’t gotten the hang of it yet — of any change that had come along with a missing arm.

Another odd sensation amongst many; his fingers felt as though they needed to be cracked —  specifically the fingers upon the arm which was no longer there. Though, of course, the hand was not there, either. And thus, no fingers to crack along with the others upon his remaining hand. Grace had explained one day, that it was quite common in cases such as his. He couldn’t remember what he’d called it.

It was odd how he could still feel it. Well, not really feel it. It was entirely a trick of the mind. He knew that. Rationality didn’t stop it from feeling so very real, though.

It was something he hadn’t given a second thought to before. When he’d lost the limb — or come to terms with the fact of such — he’d initially expected to miss the more obvious things; multi-tasking, grabbing things, for the most part. No one initially thinks of the more minute losses: tying shoes, opening bottles. Lord, he even had to re-learn how to dress himself.

And, there had been another, entirely different side to it all: the lingering pain. One might assume the pain would simply be the initial loss. Maybe even last into the first few weeks of healing. One would be wrong, however. Quite wrong.

The pain was always there. A quiet ache. Nothing soothed it, nothing quelled it. It was, entirely, everlasting. Like having your limb bent at an uncomfortable breaking point at all times. But the limb simply wasn’t there. Most days were worse than others. Some were better. It fluctuated in intensity, and there wasn’t much Simon could do about it.

Except, of course, Grace thought he could. 

“Pain in my arm was pretty bad last night. Couldn't sleep. Grace thought a distraction might help, so I didn’t have to sit and wallow in my own misery, I guess. So, he had me watch a movie. With him.”

Grace watched movies. A lot. Nearly every night. Sometimes with Simon, mostly with Rocky. His computer, one of many they had transferred from the Hail Mary, long before Simon had arrived, had just about every movie ever made. Or at least, it seemed that way, to Simon. 

“I think he called it the Muppets. It didn’t really help. Just made me more… on edge.”

Simon didn’t do well with sitting still, never did. Hence, the fateful origin of the tic. 

This was different, though. Somewhat. It wasn’t the movie itself that set him on edge, nor was it exactly from sitting still. It was the time it took. Or, perhaps, his lack of knowing such. He didn’t have the words to explain it.

“I don’t really get it. Not the movie— well. I didn’t really get that either. Why doesn’t anyone question the fact that they’re puppets? Anyway, not my point. I don’t get… movies in general. As a concept.” His words slowed toward the end as he began to notice just how much he had spoken, how much space his voice had taken up.

Quieter, slower, he picked up where he left off, “He seems to like them. I don’t see the point in them. I sit and watch with him, anyway.”

Sitting, doing nothing but staring at a screen, for anywhere from upwards of an hour and a half? Simon nearly lost his mind. But he’d done it for Grace. 

They didn’t have movies on Eden. Things like movies were distractions, and distractions weren’t something to be tolerated.

Simon sighed. He’d lost things to talk about. 

❦

“Hello, my name is…” Simon shook his head, “Wait. Why am I doing that? I know my own name.”

It’s not that he ever watched back the footage, anyway. It just sat there, unused, unseen. 

“It’s day four of this. Just about halfway through.”

In his lap, just out of view from the camera, his hand fidgeted with a small object. 

“He, uhm. He gave me this last night.”

He brought the object up to camera-view and leaned forward slightly. 

It was a watch, unattached from his wrist. A small, digital one with two lines of numbers, illuminated by a dull green. The color was familiar — he hated it. He wouldn’t ask Grace to change it. He’d already put enough effort into making it.

Nor would he ask for help to put it on. He simply kept it in his pocket when it wasn’t needed.

“Top line is Eridian time, bottom line ours,” Simon explained, to the best of his ability. “Don’t know why I’d need to know their time, but…” 

He brought it back toward himself, flipped it in his hand, and read the time. It’d been three minutes since he’d clicked record, five since he entered the room. He checked it often. It brought him “peace of mind,” as Grace had put it. 

“He asks me after every… session— how I’m feeling. Writes it down in a notebook. To see how I’ve improved. Or, I guess, if there is any improvement to begin with.” Little did the man know, Simon wasn’t actually doing any of it. But he didn’t have to know that. Simon didn’t have to let him down, not purposefully.

He wasn’t sure why he was explaining this. He already knew it; he didn’t need to explain what he already knew to himself. Yet, he continued.

“I told him, after the second day, that I was fine. He knows when I’m lying, unfortunately.” Just as he had known Grace’s tells, Grace had known his in return. It was annoying, but inevitable. 

