Archive of Our Own

Things were different now, that much was evident.

And, like nearly every social interaction he’d ever had, Grace had no idea how to navigate it.

Their dynamic hadn’t changed, not really. Grace still talked his ear off about whatever studies he’d thrown himself into that given day — and Simon still listened, intently, without much of an interjection. They still watched movies. They still committed to their own activities — together, in the same space, in comfortable, shared silence.

In that essence, all had remained the very same. If he ignored practically everything else, nothing had changed.

But, of course, the bane of his very existence had struck again: change. Grace never did well under the pressure of change, and this had been no different.

Tension arose, consistently, constantly. 

Between the gaps of conversation, they stared at one another for much too long. During movies, they sat, almost too closely, knee knocked against knee, thigh pressed to thigh. And sometimes, in their shared silence, something began to wedge its way between them.

It was deafening, it was all-encompassing, and Simon didn’t seem to care. 

And they hadn’t kissed since that day. The trees had grown since then. Little sprouts of green, almost four inches tall, now — and the leaves were big as anything. Whatever the Eridians had done to speed up the process, it’d worked. Still, despite that, much time had passed — nearly a month since their planting, a month since he and Simon had—

Grace didn’t care; it was fine by him. Quite frankly, it was almost liberating to be in a relationship without the expectation of something constant. He’d been in relationships before — truthfully, however, not many — where simply too much was expected out of him. Well, that made him sound like a jerk. He only wanted to remain his own person within a relationship, not integrate himself so deeply into another person's life that he lost himself in the process. He was very particular with his relationship dynamics — perhaps the very reason he found himself with less than he could count on one hand. 

A thought came to him, sudden and forced. Pencil upon paper ceased to an abrupt stop, and he’d left an ugly graphite mark in its wake. He groaned, flipped the pencil, and erased the accidental mark. 

Hmm, well. Was it even? A relationship, that is? What were they? They’d never officially decided upon a title, a label. 

Grace realized, for a brief moment, that he’d been assuming this entire time. And truly, he’d never paid it a second thought. 

He’d explained to Simon the definitions of various attraction orientations. Queer and straight, even the beauty of the bisexual umbrella. He’d assumed Simon had understood basic relationship terminology — partners, boyfriends, lovers. Perhaps that had been a crucial mistake. What if Eden didn’t have terms like that? What if they had something else entirely? What if they didn’t have relationships at all?

Oh, God. He’d fucked up. And suddenly, everything was entirely more complicated than it had been merely five minutes ago.

He glanced up from his paper, from his desk, toward his class. Nap time — the dozens of pebbles were sleeping, thank the Lord. Younger Eridians slept for shorter periods and more frequently than their mature counterparts. So, he’d watch over them, as they slept for fifteen minutes out of each school day. It reminded him of human children. They did often, in their own way. Children who could memorize the entirety of the Pythagorean Theorem in an hour and recall it months later. Children who were currently in college-level mathematics. 

He sighed, thankfully. He wasn’t sure he could have handled this realization whilst teaching various alien children, nor the breakdown which was soon to follow. 

Grace didn’t have time to worry — he would, as he always had, allow it to fester, come to a simmering boil at the back of his mind. He had grades to keep track of; there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to worry about relationship labels. 

He groaned, pinched the space between his eyes. A means of distraction, he returned to his grading, only to find the graphite end of the pencil had been snapped in his scrambled realization. He reached for another pencil from his pen-holder — xenonite, made by one of his students — only to find there was a severe lack of such; only one remained. 

There was, unfortunately, no way to sharpen these pencils; they were simply a graphite tip, a metal body, and a rubber end. The amount of pencils he ran through in a week was unbelievable.

A sigh, he’d have to ask Rocky to make him more. Just another thing upon a laundry list of things to worry about.

❦

Class for the day was completed, and he’d already bid the pebbles a fair well. Reluctantly, a good majority of them. They seemed to enjoy the classes. Moreso, being taught by an alien. 

That was a strange thought; being an alien. He was, by all definitions, just as alien to them as they were to him. He’d realized, quite quickly, just how much of what humanity believed was built upon assumption. 

Assumption that they were the sole beings in all the universe, the assumption that their way was the only right way to live. He pondered, for the briefest of moments, how a large majority of humanity would react to a species of highly intelligent, genderless, hermaphrodite rock. Appalled, would be their reaction. He was sure.

He breathed a laugh as he gathered his things. How ridiculous people were. There was no such discrimination on Erid, upon the basis of gender or sexuality, because these were simply not concepts to worry over. 

Often, he wished humanity were the same. He found consolation in not having to worry about labels any longer. Months of his life on Earth had been spent worrying over what he was and how he fit into the crowd of people similar to him. So long, he had spent worrying about how far he lay on the spectrums of romantic and sexual attention. So long, he had spent trying to fit himself into hyper-specific boxes that still hadn’t explained exactly what he felt. 

