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For the first few months after his rescue, Simon was nearly certain that the scientist was just waiting for the right moment to betray him, to show the cost of his kindness.
After getting over this initial fear, he began to experience something far worse. Reverence was perhaps the only word for it. Or soul-lust. An indescribable urge, so all-consuming. To touch and taste, to thank. Nothing could quite encapsulate it. Simon had to do his best to form new language around his devotion.
Religion certainly wasn’t the word for it. In fact, compared to his upbringing, this was blasphemy. Whatever worship he was carrying was for the wrong deity, not for God nor Christ, but for the soul who had pulled him from the blood.
He had been fully convinced, when first pulled from the blood, that the light was heaven and the man was an angel. He wasn’t quite sure what the rock was. Maybe that was the first sign that this wasn’t heaven.
Cobwebs and dust cast a film over his memories from before the rescue, tragic moments he chose not to relive. Simon's mind lived only in his unspoken care. For this, this was truly human. This was what Eden had sworn to be, what he had been promised once before. This was something pure.
Religion was a sensitive topic where he came from. Something reborn and disjointed. A sick amalgamation of anything that might have been salvaged in the silent rapture. Christianity had its forefront, though Simon had also grown up alongside stories of lightning gods and Trojan horses, to poetic tragedies and fated lovers.
There was a story he had once heard, passed on as mythology so often is. A man and a flower. Apollo, the sun incarnate, the remaking of brightness itself, music and healing embodied, and Hyacinthus. The man who loved him. It ended in tragedy, as all good stories do. And the stories, whispers of a blond haired man made of light, and his favourite worshiper... Simon felt nauseous at the resemblance. For he had met Apollo, light years away from anyone who might understand this significance. He had met Sol, face to face. Himself, blood-drenched, and Grace, already painted in poetry.
He watched from a distance, imagining more tragic stories that would never end happily. Simon did this because the understanding of the end made it easier to refrain from stumbling into the beginning in the first place. It’s far easier to keep yourself from falling in love when you picture so strongly how much it will hurt in the end. Unfortunately, this did not terminate the tugging feeling.
The self-righteous ideologies of Catholicism plagued him. There was Christ, nailed to the cross, while Judas gazed up at him. A gender-fuck starlet, son of God, and the onlooker. Unfiltered love and hatred braided into a few sentences that will never be said out loud. Just like Simon, Judas chose to bite his tongue, knowing the pain he has caused and will further invite. He despised the ever-present connection between himself and the place that he had once lived. Hated how despite it all, the stories he had been taught would not go unforgotten.
His day-dreaming, silent wanting, was interrupted by a voice like honey and wine, morning and citrus.
“Rocky, is Simon okay? He’s just sort of staring.” He blinked quickly, not realising how still he must have been.
“Rocky, talk to Simon if you want, question?” The space… thing said. Grace only nodded softly at this, smiling once more. “Good good. Grace leave, statement.”
“What? Why Grace leave, Rock?” The scientist frowned, a little over-dramaticized. Simon found himself slightly too fixated on the angel. Was that sacrilegious, admiring someone who must have come from heaven itself? When he frowned, Simon's gaze dropped to his lips.
“Simon no talk as much when Grace here. Heart rate rise, same as Grace. Better Rocky talks. Rocky better at advice than Grace anyways, statement.” That rock was blunt, that was for sure. But it worked, Grace got up without another word and left the room, leaving Simon alone with.. Rocky?
“Why Simon stare at Grace, question? Simon want court Grace? Same as how Rocky act with mate before courting, statement.” Simon felt his face getting warm.
“What? No dude that’s not– well okay..” He was fucking this up. “He’s.. there's something special about him.”
He didn’t know Rocky’s speaking machine could soften, that the robot voice was capable of tone, but it was, if only now. “Grace very special, Grace save stars.”
“I thought he was an angel, when I first saw him.” It just slipped out. He really hadn’t meant it to.
“Rocky will not tell Grace. But Simon make promise, question?” God this was ridiculous. Simon was having a conversation with a rock. He was making a promise to a rock. “Simon tell Grace eventually. Grace deserve to know.” Simon had to admit, this alien guy really did care about the scientist. He paused, and then nodded.
Rocky left, possibly to go find Ryland again. And Simon was left alone. The absurdity of the situation was nagging at him. He sometimes woke up and forgot this was a reality, that he was alive, that he was safe. It had never been so much as a thought for his future, but here he was.
On other nights, insomnia coiled itself around him like a python. Temptation nagged at his sides. Grace was in the other room, and the thought of human contact was so enticing, of breathing him in, of safe warmth.
There was a phrase from Eden, be not afraid. The angels were to come down, and you were not to scream because they did not mean harm. It stood out among the far darker messages shared by the hellscape. Simon wasn’t afraid of Grace himself per se, but instead how he felt. He was terrified of what Grace meant for him. Grace was lithium, floating and airy. Simon was the sinner, bathed, but not cleansed in the blood of the lamb. A tragic sacrifice that had to be made. But his wool was not white, and his skin was blemished and stained. He was not gentle, he did not hold still when the knife found the softest skin. He was the lamb and the butcher entangled. He was, for lack of better words, designed wrong. A cruel mistake in the face of a crueler world.