“And somehow he came to the conclusion that it’s because I can’t tell how long it’s been. Or, I guess, how much longer I have left.” It didn’t make sense. Though, how often had the things Grace said made any sense? The answer: not often. “Said he noticed it while we watched that movie.”

He looked down at the clock, then back to the camera. “I guess I’m not as…” a moment of thought, searching for the right word, “Tense. I s’ppose. Easier to think about something other than passing time.”

Still, his thoughts often still circled back around to things he could be doing instead. But now, it was less incessant acknowledgement that an unknown segment of time had been wasted, and more so a dull worry of things he would have to do after this. Bothersome, but manageable, at least. 

For a brief moment, Simon breathed the sound of a faux laugh, “Seriously, what am I doing?”

Another glance toward the clock, he still had fifteen minutes left. 

Simon spent the remainder of it in silence. 

❦

“Day five.”

It could be undoubtedly noted, from the moment the footage began, that something was entirely off with Simon.

His words came breathy, uncertain, “Grace had me watch another movie last night. About some— musical artist. Said it was something he never got around to watching on Earth. Whatever, doesn’t matter. I don’t remember the name.” 

His eyes didn’t meet the camera; instead, they remained trained upon the watch in his hand. He flipped it once, twice, and again. And tentatively, he spoke, “Doesn’t matter. The artist— I don’t remember his name, either. But, he was…”

He put the watch down upon the table, reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need to talk. All he needed to do was sit there and wait for it to be over. “Why am I doing this to myself?”

A long, silent moment passed. Simon sighed, and he reached for the watch. For reasons beyond him, he continued, “He was— The character, artist, whatever… he was depicted within… same-sex relations.”

Same sex relationships were generally, collectively, frowned upon on Eden Station. 

Any relationships, really. Relationships led to want, want led to distraction. Distraction, unto destruction, led a very linear path to the demise of humanity as a whole. As it was, humanity was already on its last leg — there could be no distractions in Eden.

Same-sex relationships were not explicitly prohibited until Simon had hit his teenage years, hardly old enough to know what it truly meant. He hadn’t, until that point, heard of it, anyway. The young man scarcely thought of opposite-sex attraction, certainly not same-sex attraction. It hadn’t even registered as an option one could choose. 

It had been explained one day by the Elders — following the imprisonment of two men he’d never prior heard the names of, and the implementation of a new law — that while opposite-sex attraction was frowned upon, same-sex attraction was a sin. 

That word was thrown around a lot. Sin. 

Lying was a sin, gluttony was a sin. Lots of things were sins. Same-sex attraction, apparently, had been amongst them.

At least, with opposite-sex relations, it may end in the addition of population. While this could be beneficial or otherwise, depending on Eden’s supply output at that given moment, an addition to a dying species was welcome nonetheless.

Opposite-sex relations, obviously, could not end in such the same way. It was purely distraction. Lust was the word they used; the root of opposite-sex sin. 

“I think he knew something was wrong when I tensed. Of course he did,” a quiet breath. “He told me how long we’d been watching, how long we had left. I told him it wasn’t that. He seemed to… understand. Somehow. After that.”

Simon lulled his head to the side, eyes upon the sole door of the room. 

“He asked if I wanted to watch something else. I told him no. We… finished the movie. In silence.”

He didn’t know what to say. So he spoke the truth: “I’m not one of those people who… I don’t care what anyone does. I would be the last to judge anyone for… anything. I don’t want Grace to think I’m that kind of person.”

But Grace knew. He knew exactly what kind of person he was. Simon had yet to tell him what he’d done on Filament Station; he didn’t need to. It wasn’t exactly difficult to look at him and see a killer. It wasn’t difficult to see the blood on his hands, even without a hint of red. 

It wasn’t difficult to look at Simon and see the Butcher. He knew this because he’d witnessed it in himself. A killer, a murderer, a monster. A butcher of men.

Simon knew this. He knew Grace knew this. How could he not? A silent, mutual understanding — that’s what Simon understood it as, anyway. 

Simon didn’t want to appear that way to Grace, even if he knew, deep down, that he could never change the way others viewed him. He didn’t want to appear as a hateful man, because that wasn’t what he was. Or, at least, it was what he was trying not to be. 

“I don’t want him to think I’m that kind of person.”

Those words held a greater weight than he’d meant them to. A weight not even he understood himself. 

❦

“Day six. I think.”

From the record button, his hand returned to the table; the watch was bound around his wrist now, rather than grasped in his palm, where it had so often been seen. 