It was nice not to worry. He was simply Grace, that’s all that mattered. 

Unfortunately, there were still labels to worry over. Just something different, now. He wasn't sure which he would have preferred to worry over. 

“Grace class finish, question?”

He had to give Rocky a hand for his stealth; it was something he wouldn’t imagine a two-hundred-pound rock could be capable of. Quite impeccable, really.

“Ah, hey, Rock,” Grace finished putting the grading work into a binder — an original repurposed from the Hail Mary, previously used by some niche manual. The likes of which he, quite frankly, had never read. “Yeah, just finished.” He slid the binder into a drawer. 

“Something wrong, statement.”

Grace perked up, “Oh, yeah. Thanks for reminding me, we need more pencils.” He began to rummage through his drawer for the older ones, including the one from earlier. Rocky typically melted down their bodies to reconstruct more. Even Eridians seemed to be a fan of the “reuse, reduce, recycle” motto. 

“No. Not pencil problem. Something else.”

Grace ceased his search. He didn't look up.

“Grace tell Rocky, statement.”

Man, nothing got past him.

Slowly, Grace stood up straight. He turned to face Rocky, and leaned his weight against the desk beside him upon one hand. Weighing his options, he chewed the inside of his cheek.

“What do Eridians do for relationships? Err, partnership—  traditional… ritual-wise.” He waved his hand in a sort of “so-forth” movement. 

“Oh! Rocky like question!” Rocky tapped several of his limbs in excitement, “All Eridian made of different shell. Different texture, different material. But all same structure, Eridian.”

Grace nodded. He understood thus far — Erdian shells were much like skin. All skin was skin and shared the same fundamental baseline. However, just like skin, genetic variations within Eridians were inevitable. Pigmentation, freckles, moles, and texture were all genetic. And, like genetics, environmental factors came into play, as well — tanning, wrinkles, scars. It made sense that Eridians would be similar. 

Genetic familial markings, oxidation, pigmentation. Much like humans, no two Eridians were the same. 

“When two Eridian decide to be partner, after courting ritual, Eridian exchange something.” Rockly points to a large, turquoise part of himself. 

Ah, like wedding bands.

“Eridian trade part of themself.” Only now had he realized just how similar it was to much of Adrian’s coloration. “This is Adrian. And Adrian have part of Rocky.

Oh. Definitely not like wedding bands. 

“Is to say, you part of me, I part of you. Is tradition.” Rocky puffed out his carapace in pride. “Eridian mate for life. Unless one partner die. But not always move on. Some have pebbles, some not. Some do not mate, some only work. Eridian find happiness all different ways! Rocky find happiness with Adrian, so we partner.”

Grace tilt his head with a lop-sided smile, “That's really sweet, bud.” Although they were drilling holes into one another and essentially swapping skin, he found it to be quite endearing. 

Rocky stamped a limb twice, “What human do, question?”

“Oh,” Grace had expected the question, “We exchange rings. Put them on each other's fingers.” He motioned toward his ring finger. “Sorta similar to what you guys do, actually. Typically, women get rings with jewels, and men get bands.”

“Why different?”

“Err,” Well, he’d certainly made a very good point. “I’m not sure, actually.” Grace shrugged and returned to the word they’d used so frequently on the Hail Mary: “Culture, I guess.”

“Hmm. Rocky think unfair. What if man want gemstone ring, woman want band ring? What if two men partner? Two women? What rings they get then?”

That was certainly a loaded subject. Grace wasn’t about to delve into how, in a large majority of Earth, two people of the same sex could not legally marry. He’d explain it, eventually. But certainly not now. So, he decided on the simpler answer: “I guess they could, yeah. Do whatever rings they wanted.” Grace nodded, “Amazing how, despite being lightyears away, we have similar traditions, huh?”

“Yes, fascinating. Amaze amaze amaze.” Rocky tapped his limbs excitedly, “Grace and Simon exchange ring? Grace and Simon partner?”

Grace looked to the side, sucked a breath through his teeth, “No, jeez no. Not yet. I dunno if we’re even partners, yet.”

“But, Grace complete courting ritual?”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded, forlornly, “I did.”

“But Grace and Simon not partner?”

Another breath, “Humans are… complicated. Tricky. I don't know if we’re partners or not. I mean, we kissed, yeah. But we haven't since the first time… and everything's exactly the same as it was before. Which, I mean— don’t get me wrong, I don't hate that. I kinda like it, actually. It's just… not what I was expecting? We still live in separate homes, and we never kiss, or hold hands, or—” Grace stopped himself. “As I said, all fine and dandy with me. It’s just… not what usual human relationships look like. So it makes me think, what if he… doesn't see it as a relationship at all?”

“Ohh, understand,” he shifted his weight from limb to limb, voice dropped an octave. “This what trouble Grace, question?”

“Unfortunately.”

“How figure out if Simon partner?”

Hm, well. “I ask. We… talk about it.”

