Chapter Text
The biodome had been getting hotter recently. Grace had mentioned something about the Eridians wanting to test out heat fluctuation to simulate Earth seasons, but Simon suspects another motivation. Over the past few months, Grace had been making comments about wanting to swim in the biodome's ocean. Or more specifically, wanting to swim with Simon. And every time, Simon would politely decline.
Grace would hang around near the shallows of the ocean, enjoying the water and it's, apparently, perfect temperature, and Simon would sit in the sand, far from where the water laps up the shore, a good distance between himself and the simulated waves. He's not stupid, he knows this 'ocean' is entirely fake, even if it mimics it really well, according to Grace. But knowing it's not real doesn't stop him from watching Grace like a hawk every second he's enjoying himself in the waves. It doesn't stop the way his muscles tense when a particularly rough wave knocks Grace to his knees. It doesn't stop the panic that crawls up his throat when Grace submerges himself below the water for a moment too long.
He doesn't bring it up, he doesn't dare. There's no way in hell he'd ruin Grace's enjoyment of this place, it was made just for his specifications, after all. Simon arrived much later, he already felt bad for intruding in this sacred space to begin with, he's hardly in a position to make demands that anything be changed around here, even if Grace insists he can suggest whatever he wants.
So, he instead vows to stay vigilant. To watch. To make sure Grace stays safe among the waves. The waves that are blue from reflecting the light of the artificial sky. The waves that are made out of water, that don't stick to his skin or move with a visceral viscosity. Waves that don't dye whatever they touch with a horrible shade of crimson.
But he couldn't lie and say he wasn't tempted to join Ryland. Simon never had access to such a large body of water, especially one that can be used this recreationally. He was too young to remember if Mars ever had anything available for recreational swimming, but Eden certainly hadn't. The Quiet Rapture hadn't helped in that regard. Any chance that Eden would've allowed anything like that was dead the moment they realized the stars were nothing but ghost light. Water was required for survival, so it must be treated with the upmost respect, only used when necessary for cleaning and sustaining oneself. And for the Tree.
Always for the Tree. Water and blood and bodies. Until they weren't needed anymore.
Safe to say, he'd never had the experience of swimming that Grace had. He'd heard stories of it from his mother, most not personal stories, but every story he was told only cemented the idea that swimming sounded fun. It sounded refreshing. So much so he'd nearly mourned the loss of ever experiencing it.
But that was before the SM-13. Before the Blood Ocean.
He still sees the surface of that wretched place when he closes his eyes. The vision of a God staring down at him, looking into his entire being, calling him that horrible title that he deserves all too much. He feels the bonds around his wrists, or wrist, and the blood coating his skin and clothes and dripping into the boiling waves. The sound of crashing liquid and thunderous sky.
Simon is certain that it couldn't have been real. He hadn't actually communed with a God, he couldn't have. To have had his vessel torn in two, to see the visage of something in the rushing blood, to hear a confirmation that it sees him. For it to acknowledge their mutual understanding of that fact. None of it could have been real. For his own sanity, it couldn't be. Even if a whisper in the back of his mind insists that there's no way his own subconscious would've ever supplied him with such a nightmare.
The thought of stepping into such a vast body of liquid again makes his skin want to crawl right off his muscle.
That doesn't stop Grace from begging. And when begging doesn't work, he turns to the only other logical solution. That being, turning up the heat in the biodome, so when Simon keeps vigil on the shore sweating buckets, Grace can loudly and with great exaggeration exclaim just how hot he was and exactly how much the water is cooling him off. It's as annoying as it is endearing.
The worst part is that it's working. It's working so well, in fact, that for the past few weeks they'd been working on guiding Simon further and further into the water. He'd had to reluctantly confide in Grace about his need for help in that area, of course. And Grace, in all his kindness and understanding for dealing with Simon and his laundry list of bullshit, hadn't asked many questions about why. Grace, he knew, already figured why. Without so much as a complaint, he'd agreed to do whatever he could to help and to take it slow for Simon.
Simon still doesn't believe he deserves the angel that is Ryland Grace, no matter how many times Ryland assures him the opposite.
This arrangement is how Simon finds himself in this situation. After weeks of slowly inching his way further and further into the sweet relief of the water that chills the heat right off his flesh where it touches, Simon has grown bold, and wants to try his first big leap in progress.
The day before, he'd gotten up to his mid thigh, and now he wants to get up to his waist.