“Almost done with this whole thing. So done with this whole—“

His gaze didn’t meet the camera. He couldn’t find it within himself.

A breath, and another, and Simon began to speak, “He put it on me last night. Realized I couldn’t exactly…”

The whole thing had made him realize just how much of a waste he was. He’d thought of it before, of course. It was a common occurrence in his mind, a subtle reminder each time he found himself unable to do something without assistance.

But it was something about last night, as Grace so delicately held his hand, as he worked the watch around his wrist. He’d pressed the tender pad of his thumb upon his skin, beneath the watch and against his vein, to ensure it hadn’t been too tight. Simon was almost certain Grace could feel the rush of blood. 

Simon hated it. He didn’t deserve it.

He was alive, not because he deserved to be, but because of the unrelenting kindness of another man.

It made him realize that he didn’t deserve Grace’s kindness. He didn’t deserve Grace’s delicacy. Most of all, he hadn’t deserved his deliverance. 

And not only was he alive, but he had a life. A peaceful life, by an ocean — a real ocean with water. Never did he have to worry about how he would keep warm at night. Never did he worry about his next meal. Never did he worry about his own survival against the survival of others. Never did he worry of an unfair leader or an unfair system. He even had a home, his own home, with his own belongings. 

The concept of having things to call your own was beyond him.

And a concept further beyond that; he had people who cared about him.

Or, perhaps more accurately put; he had one person who cared for him. And just about an entire species that worked to ensure his survival. 

So why, he wondered, why was he so eager to take it all for granted?

He couldn’t help it; he couldn’t help but ruin anything good he had for himself. It was a pattern by now, and quite a noticeable one. Simon just couldn’t help himself.

With an elbow planted firmly against the desk, an open palm against his mouth, Simon spoke, scarcely above a whisper: “Why did I have to think that?” 

The thought had been intrusive, all-encompassing. He couldn’t have ignored it if he tried, and he certainly could not forget it.

As those lithe fingers had brushed his wrist, possibly carrying just about all the care in the vast universe, Simon couldn’t help himself. 

His heart had leapt to his throat. And it had again, as he recalled it. 

He’d imagined the way Grace’s lips would feel upon the back of his hand. Then he’d imagined them against his own. Skin pressed against skin, and the intensity of heat which exuded between them. 

Simon knew it was wrong. In many ways, it was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. It was a callous, selfish thought. 

A quiet voice reminded him, at the back of his mind, that it was, above all else, a most unforgivable sin. 

Simon’s hand shook at the thought of it, replayed at the back of his mind. It was inescapable now. Simon just couldn’t help himself.

“I’m—“ many words came to him, all various levels within the definitions of verbal self-flagellation. All but a noise escaped him, a terribly weak thing. A breath, and another — hardly enough to fill his lungs —  and something welled at the corners of his eyes. Was he crying? 

Lord, he was pathetic. Crying over his own sin, as the camera before him bore his only witness: himself. That blinking light seemed to mock his misery. 

“I don’t know why I’m like this.” His voice cracked, and emotion bled from him. It ripped through his core, tore at his lungs. He could hardly breathe. And suddenly, he was drowning again. And he deserved it.

“I should’ve died.”

He believed it. Entirely. He should have drowned beneath that ocean of blood. He should have died at Filament Station. He would even go as far as to say he shouldn’t have made it past his own conception. At least then, he wouldn’t have been able to take the lives of so many others. At least then, he wouldn’t have been a terrible waste of breathable air, of resources, of extended kindness. 

“I should’ve died.”

And he believed it.

❦

“Day seven. I didn’t sleep last night.”

That much had been evident, and the lack of sleep was plain upon his face. 

Instead, he’d lain awake. For eight hours, he’d done nothing but watch time pass. If he closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself he was back in that submarine. Right where he deserved to be, serving out his sentence.

And maybe he was. Maybe this was all a hallucination. Or worse, the creature within the depths, projecting some twisted fantasy onto him. A miserable purgatory. 

But it couldn’t be a purgatory. This couldn’t be Hell. If it were, if it was, he would have deserved far worse than this. No matter how terrible this was, he knew he deserved worse. Far worse.

“I’ve barely talked to him. I’m trying not to.”

He couldn’t. Not until he got over… whatever this was. Not until he stopped thinking that way. It wasn’t fair to Grace, who had only ever shown him kindness and the most gentle, sincere care. It wasn’t fair, that unbeknownst to him, Simon couldn’t do much more than stare at his lips. That unbeknownst to him, Simon couldn't help but imagine all the ways he could kiss him. Of which there were, unfortunately, quite many. 