“Answer so simple!” Rocky raised his voice, swung his two foremost limbs into the air. “Grace so stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“Hey!” Grace knitted his brows together, and scoffed, “Rude! It— It’s easier said than done!”

“Not rude! Truth! Grace overcomplicate, always!” Rocky dragged out the last word in a sort of overexaggeration. “Grace talk to Simon! Stupid!”

Grace had begun to form a retaliation. Until, ultimately, he realized Rocky was correct. He closed his mouth, reluctantly, then began to speak again, “No, yeah. You’re totally right.” Grace scratched the back of his neck, “The answer is simple, I just don't wanna deal with the confrontation that comes with it.”

“See? Rocky always right. Grace listen to Rocky more.”

“Well— hey! No, I definitely did not say that!”

But there had been truth in Rocky’s words, despite Grace's displeasure accepting such. All he needed to do was talk to Simon and ask him what they were. That's it, simple. Easy peasy.

But, of course. Grace always had to overcomplicate things. 

❦

Grace had a plan for everything. 

It’s how his brain worked. A meticulous plan for everything, and there was no deviating from such plan once he had his mind set on it, not ever. 

And yet, here he was, scrounging for anything that even remotely resembled a plan.

Initially, he’d wanted to simply arrive at Simon’s home and ask. He soon realized this was missing a boatload of key components. How would he approach him? Should it be direct, or should he ease into it? What should he say? 

Then, his mind started tumbling. 

Should he bring a gift? No, he’d already given him the trees; he didn’t want to come off as too overbearing, no matter how much he would love to shower Simon with lovely gifts. Should he bring rings? God, no, was he crazy? He didn't even know if they were together yet, much less if Simon wanted to marry him. What should he wear? Not like he had very many options in the first place. Should they be watching a movie while he asks? Or, perhaps over dinner? 

There were too many options, too little time. He could have, if he truly wanted to, mulled it over the next couple of days, then approached Simon with a foolproof plan. Impatience got the best of him, however. And the only solid part of his plan was that it must be done tonight, and there was no deviating from a plan once he had his mind set on it. Even if it would inevitably, undeniably, be the very downfall of it. 

Ultimately, he decided on the best he could muster: a glass of vodka and an exchange of words.

He would have chosen wine if he had the option. But alas, the only alcohol packed on the Hail Mary had been vodka, allotted to Ilyukhina. He’d brought it from the Hail Mary with the rest of his things and placed it in one of the bottom cupboards of his home. Untouched since the day he sealed it away, it would finally serve its purpose. 

Now he only needed to figure out what he would say. Quickly, he realized, this would be the most difficult part of his plan. He’d run through a few several options already. But, “Oh, hey, want to be my partner? I know there's literally no other option to pick, but pick me anyway?” was far too casual, while “What are we?” was far too serious. 

Grace pressed his palms against his eyes, his glasses askew, hung just barely from the edges of his ears. He couldn’t bear to look in the mirror, to which he’d been performing his various monologues for nearly the past ten minutes. It was excruciatingly unbearable. 

He groaned, “Why am I doing this to myself?” A moment of silence, and he dared to look himself in the eye. He squinted, a sort of self-loathing glare. Damn his international consciousness for being aware of every minute human mistake. Realistically, rationally, he knew Simon wouldn’t care if he stuttered or said the wrong word. He already did that each time they spoke; it would be strange if there wasn’t a scrambled endeavor of a coherent sentence. 

He was entirely overcomplicating the whole thing. He always overcomplicated things. It was something he was known for, on Earth. Some people were known for being intelligent, others for their use of words. Some were known for their areas of expertise. Grace, on the other hand, was known for being an anxious, nervous, antisocial mess. By his few acquaintances, and by past partners. 

Grace sighed inwardly, a nervous, shaking breath. He really, really didn’t want to mess this up. He liked Simon. Possibly more than he had liked anyone he’d ever officially been with. Simon understood him in a way no other romantic interest of his had. Or, quite honestly, could. He only hoped Simon felt much the same way. He only hoped this was all reciprocated. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Grace and his partners hadn’t been on the same page. He was just too different from them, or they from him. Sometimes it was simply a matter of what movies they would watch, or which was the better Sci-Fi franchise: Star Trek or Star Wars. Arguably the latter, of course. Most times, though, it was larger things, more significant. Relationship-breaking ones. Like where they wanted to live out the rest of their lives, or what direction they wanted their lives to go in. Or their sex life. That one was a pretty big deal-breaker for many. 

Grace missed the intimacy of sex more than sex itself. In all honesty, he missed food more than he did sex. He missed the quiet, simple moment of just after. He missed being tangled in each other's limbs; he missed listening to their breathing, their heartbeat. He missed the moment where their bodies' cycles synced. That, to him, was just about as intimate as anything could get. 