For a while, Simon had wondered if perhaps a higher being was looking at him, from stars away, sinking back in his seat and sighing at this broken man. Maybe he felt pity, though Simon did not believe that was a possibility. He did not see any kindness, if there was a creator. There was no deliverance for prayer, only blood. There was only ever blood.
In the time since his rescue, Simon's mind had slowly relinquished the forced upon beliefs. Growing up in a cult rewires something in you, twists your brain into perceiving the rest of that world in a different tone. It took time for the pressure, the guilt, to wane. To accept that truly, there was no angel. There was only a good man. There was no God on this ship, there was however a scientist. One who had found him and seen not a monster, but something far more gentle.
His heart had never raced quite like this, like he’d swallowed a soul of caffeine and stimulants. The blond stepped into the room once more, the rock no longer behind him.
“Let’s watch a movie, Si.” The request came out of nowhere, but Simon lacked the strength to reject. “Have you heard of Interstellar? I think it uhm.. It fits our situation.” Simon had no clue what that meant. Was there a devastatingly gorgeous man in Interstellar who saves the dead man that falls in love with him?
Turns out that was not what the film was about, though Simon didn’t particularly mind. All he could focus on was how close Grace was to him, thighs nearly touching. He kept reaching over and grabbing Simon's shoulder to explain plot points, though each time Simon's mind would go fuzzy and he’d miss everything the other man said.
Touch. It had been so long since he’d felt touch. And it had never been this kind.
He wanted to say something, to address this all. He wanted to speak like a poet or scholar, like he truly understood. He wanted to explain Grace’s soul, his beauty. Delve into it with no chance for last breath. But that would be to write a poem about poetry itself. That would be to chain down his own writhing heart and force out words it held so dear. It would be suicide, if Grace didn’t reciprocate, if he didn’t understand.
And then, Grace's hand found his thigh, gripping it at the zenith of the film. Simon saw stars, which was saying something seeing as he came from a time where they didn’t exist. “The bookshelf! Do you get it Simo–” Grace turned to look at him. “Hey, you okay?”
He was embarrassed to have reacted like this, so shocked. This touch meant nothing, truly. He was reading into things. “Mm fine. It’s a good movie.” He could smell oatmeal body-wash and a lab-grade cleaning agent. He wanted to breathe it in closer, wanted to melt into Grace.
The blond spoke softly, “You look really nice right now, y'know." Simon inhaled, sharp enough to twinge his lungs. That was cruel. That was a cruel and mean thing to say. His thoughts were abstracted, missing context. He was terrified, and at the same time, desperate for this to continue.
“Ryland, that isn’t fair.” He turned away, but his tone betrayed him. The man heard all, felt all. The adoration was undeniable, and Grace was only inching closer.
“Look at me.” A demand, one Simon was not going to refuse. His eyes met blue, staring, not yet blinking, blue. Cool water that soaks into sand, the sort you see in great lakes. Simon had never seen them himself, and this was the closest he was ever going to get. His fears clung to him like burrs, like soaked cloth that you must peel from your skin.
The scientist leaned closer, pulled Simon to him. He kissed him, and just like that, Simon was baptized in lovers' spit. He was pulled further and further, swallowed into a heaven with the brightest of lights.
Grace tasted like toothpaste and his mouth was sort of cold. Reverence entangled his limbs, piety and want, towards the blond on top of him. His hands found the other man's waist, skin warm and soft. It was innocent, it was desperation for touch. Grace pushed his face into Simon's shoulder, breathing him in, holding him closer.
“Can we stay like this? Just for a little bit?” Simon didn’t answer, he just pulled Grace closer to himself, soaking in the touch. He didn’t realise how starving he had been for it until it was there. Until it was his.
Devotion. He hummed in contentment, knowing better words danced in his mind. He could not read Grace's mind, he could not envision the man's feelings. He did not know that truly, he was worshipped in turn. He did not know that Grace would drop to his knees at this moment and devote himself to the being that saved him from himself, from the cruelty of being the only human. They were mutual saviours, shooting stars that had been wished on that the right moment. Both men asking for nothing more than to survive, and finding something far more wonderful.
This was nothing short of ecstasy. Grace— Ryland, against him, his head in the crook of the other's neck. There was nothing but soft breaths. Simon counted each one, timed his heart beat, picking out the evidence that shows this was real, this was earned. He was always meant to find his way here. This was not the tragedies of false-painted religion. This was not the self-assured Eden who had gifted him doses of torment. This was beautiful.
A reverse-Pangea, continents stretching further than an ocean to crash together. Simon looked up to see Grace already staring. He was certain he loved him, there was no question to it. And he was certain Grace loved him too, not as an angel and not because he was holy, but because he was human.
“Humans watch movie without Rocky. Human courtship gross, statement.” Grace shot up, face flushing.
“Rocky?! We– we’re not.. we weren’t..” He trailed off.
“Rocky happy for humans! No more staring at each other, yes? Rocky no longer has to convince Grace to talk to Simon, question?” Grace fell back, burying his face in Simon's shirt, that was actually one of Grace's, in embarrassment.
They restarted the film with Rocky present, still in each other's arms. Not an angel, nor a sinner, but two people who had found reason hidden in space. The stars outside had never been so bright, he had never felt so wanted.