Simon wasn’t a hateful man. He hadn’t lied when he’d said he did not care for the actions of others, or who they cared for. 

But Simon was not other people. 

He knew it was a double standard — not to care what others did, but to hold his own actions so critically. He knew it wasn’t rational; he was aware of just how illogical it was. But he didn’t care. It was wrong of him. And, in all honesty, it even would have been wrong of him if Grace were a woman. The fact that he was a man, however, only added an extra layer of wickedness to it.

Trying to stop was harder than it seemed to be. Avoiding the root cause was one thing; rejecting his own impulsive thoughts was another. Simon imagined it akin to kicking an addiction. Unfortunately for him, there was an overabundance of his vice, oh-so ready to do virtually anything Simon asked of him.

“But it’s hard, y’know.” He sighed, “When we’re the only two fuckin’ humans on this planet.” He closed his eyes, dragged a hand across his face.

“At least it’s the last day of this. Hopefully. Unless he’s planning something else. Maybe he wants me to do one last day. I don’t know. Can’t imagine he does. Not that this did much of anything, anyway.”

Simon felt much like a wounded animal. Too wounded to survive, with no one willing to put him out of his misery — no one willing to put him to sleep. Even if it was for the best, even if he would never make a full recovery, if he even would at all. 

“Hopefully it’s the last I’ll have to see of this camera.”

He sat there. Alone, hardly breathing, as he watched time pass. Maybe tonight he would sleep. He doubted it. 

❦

Simon reluctantly awoke to the sound of knocking.

He groaned and brought his wrist up to view. Why in God’s name was someone knocking on his door at seven in the morning?

Simon didn’t have to question who that someone was. The aliens hardly bothered him. They couldn’t, really, not without a translator. Rocky was the only one currently situated with a translator, and Simon was still getting used to understanding their chirps and tunes. Not that he imagined any of them would want to bother him, in all honesty. Their curiosity was typically in the form of distant regard. It was eerie, without eyes. And somehow, Simon was still very much aware of when their gazes lay upon him. 

It was Grace, undoubtedly. Maybe if he stayed still long enough, the man would simply give up and get distracted by something else. 

“C’mon, Simon! I know you’re a light sleeper!”

Fuck.

Simon gathered the nearest shirt — slipped it over his head, pushed one arm in, and pulled it over his other side. It was warm on Erid, even within their dome, too warm some nights to sleep with a shirt. 

He was pretty sure it was once Grace’s, too large to fit him properly, just big enough to fit Simon. If it weren’t for the terrible math-related pun plastered on the front of it, he’d assume it to be from anywhere else. Well, that, combined with the fact that Grace was the only possible place it could have come from.

It was strange to wear clothes that weren’t pieces of scrap hastily sewn together. It was all one texture, all one color. It was plain, simple. Simon liked it. He’d even begun to sew his own clothes, with material constructed by the aliens. The texture of it was different from that of Earth clothing — rougher, completely rudimentary. He didn’t mind. It was more of a pastime than anything, really. 

That, and every once in a while, he feared he would forget how to sew. It was the last thing his mother taught him. He couldn’t forget. It was hard to relearn with one hand, but he made it work. 

Sewing — the ability to do so, to have the materials given to him without expectation of anything in return, the fact that he was even alive to do it — just another thing among the ever-growing list of many he’d taken for granted. 

He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve any of it. Not while the only thing he could think of was all the things he could sew for Grace to wear. How it would look, his own work sprawled upon his shoulders. How he would look, within something made by Simon’s own hand.

He glanced toward the desk, the camera, at the corner of the room. At least, he wouldn’t have to record himself today. It was over, and it had done nothing.

The knocking persisted, a twinge of impatience hidden within it. Simon was torn from his thoughts. He checked his watch — he’d taken longer than he’d meant. 

Words began to tumble from Grace nearly as soon as he opened the door: “And because I know you, I know something’s up.” Grace shoved his hands in his pockets and seemed to fidget with something within one of them, “So.” He sniffed, shifted his weight as he began again, “What is… up? With you?”

The man spoke awkwardly. Perhaps just about as awkwardly as anyone could. 

Simon, upon their first meeting, had immediately gathered that Grace was the type who had not been socialized enough as a child. The man had no sense of too much or too little eye contact, consistently teetering between the two.