His previous partners, however, hadn’t felt much of the same way. Most people liked sex for sex. He understood that, from the typical person's perspective. From his own? He didn't care for it. He would indulge, if his partners were so inclined. But he wouldn’t often. Lord knows he hadn't the stamina for the majority of his partners. 

He could take it or leave it, really. He found intimacy in other things, not just sex or the aftermath of such. 

It struck him, suddenly, abruptly; would this even work? What if they were simply just too different? Two completely different worlds, different times, different Earths? He and his past partners were far different from each other, but at least they shared the same birth planet. 

And a weekend in Utah certainly hadn’t fixed his first relationship, nor had the two weeks on the coasts of Maine fixed his third. Temporal, physical items sure hadn’t mended things either.

But he’d never really tried talking to them. Amongst his many attempts to mend the broken relationships he found himself in, he’d mostly assumed they were tainted from the start. 

It seemed, now, to be such an obvious solution. Maybe his previous attempts had never worked because he’d gone about it all the wrong way. Maybe Rocky was right, maybe he was an idiot. 

It gave him hope, at least. Even if it was only the smallest twinge. 

Rocky’s voice played at the back of his mind; “Not rude! Truth! Grace overcomplicate, always! Grace talk to Simon! Stupid!”

Grace would never admit it, but this was not unlike many instances before it; Rocky was right. He’d never tell him to his face; he didn’t need a larger ego than what he already had. 

“Just get it over with,” Grace adjusted his glasses, shook the nerves from his fingers. “It’ll be fine! All fine and dandy!” No matter how he tried, the man in the mirror didn’t look convinced.

He had saved all of humanity from a dying sun, and this is what lit his nerves? 

Grace groaned, ran a hand through his hair, “Yeah, no. Not ready for this.” 

He stepped back from the mirror and grabbed the bottle on his way out. 

❦

The knock hardly registered in his mind, as his hand fell from the door. 

 With hardly a plan and a bottle of vodka, Grace was in no way ready for this.

He shifted his weight anxiously. God, what was he doing? If he had any brains, he should abandon the plan altogether. Maybe he could disguise it as a typical hangout, maybe he could hide the bottle before Simon got to—

The door opened up. 

“Simon!” Grace blurted, surprised, as if he hadn't knocked upon the man’s door just a moment prior. Stupid. 

“... Grace.” Hand still perched upon the knob, Simon gave him an analyzing look — up, down, and up again. His other hand — yes, other — hung loose at his side. Recently finished, and of the finest xenonite. It was nearly a one-to-one ratio of his true arm. Save for, of course, the fact that it was a metal foreign to humans. 

Would it be weird of him to say the dark xenonite paired well with his eyes? Gah, he needed to focus!

Grace was suddenly aware that Simon had given him space to speak. And that space was significantly longer than needed. “Uh, hi!” He blinked away the shock. There was no going back, now. “Drinks?”

Simon squinted at the bottle, now held to eye level. “What is… that?”

“Vodka!” Did Eden have vodka? “Err, alcohol.” Did they even have alcohol? “Have you had alcohol?”

Simon seemed to mull it over, “Well. We had sacrament, communion. Wine made from grapes. But… that was rare. Had it when we had enough.”

“Oh, buddy. This is far stronger than wine; you’re in for a treat.”

“What’s the difference? Between them?”

“Wine is made from berries, while vodka is made from starch and grain. Vodka is the more concentrated one. So, much stronger than whatever you’ve had before. Two bottles were brought on the Hail Mary. I downed half of one before I could even fully remember what I was even doing there, and drank the rest of the bottle to celebrate with Rocky. And I saved the other for… God knows what! Worked out, though!”

Simon simply nodded. He seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe for Grace to say something? Or— God, had he misheard his question and answered something else entirely? Did he make any sense at all? Or maybe— 

Simon stepped aside and pulled the door open with him. Oh, thank God. 

“Drinks!” Grace added with a nervous laugh. Simon was silent as Grace made his way inside. And shrouded from view, Grace grimaced. How had he already managed to make things awkward? 

Even if Simon seemed completely unfazed, Grace sure wasn't. 

Painfully aware of his own mistakes and painfully aware of his own humanity, Grace set the bottle down on the main table of the room. The small camera was still situated on the surface, and he wondered, briefly, if Simon had continued with his “therapy sessions.”

The house was nearly a copy-paste of his — small, and quite open concept, with the only closed-off room being the restroom — and thus, he knew exactly where to find the cups. When Eridians found a blueprint that worked, they stuck with it. No need to change what wasn't broken, it seemed. Grace understood the sentiment.

The cups weren’t wine glasses, anything but. Made from a glass variant of xenonite, they were simple things — thinner than regular glasses on Earth, and rather than having a cylinder-like shape, it was more akin to a decagonal prism.

Grace poured the vodka. The silence was deafening, and he searched for something to fill it with. “Uh, some people dilute it with water, but I don't. Most people assume that, by adding the water, they're drinking less alcohol. But even if it's diluted, they're still consuming the same amount of alcohol that was already in the glass. Sort of a, uh, misconception.” He cleared his throat, “Vodka is actually a hydroalcoholic solution, basically just fancy-talk for saying it's a mixture of ethanol and water.” 

He was rambling now, and hadn't looked at Simon since he began to pour the vodka. Was he even listening? Probably not, he didn't blame him. He was hardly listening to himself. 

“But still, uhm, take it easy. Trust me when I say it's strong, especially for someone without a tolerance.” Grace went to hand Simon the drink, to look him in the eye, only to find his gaze already upon him. Silently, he noted that Simon opted to drink with his right arm — the remaining one. Perhaps a lack of confidence in the xenonite counterpart. 

Grace only hoped the quiver of his hand wasn’t noticeable, as he went to take a sip of his own. 

Simon’s reaction was immediate and instinctive. Grace couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

“Oh, oh my— I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing.” He hid his grin behind his hand. “I warned you, though!”

“Fuck, that's disgusting.” 

Simon’s laughter was a rare thing. And, God, Grace would do anything to hear it more often. He’d even make an embarrassing fool of himself just to hear it. Was he addicted? Maybe. 

“People on your Earth actually drink this?”

“Yup,” Grace nodded, with a sip of his own. It burned his throat, a grounding feeling. “All the time. Entire cultures are even built around it.”

Despite his complaints, Simon mirrored Grace with that same, forlorn expression. 

“Studies found that alcohol usage is actually tied to cancer rates. When it’s consumed, it’s metabolized into err, acetaldehyde, I believe— a chemical that damages DNA and literally prevents the body from repairing it in the process. Actually! Acetaldehyde is the same thing that causes the worst of hangover symptoms— headache, nausea, all that fun jazz.” 

Simon’s tightly knit brow suggested he was quick to reconsider this whole “drinking” ordeal. 

Grace was quick to pick up his mess, “I mean—! One drink isn’t gonna kill you or— or give you cancer. That moreso for, like, people who struggle with lifelong addiction.” 

“Terrible.” Simon shook his head. It seemed as though it was already beginning to weigh him down, as he slid out one of the chairs from the table to sit. “Why, though? Why go out of your way to… drink this?”

A simple question, enough. A harder answer to produce, “No idea!” Grace chuckled, shoulders shrugged to his ears. He leaned his weight against the table, against his hip. “I mean, we drink it at everything. Parties, birthdays, any kind of celebration, really. Some people drink it when they're sad to be happy, some people drink it when they're sad to be even more sad. Some people drink it when they're happy to be happier. Pretty universal, actually. All kinds of occasions.”

The way Simon looked up from his glass, through thick, dark lashes. The way his brows knit, the way the dark of his eyes drew him in, and sealed him there. It was… unreal. Then, he began to speak, “And… what occasion is this?”

This was his chance! To introduce the prospect of a date! So say something stupid, like, “Oh, well, what do you want it to be? Wink wink, nudge nudge.” 

Grace’s thoughts stuttered. It probably would have been easier to think if he had looked away. If he looked virtually anywhere besides those dark eyes, the color of a starless night. Oh, God, what was he doing? He’d lost his ability to speak. Wait, no. He was speaking, just not the words he wanted them to be. 

“Oh, uh! Just— remembered I had it, is all!” What was he doing? He was going to lose his chance, his only hopes of a segue into the very topic he’d gone there for! Despite himself, he laughed, “Wanted to, uh, share the wonders of alcohol usage with you, I guess…” Yup, there it went. His only chance was gone with the wind. Down the drain. Sleeping with the fishes. Fish? Maybe fishies. Yeah, he liked fishies better. Oh, man, thoughts were already beginning to disorganize themselves. 

Grace slid a finger around the rim of his glass absentmindedly. Silence arose, for a moment, as he desperately tried to gather something, anything to say. 

Simon did that for him: “I made you that shirt.” He spoke simply and glanced away, with a sip of his drink.

“Oh!” Grace looked down at himself. It was a heavy, canvas-like material. Long-sleeve and a sort of dull blue. It was one of the first things Simon made, and — despite having many clothing options from Earth — a frequenter in Grace's attire. It was comfortable, a sort of comfortable no mass-produced clothing could ever come close to replicating. Even if it hadn’t been the typical cotton material. He patted the material of his chest with his free hand, “Yeah, I am! I love this shirt, actually.” 

Simon’s hand sheathed his mouth, and much of his face with it. If Grace squinted, he could almost see the twinge of a flush. Oh, jeez, the vodka must’ve already hit him. That poor, poor lightweight. 

Grace sipped his drink, “This material, it was from Adrian, right?”

Simon nodded. With most of the common Eridian visitors now having translators, a sort of friendship had recently struck between the two. Adrian and Simon were an unlikely pair, but for some reason, it made a lot of sense to Grace. Both were stoic, unyielding forces. And stubborn. Both were excruciatingly stubborn. 