Simon was a simple man. So were his lies. He returned with only one word, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Grace laughed — the ironic kind of sort. But it hadn’t sounded angry, more akin to playfulness than anything. “Oh, yeah. No, definitely. Avoiding me is nothing for sure. You do realize we’re the only people here, right? And there’s like— nothing to do half the time. There’s absolutely nothing that would keep you busy for twenty-four hours.”

A terrible pit opened at the very core of him. His skin turned cold, while his insides only grew warmer — a sickening feeling. 

“But it’s alright! Really!” Grace threw up his hands. “We can talk about it later. Or never! If that's what you want.”

He sounded sincere, just as he always had. It only made Simon feel worse. He shouldn’t have lied, but he couldn’t exactly tell him the truth, either. It was unfair to Grace either way.

“And if you don’t want to talk about it right now— which, as I said, is fine— then you need to come with me right now. It's urgent.”

“Urgent?” 

“Yeah!” If it were truly urgent, as Grace seemed to want him to believe, Simon presumed he wouldn’t be smiling nearly as much as he was right now. “Yeah, super urgent! Probably the most urgent anything could ever be.”

Simon only stared, his brows furrowed, only just.

Grace’s shoulders dropped with defeat, “Just— come on, man. Don’t make me ruin the surprise. Just trust me, alright?”

A moment passed, and Simon glanced to the side, “Fine.”

“Oh, thank God. I really didn’t want to spoil it. It’s a sort of congratulations thing for completing your first week of therapy. Or maybe, more so, a thank you for being such an admirable neighbor? Gah, let’s just call it a gift.”

Grace talked a lot. Simon listened. He was alright with the dynamic. He liked listening better than talking, anyway. And for a moment, he could almost convince himself things were normal. That they were normal people, on a normal beach. Just friends, talking.

But Lord only knows Simon would have found a way to fuck that up, too. 

They walked, shoulder to missing shoulder. The rest of the way was mostly in silence, save for the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes. And for possibly the first time since he’d lost it, Simon was thankful for the missing arm — he needn’t feel the brush of fingers as they walked in tandem. 

Grace, of course, was the first to break the silence; “I asked them all to leave— I think they’re eager to see it, too. Finished, I mean.” He waved his hands, as if to shoo his own thoughts. “Gah, I need to stop talking— I’ll spoil it.” 

The man smiled, the swell of pride evident within it. Simon couldn’t look away.

“Just because— well, it’s personal, I guess? For you, I mean. I think, at least. Seemed more fitting for it to just be us. You’ll understand when we get there.” 

After what he deemed was much too long, Simon tore his eyes away. It didn't seem as though Grace had noticed. That, or he hadn't cared. Simon wasn't sure which he preferred. 

Simon was struck with the sudden realization that he’d never seen this area of the beach — it was unrecognizable. Had it been shrouded by fog this entire time? No, it wasn’t nearly that dense even on the humidest of days. Not to mention, this portion of the beach was significantly less foggy — and their faux sun beamed brighter here. 

Was it possible this had been constructed over the last twenty-four hours? He knew Eridians were terrific engineers — especially Rocky — but this was something else entirely. An entire area of land, terraformed in one day? Or, well, nearly five Eridian days — Simon was getting better at understanding the time difference.

It was impressive, admirable, even — their tenacity, their ability.

Much too impressed by the change in scenery, Simon hardly noticed as they came up to a generous area of — what appeared to be — dirt. If he had to estimate, he’d say it was nearly fifteen feet by fifteen feet. He wasn’t sure how deep it went, with just a surface view. 

Grace paused, and Simon followed suit, though not without nearly bumping into him. He turned to meet his eye, but found Grace’s gaze was already upon him. 

“Surprise!”  

“It’s, uh. It’s dirt.”

“Well, yeah— yes, it is. Now, just— let me explain a little bit.” Grace seemed eager to get the words out, as they tumbled from him a jumbled mess of half put-together ideas. “Figuring out what kind of soil we needed was a nightmare. Apparently, it needs sandy loam, with a pH between six and seven. I’m no gardener myself— killed pretty much every plant placed in my care. And, of course, Erid has no plants whatsoever— the atmosphere is too dense for sunlight to reach the surface, hence why they evolved without visual sight, so they initially had no idea what they had to make, either…” 

Grace seemed to trail off, though he eventually found his way back to the original topic. 

“Once we had the soil prepared, I started working out where I was gonna put it. The original plan was to make a sort of planter— like a pot or something— but then I realized— hey! Where would the roots go once it was too big? And I didn’t want to risk something going wrong once we had to uproot it and move it elsewhere. And trust me, a lot could go wrong here. Pretty sure I could run a whole farm now with everything I’ve read about. Apparently, coffee grounds are good for them? I’ve been collecting that, too, every morning.”

Silence overcame them, and Simon interjected, “So it’s… still dirt.”

“Oh, well, wait— It would probably make a whole lot more sense with this—“ Grace reached into his pocket, the very same Simon had watched him fidget with earlier. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Put your hand out and close your eyes!”

“But… why?”

“Suspense! I’ve been waiting for— a while, for this! Just, indulge me?”

Simon trusted Grace, of course. But trust could only extend itself so far. He huffed, anyway, “Fine,” and closed his eyes, jut out his hand. 

After a moment of shuffled noises, something was placed in his open palm. It was small, nearly weightless. If he hadn’t been anticipating it, he wasn’t sure he’d even noticed it. 

“Alright, and… open!”

It was seeds. Two seeds. Simon's breath hitched. 

“They’re apple seeds!”

Simon knew that. He knew that the moment he opened his eyes. And they weren’t just seeds — they had already begun to sprout. It was the most beautiful shade of green he’d ever seen in his life.

“You mentioned a bracelet your first week or two here, with a sapling in it? I reckoned— it must’ve been really important to you, for you to be that upset over losing it.”

Simon barely heard him. He padded his thumb against a little leaf, just barely sprouted, with just about as much gentleness a man such as himself could muster. 

“I felt terrible, when I had to tell you we didn’t have it. That it was still there… probably still wound around your other arm…”

Simon’s gaze snapped from the seeds, planted itself against Grace, and that careful contentment. The anxious man pulled at the loose threads of his knitted sweater.

“And— and! The seeds are actually from Earth— er, my Earth. They were in this dried apple treat—typically, apple seeds are pulled out of snacks like that because they contain small amounts of cyanide—I mean, you’d have to eat well over a hundred seeds for it to do anything. Gah, whatever, doesn’t matter! I was pretty sure it was some sort of cruel joke from Stratt about me being a teacher, and I still hadn’t eaten them by the time I remembered what happened, so I was too angry to even eat them at that point. And I never did! It worked out, though, in the end.”

Simon still hadn’t spoken. Nor had his expression changed. He only stared, that deadpan look bore into the other man. Did he not understand what exactly the talisman had meant to him? Was he truly, blindly, offering him the very thing Simon had thought was lost, forever? The very thing he’d worshiped, built his life around?

Oblivious, Grace continued to speak, seemingly as a nervous endeavour to fill the silence, “The Eridians are looking for a way to speed up the growth process as we speak. I’m not sure if it’ll be anything significant, but it should peel off a year or two at least! That means full apples in a couple of years! Hopefully less, if they can figure out a fast enough way.”

Grace reached for his hand, cupped it with his own, and padded at the small things with the other. Simon couldn’t find it within him to breathe. 

“There’s only two, right now. There were more, originally— but not all of them survived the germination process… They were dormant for so long; it’s amazing they remembered how to sprout at all. The beauty of nature, huh?” 

Simon nodded, silently, but he’d still only been looking at Grace. 

“So, uh…” Grace sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, released Simon’s hand. He could still feel the heat that remained — the rush of blood, which reverberated, wracked through his form. “Yeah, it's pretty much just dirt.” 

Simon sucked in a breath of moist soil. A deep, rich scent that filled his lungs — something he thought he’d long since forgotten, something he thought he’d die without experiencing again. He could see a little clearer, think a little straighter. 

And suddenly, it clicked. His mind, his body, his thoughts. Lines connected, perspective shifted. Like a light in the dark, or perhaps like waking from a lifelong coma. It was everything, all at once, and it all made a little more sense. 

In a moment of weakness, or perhaps clarity, Simon kissed him. 

It was messy, it was sloppy. And if Simon had been an outsider looking in, he'd even go as far as to say it was terrible — perhaps the worst kiss in all of humanity. But Simon didn't care. And as Grace melted into it, into him, he was sure he hadn’t cared very much, either. 

Eagerly, like a starving man toward his first meal, imbalanced and dizzy, Simon stepped closer. Grace, in tandem, grasped his hand and drew it between them. The seeds rested, just there, between their hearts, between their warmth. Possibly the most secure spot in all of the universe. 