Another question, to fill the silence, “Have you… been working on anything else lately?” 

Simon nodded, again, and sucked in a breath. He seemed almost distracted, lost. After a moment of gathering himself, he mumbled, “Was just working on something. Before you got here.”

“Oh! Oh— I’m sorry, I had no idea—“ He knew he should have planned this whole thing ahead of time. Instead, he’d been an absolute jerk and interrupted Simon’s day. Damn him and his impatience. “I can go if you want me to— if you wanna get back to it.”

Simon’s return was swift, “No.” Slightly stunned, Grace remained silent. “No. I’m— You’re fine. I… was hoping. That you would show up.” A pause, “I missed you.”

If he was stunned before, Grace was in absolute shellshock now. Simon — missed him? Him, as in Grace. And he said it? To his face? Oh, wow. This was certainly a change. His lips were parted in pleasant surprise, a twist of a smile at the very edges. 

But missing someone wasn’t a purely romantic thing, Grace silently reminded himself. Grace missed Rocky all the time, and their relationship was purely platonic. What if Simon meant it in more of a platonic sense, rather than romantic? 

Whether romantic or platonic in Simon's intentions, one thing remained true: “I missed you, too.” Grace’s smile was evident in his voice, in the way his eyes creased, brows softened. Though something remained, beneath the surface. Grace tried not to think about it. 

Maybe, perhaps, the confrontation wasn’t worth it. Maybe the risk of changing this, whatever this was, exactly; maybe it was just too great. Maybe the risk outweighed the reward. 

He was fine, remaining here. Unchanged, though still burdened by the unknown. It’s alright, he could live with it, he told himself. Things were just fine until he’d gone and second-guessed himself. 

But something within him, at the back of his mind, told him he’d rather die than never kiss Simon again. That he'd rather die than never know what he was to the man.

Grace cleared his throat, placed his cup down, and reached for the glass. “Refill?” He motioned toward Simon's cup, who promptly placed it upon the table. He laughed, a sort of halfway noise to fill the silence, before beginning to top off Simon’s drink.

“Something's wrong.” It came, not as a question, but as a statement, as if Simon was certain in his words. 

Grace’s movements sputtered, and he nearly dropped the glass altogether. He retreated and began to fill his own cup, whilst he made an attempt to appear as though absolutely nothing was wrong, “What do you— what makes you think something’s wrong?” 

That was terrible. Downright horrible. Grace reminded himself why he never joined theater in high school. He could see it in Simon’s gaze, even before he spoke; he hadn’t fooled him. He shifted his gaze; he couldn’t look at him. 

“You suck at lying.” 

Simon was a blunt man, and Grace knew as such. It didn't prevent the shock that made its way through him, however. 

“Why would I—”

“Did I… do something?”

The words were a mere, strangled noise. Not painful, not tearful, just— strained. As though it had taken a great effort to force out. 

The sight Grace found was almost worse than the sound. Before he could stutter out a grasped means of reassurance, Simon began again.

“Everything was fine— has been fine— and now you’re so… stiff. You’re not acting like yourself. You’re…”

Grace put the bottle down. Everything within him urged him to reach for Simon. Every molecule, every atom of his being, but his hands remained still, drawn to his chest. 

“You’re thinking too much about what you’re saying. I— I can see it.” It seemed as though the vodka had loosened the previously stoic man’s tongue. 

And it struck Grace just how terrible a plan this has been. What was he thinking? What was this, really? Just getting Simon — his companion of an ambiguously undefined label — drunk, so he could ask him what they were? Top ten worst plans of all time, probably. No— top five, most definitely. 

Grace’s stomach twisted into knots. God, he was a horrible person. He should have just asked Simon outright, rather than jumping through these hoops, only to arrive at the answer he already knew was true. How could Simon see him as a partner — a lover? The kiss was probably some platonic custom on Eden. He was probably just assuming things again, filling the gaps with things he wished were true. 

Simon mirrored the very question he’d asked himself, “What is this?” 

Grace’s mouth gaped. He didn’t know. He couldn’t find the words, the right sequence. All the words in the English dictionary, and Grace couldn’t explain his own actions. 

It was Simon’s turn to ramble, now, “Is this just— giving a sick man one last good day before you shoot him in the head— before he infects everyone else? Is it— what did I do wrong?”

Grace couldn’t take it anymore. The words forced themselves out, “You didn't do anything wrong, Simon.” He practically leapt for the man’s hand, his true hand, and grasped it in his own. His skin was calloused, scarred — the hands of a working man, much unlike Grace's own — and Grace shuddered out, “It’s me. It's all me.”

Simon flinched, “Then why are you acting so different?” 

Those dark, dejected eyes. Grace hated it. And what he hated even more: that he was the cause. 

“I don’t know,” it was the truth. Grace didn't know — why he’d done all this, why he’d made such a big deal out of nothing. “I’m sorry, Simon. I didn’t— I don't know what I’m doing.”

“Just tell me,” it was a plea, it was desperate, “If it’s not me, if I— if it’s something that I did, what is it?”

“I…” Grace swallowed. He felt as though he were spinning, or perhaps everything but he was. He knew what he wanted to say, at least a general idea of such. He’d intended to admit his idiocy, his stupidity. But what came out was far from it: “I just really want to kiss you.”

It was, in fact, the truth. It was, indeed, the very reason he found himself here, with this terrible mess of an ordeal. He’d fought the urge since their very first, amongst the soil and the dirt. He was a terrible liar, even to himself. He couldn’t live without it. Quite frankly, he’d thought about it every day since then. 

“Fucking idiot,” The choice of words was harsh, but the way his xenonite hand grasp the back of his neck was anything but. 

Oh. Oh.

A noise, a strangled whimper, as their lips met. Grace braced a hand against the corner of the table, his other against the back of the chair, as he was torn down to Simon’s level.

It was quick, and they separated. But Simon held him there, mere inches away, as his glasses fogged with their liquor.

“You’re kidding me,” Simon murmured against his breath. If they were any closer, Grace’s lips would have moved with his, “That’s what this was? This was what your whole… act was for?”

Grace gulped, “Well, I didn’t know if— if you wanted it.”

Simon’s words were like shifting gravel, “‘Course I fuckin’ wanted it. Why else would I have kissed you?”

Yeah. Grace had thought about that, “I just thought, well, maybe— what if— you didn’t take it the same way I did?”

Simon shifted. No, no, God, not yet— he released the back of Grace’s neck, pulled away slightly. He already missed the cool, smooth metal upon his skin. “What way… did you take it?”

There was no point in fibbing now, “The romantic way.” Grace took a breath, as though he’d forgotten how to breathe. “But just because— just ‘cause you kissed me once doesn’t give me permission to kiss you, like, whenever I want, obviously.” His words tumbled to a ramble, “And you weren't initiating anything, and I realized that— I don’t even know what we are. I thought, maybe, you thought of it a different way— or maybe you did relationships differently on Eden. I wasn’t even sure if you had relationships at all where you’re from!”

“I… hadn’t thought about it.”

Oh. Oh?

“We did relationships, on Eden. Or, people did. I didn’t. I never really… thought about them, in the sense that I would one day be… in one, with someone.” Simon spoke, slowly. Whether purposefully or an effect of the liquor, Grace wasn’t entirely certain. “And I never thought about it— with you. I just kept thinking of you as… you. The same way I had been. Just more… certain. Of what I was feeling.”

Grace opened his mouth to speak, but Simon beat him to it; “Did you think of me? Of— being with me?”

His answer was raw and fell from him without a single thought, “Of course.” His hand raced to cup the side of Simon’s face. Simon hadn’t flinched, and for this, Grace smiled. “It’s… sort of the whole reason for this. I wanted it so bad I almost lost my mind over it.”

The single word which followed was quiet, unsure, “Why?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Grace nearly scoffed, as if the idea that he didn’t, or wouldn’t, want Simon was appalling. “You’re— you’re the most selfless person I know. Everything you’ve endured, everything you’ve risked— and yet you’re still— you.” Grace breathed the words, ever so slowly, as he leaned toward Simon, “You’re everything.”

The squeal of Simon’s chair filled the room, an all-encompassing sound. Grace gasped as the metal hand returned to the back of his neck, as the other guided itself to his hip. 

Oh. Oh, jeez. Oh, gosh. Oh, God. 

A tangle of limbs, of exuded want and need, of an endless search for more. More of this, more of them. 

Even upon two feet, Grace found he still had to tilt his head to meet Simon’s lips, of which he sighed into. A shivering, desperate thing. He hardly noticed as his own feet began to move, as they stepped backward, their bodies moving as one. Until Grace had to crane a hand, brace himself against the edge of the table. The other remained, pressed to the side of Simon’s face, and an eager thumb padded across the surface there. 

They separated, for a mere moment, for a mere breath of one another’s air, before returning to their shared bliss. Grace’s hand migrated from Simon’s cheek, slowly, toward the crown of his head, combing back those thick, dark curls with it. His fingers tangled themselves in it with but a small, gentle tug. Simon, with his whole chest, shuddered in return. 

The briefest of thoughts: Grace wouldn’t mind dying this way, held by the arms of a foreign man. He wouldn’t mind, death by suffocation, if it meant he'd feel these lips with his last moribund breath. 

Grace’s hand released the table, and his back met the edge of the surface with a groan. Eager to find its place in the writhing, gasping mess, his palm discovered the small of Simon’s back, roved the fabric there. It continued, until it dipped, absentmindedly beneath the cloth. 

Simon hissed out a breath between their pressed lips and tensed. Grace retreated, “Are… are you alright?”