A gasp of air, of Grace, and Simon’s lungs burned. It was only a moment before he was pulled back in, a keen palm pressed against the nape of his neck — just above that charred patch of skin. Lithe fingers danced, tangled themselves within the dark mess of hair. 

It was foreign. The warm press of skin, the mess of lips and hands. Simon had never kissed anyone before, scarcely even thought of it. It was hard to imagine he’d gone his entire life without this, without Grace. Without living as he was meant to, as he was always meant to. 

They were weak; they held each other up. And Simon entrusted him entirely. More than he thought he could ever trust a single thing, a single person. 

As they separated, much reluctantly, Simon could feel the rush of Grace's heart. And he was sure Grace could feel his, too. 

Simon didn't think of Eden. He didn't think of what he was meant to do, or what he wasn't. He knew this — whatever it was — was right. There was no doubt within him. That seed had been uprooted the moment their tangle of bodies pressed together. 

And for a long, idyllic moment, Simon was almost certain things would be alright. 

“Wow,” Grace broke the silence. “That was— I wasn’t expecting that.”

Immediately, with a sudden, panicked feeling, Simon began to pull away. Grace ceased the endeavors; his hands, both against his neck and entwined with his hand, grasped him tight. 

“No, no! I don’t mean it like that! It’s— it’s a nice surprise! A really nice one, actually.” Grace breathed a smile, “I’ve wanted that. For a really long time, if I'm being honest. I just— I was never gonna do it myself.”

Simon settled back into the grasp. And finally, he spoke, “Yeah.”

“... That’s it? You kiss me, and all you have to say is… ‘Yeah?’”

“Yeah,” Simon, between Grace’s laugh, corrected himself, “I mean— no.” Simon cracked. He couldn’t help the smile that tore its way to the surface. “It's perfect. I love it. The soil, the seeds, and—” 

His message seemed to get across, unsaid. Grace’s smile matched his own. Simon made sure to engrave every detail to memory. He would never forget this, and he would be sure of it. 

They breathed each other in. In silence, in contentment. At ease, within one another. 

“Grace complete human courting ritual, question?”

The two nearly lept from one another, tore tangled limb from tangled limb. They hadn't clocked the approaching Eridian in their scrambled mess, much too distracted with one another. 

“Rocky! What the— heck, man? I told you to wait until we were done.” Grace pinched the bridge of his nose, pushed his glasses up slightly, which had only just cleared from the fog of their shared air. 

“Grace look like Grace is done. Simon have seed. Grace and Simon mate! Human courting ritual complete, statement.” Rocky shifted his weight between several of his limbs — a physical cue of excitement, Simon recalled.

“Oh, my God! That is—“ Grace pointed to Rocky, and shot Simon a weary glance, “Absolutely not what he just said. He meant kiss— I really need to update his translator’s vocabulary.”

Simon simply stood, heavy boots frozen to the gravel below. He cast his glance between Grace and the alien, his hand still pressed closely to his chest, to his heart — the pair of seeds within his careful grasp. He… wasn’t quite sure how to respond to it. Any of it. So, he remained silent. 

“Okay, first off, I told you, it’s not some— courting ritual—“

“Is courting ritual.”

“It’s just a gift! For… completing therapy!—“

“Why Grace lie, question?” Rocky stamped a single limb against the ground. “Grace bad at lying. Grace make plan long time ago.”

“Secondly! I recall that I specifically told you to wait until we were done. Now would you stop interrupting—“

“Grace and Simon done. Simon have seed. Grace stupid. Eridian scientists waiting.”

“You are— so rude! What is up with you today? Just—“ Grace does a sort of shoo motion with his hand, “Just go get them, wait a few minutes, then start heading back.”

“Okay. Rocky get Eridian scientists and bring back soil-digging stick!” Before Grace could respond, the alien bounded away, across the gravel beach. And Simon wondered, briefly, how a near three-hundred-pound glorified rock could appear as though it were galloping. 

“Yup. Definitely need to update your translator.” Grace breathed, then called out again, “We don't need shovels, yet! They're only—! Yeah… he can’t hear me.”

Simon turned his attention back to Grace, who was practically shoving his palms into his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, I— He's… crazy. I asked him to wait. But weirdly enough, I think he’s just as excited as I was? I mean, the scientists are too. They’ve never seen plantlife before; none of them have. They're all, just—” 

With the press of the back of his hand, of his knuckles, grazed across his shoulder blades, Simon silenced the man. “It’s fine. Don't apologize.” Grace seemed to press into the touch, released the pursuit against his own eyes. “It’s… endearing.”

“Yeah,” Grace laughed, shook his head, “You could call it that.”

Grace turned to face Simon, brushed his hand with one of his own. “May I?” The two words were merely mouthed, hardly more than a whisper. 

Simon understood, without clarification, and opened his hand.

Grace reached for one of the seeds. Simon allowed it, without hesitation. These weren’t the seeds of Eden. They never would be, and Simon was more than alright with that. They were something else entirely; they were their own. 

“Look, I can’t promise you some… perfect life of normalcy and luxury— I mean, clearly, we eat meat sampled from our own muscle tissue.” 

Grace laughed at the absurdity of it, and Simon echoed it back, quieter, just barely.

“But I want to make it as comfortable and enjoyable as possible here for you. What I can promise is…” 

Grace closed his fingers around the seed, and Simon mirrored. They brushed their knuckles together. If Simon had never known the meaning of “embrace,” he would say it was this. 

“That you will not die alone. Not here, not with me. Quite frankly, I don’t think it would be possible for you ever to be alone here, period.” He grew quiet, for a reluctant moment, “But I would never make you stay here, if that’s not what you wanted. The Eridians were working on a ship for me; they still are, in case I ever change my mind. Which, I know I won’t. So, if you ever were to… want something other than this…”

Simon’s answer was quick, “No.” Not now. Especially not now, when he was finally comfortable with the idea of this, of Grace. Of them. Of living without guilt. “Are you kidding me? This is…” Everything. Anything he's ever wanted, anything one could need.  

Grace smiled. It seemed he understood the sentiment. 

A quivered breath, and Simon began again, “I was raised with nothing. I had nothing. I…” Died with nothing — the words followed suit on his tongue. Grace filled the gaps. “You’ve given me… everything.” More than he knew, more than words could describe. 

They stood, shrouded by fog and comfortable silence.

“He’s crazy— Rocky— but he wasn’t lying… about how long I’ve had this planned for.” 

Grace tilted his head, glanced through half-lidded eyes toward the shorter man. Simon's heart stuttered in return. 

“I lied. It wasn’t a recent project— at all. The timeline just played out well, so I blamed it on the therapy… But you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. The seeds, I mean, definitely. But also… y’know.” Grace made a motion with his other hand. Simon understood. “Probably— since like—  the first week you got here. It’s all long overdue, really.”

“That long?”

Grace shrugged, nodded, and his shoulders met his ears. “I was terrified! I mean, I didn’t really understand what was going on with me. And I was terrified when you started to avoid me, I thought you’d caught on, and…”

Grace began to ramble. Simon listened, as he always had. 

“I mean, I was still under the impression that I was straight! Ridiculous to assume that, now that I really think of it. I’m still… recalling things, here and there. Nothing as significant as that, though. Mostly, like— going to watch a movie for the first time and realizing halfway through, ‘oh, hey, I’ve already seen this!’” 

“Straight?” Simon repeated the word back to Grace, who returned to him an inquisitive gaze.

“Yeah, like, the… opposite of gay?”

Simon shook his head.

“Oh, oh. Did the place— where you lived before, at the station— did they—? Oh, well, that makes more sense. So much more sense.” Pieces— of what they were, Simon was not entirely sure — seemed to click behind Grace’s eyes. “Totally forgot we’re not from the same Earth… I’ll explain that… later. For now, let’s start planting these guys, yeah?” He knocked his knuckles against Simon’s own before turning away, toward the soil.

Before Grace could get very far, Simon called out, “For what it’s worth…” he swallowed the lump which sat heavy at the very back of his throat. His voice quivered — he allowed it. It didn’t matter now. He didn’t need to pretend; he didn't need to shroud his feelings; he didn't need to hide. “I was terrified, too.”

Simon wasn't one to admit his fear. He wasn't one to show fear in the first place. Fear was weakness in Eden, and weakness would get you killed. 

He didn't need to think of Eden anymore, Simon reminded himself. There was no threat here. He was free. 

Grace’s smile said what wasn't spoken; he understood. 

“Well, hey,” Grace breathed a laugh, melodious, and perhaps the sweetest thing to bless Simon’s ears, “I guess that therapy was good for something, huh?” 

And as a thousand-pound weight lifted from his shoulders, Simon smiled. 

Things were not automatically fixed; his past was not erased. The effects would linger, and perhaps they always would. And despite that, for once, after all this time, Simon felt as though it would be alright. Despite what had happened to him, despite what had been done to him, he could live. 

He deserved to live. And he believed it, wholeheartedly.