The man did not answer. It seemed as though he did not know how. The hand, upon his face, continued to caress a careful thumb, trailed along the bone of his cheek. 

“Simon?”

A breath, and finally, “I’m… fine.”

“Is it—”

“No.”

Grace’s hand withdrew from beneath Simon’s shirt, and near instantaneously, he settled. And as he did, as he breathed that sigh of relief, Grace understood.

Simon was — how could Grace put it? He wasn’t the same as he once was, before that time he’d spent on that moon. Beneath that blood surface, his face encased within iron. Not mentally, not physically. 

The changes had not, as far as Grace or any Eridian scientists understood, affected Simon’s overall health — his body continued to perform the same natural functions it once had, only now, in a far different way. But the change was… apparent. Obvious. There was no avoiding it, there was no ignoring it. 

“Hey,” Grace hushed. A gentle, careful thing, “Hey, it’s okay.” Both hands were upon Simon’s face, now. The man still had not opened his eyes. “It’s alright. Come back to me, Simon.”

Simon shuddered at the call of his name, something that wracked his being, took him full-force.

For a moment, Grace allowed him time, allowed him space. 

Time. That’s right, “It’s been thirty minutes since I got here,” Grace began, glancing toward the analog clock, situated just above the front door — the very same he once had within the Hail Mary. “It is nearly the twentieth hour of an Earth rotation, the equivalent of seven forty-five.”

Simon breathed — welcome sign. A hand moved to wrap around his center, the other made its way back toward the crown of his head. Simon fell into Grace, or perhaps, they into one another. Chest-to-chest, black curls, waves of darkened beauty, pooled around Grace’s shoulder. Head upon his shoulder, face burrowed in the crook of his neck, Grace held the world against him. 

“There’s a saying, back on Earth. Mine, anyway.” Grace began, though he wasn't certain if Simon had been listening, “‘Love someone, despite their flaws.’ Have you heard of it?”

A slight shake of his head, a movement just barely noticeable, and apparently, he was.

“Well, that’s alright. I never really liked it, anyway.” Grace breathed a laugh, “I preferred to think of it as… loving someone and their flaws, not despite them. That’s how I’ve always wanted to be loved, anyway.”

Simon’s breath hitched, and his chest, with it.

“And that’s how…” Grace’s grasp tightened, as if the world might just slip away, “I love you. I love all of you. I love the good moments, I love the bad. I don't just— love this one part of you, despite another. I love all of you.”

Simon pulled away, just barely, so that their eyes met. The dark pools, a starless night, were wet and tear-stained. From the back of his head, to the cheek of his face once more, Grace’s thumb wiped away a stray tear. 

“You don’t have to say it back—” No matter how much he wanted to hear it, to have his feelings mirrored back to him, Grace would not force the man to say what he could not yet.

“I do,” it was quieter than Grace had ever heard him speak. A whisper, only just, “I love you.”

“Oh!” Grace exclaimed, as if the reciprocation had come as much of a surprise. “Oh, wow.”

Wow, as though he’d just been shown the very edge of the universe. Wow, as though he’d just borne witness to the creation of a new star. Wow, as though life itself had given him all the answers. 

“I wasn't expecting that.”

“Neither was I,” Simon breathed. “And you're… sure?”

“Oh, gosh, yes. I’m positive. I'm sure. The most sure I’ve been about anything in my life, probably.” 

It appeared as though Grace's smile was infectious. A tug at the corner of Simon’s lips put Grace at ease.

“Hey,” Grace began, “I’m drunk. And if I'm drunk, I’m almost certain you’re about five times more drunk than I am.” He leaned forward, as he spoke, and kissed away the remainder of Simon’s tears. “How about we just… watch a movie? Sleep this whole thing off?”

“That sounds… nice, actually.”

They separated, albeit with much reluctance. And Grace realized, only then, that they’d been wearing each other's clothes. A humbling idea, almost as if they were anyone else. As if they were normal people, on Earth.

Grace shooed the concept from his mind. They weren’t just anyone. They weren’t normal people. He was tired of pretending, acting as if they were. They weren’t Joe Schmo and John Doe; they were Grace and Simon. They were lightyears, universes away from where they both originated, and yet, found a home within each other. 

“As long as it's not another puppet movie.”

Grace gaped, “But you haven’t even watched The Muppets Christmas Carol yet!”

“I don’t even know what Christmas is.”

“Fine.” Grace chewed the side of his cheek. “But what about Muppets From Space? I mean, we’re in space.”

“We’ve never not been in space, by that definition.”

“Hmm. Touche.”

“I don't think I could take singing right now, anyway. My head is killing me.”

Grace opted not to remind Simon of what was yet to come, a mere twelve hours from now. He would leave the shock of a first hangover for tomorrow morning. For now, they would enjoy their time spent, sat almost too closely, as knee knocked against knee, as thigh pressed to thigh. Without tension, without a wedge between them.

They would enjoy the home they’d found, within this foreign planet, within one another.