Granted, the day before had also sent him into a panic attack, but what could he say? He was desperate. He wants a solution to dealing with the heat. He wants to finally get over this fear of an 'ocean' he knows logically is entirely safe. And more than anything, he wants to see the look on Ryland's face when the two of them are finally able to enjoy themselves together. He had been begging for months to have Simon join him in the water, and Simon desperately wants to indulge him.
Grace makes him weak, he knows. Weaker than anyone ever has. He's not entirely sure of if what they have going on is strictly romantic or platonic, but they certainly have something going on. It's gone entirely unstated and unlabeled by either of them, but Simon finds he doesn't mind. He's certain Grace doesn't either.
So now, Simon stands at the edge of the shore, the heat bearing down on him conflicting with the perfect chill of the water lapping at his feet. He's in a pair of exercise shorts that usually are only used when he does his workouts, but had been delegated to ocean duty ever since him and Grace's little agreement. Ryland had initially apologized that there weren't any proper swim trunks for him to use, something about the Eridians struggling to replicate the type of material that it uses? Simon isn't sure it matters to him. And Grace had been a bit flustered at Simon's nonchalance at the matter.
Grace takes a step back, away from Simon, until the water is up to his mid calves. He's in similar attire, albeit with some slightly longer shorts on compared to Simon's. It looks good on Grace, something he'd only admitted once aloud to the other man during the first few days of watching him from the shore. It greatly pleased him to see just how red Ryland's face became at such a simple compliment.
The blond in front of him reaches his arms out to beckon Simon towards him, smiling ever so encouragingly. And just like the last few weeks, Simon takes a step forward, reaches his own arm out, and gently takes Ryland's hand with his own slightly shaky one. He's led further into the water, a dull buzzing of danger at the back of his mind as the water creeps higher and higher up his legs. They inch slowly forward, but still Simon often has to take long pauses to calm himself down, and Grace indulges him without so much as a complaint. He should be complaining, Simon thinks, since the longer he takes waiting around and pulling himself together, the longer Grace has to suffer through the heat beating down on him. His complaints about the temperature in trying to goad Simon into swimming hadn't just been a farce, he knows.
A particularly long pause when the water is at Simon's knees has Grace squeezing his shaking hand, "You're doing great, Simon."
Simon shudders a sigh. Despite how he keeps his face clear, desperate to hide just how much terror was clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach, he knows his eyes are betraying him. He knows Grace can see it, even without his glasses.
"We're almost to your personal best!" Grace encourages, which sends a brief thrill through Simon at the prospect of defeating his fear. That thrill is shortly snuffed at the reminder of said fear, of where he's currently standing. Of the shore getting farther and farther away. He squeezes Grace's hand without even noticing, and takes a mild comfort when Grace squeezes back.
Forward and forward. Inch by inch. The water creeps up and up and up, waves lapping at his skin and shooting discomfort down his spine. He keeps his eyes on Ryland, because when he looks anywhere else, all he sees is the red tinted water that surrounds them. It's not real, he has to remind himself, it's not real.
The two of them come to a stop. Simon takes deep breaths, unwilling to look away from Grace, who laughs in excitement that he tries to wrangle into something less intense for Simon's sake. He really doesn't deserve Grace.
"It's all up from here!" Ryland grins, bright and warm as the heat upon his back. Simon can't help but chuckle, something undoubtedly fond easing some of the tension off of his shoulders. Grace's expression softens in turn, "You sure you want to take such a big leap? It's- It's not a big deal if—"
"I know, Ryland." Simon says a bit too fast. He chastises himself for possibly coming off as upset at the other. "But I want to. I need to."
Grace is quiet for a moment, studying Simon, searching for any sign that this is too much for the stubborn man and he has to make the executive descion to lead them both out of the water. He finds nothing of the sort, so instead just smiles and nods. "At your pace, Simon."
It takes another long moment before he's able to find the courage to take a step further than he's ever been before. It's funny how that is. You face down death in the form of a breached hemorover, travel the flooding depths of a claustrophobic crawlspace, rip your own arm off your body, take a fire extinguisher to the teeth of a monster that wants you dead, and yet it still takes a mountain of effort to find the courage to take one single step into a fake ocean. Being with Grace has made him complacent and soft. Maybe that isn't so bad.
Sunset is fast approaching, Simon distantly realizes, as the light on Ryland's face becomes notably warmer in hue. The water is also a much warmer color now, though he still tries to avoid looking at it as much as he can. The budding orange tint is a bit too similar to the reds his mind conjures. It will pass, he assures himself, sunset isn't orange forever.
A wave hits Grace's back and causes him to pause mid step, a squeak of surprise following before he can stop it. Simon's breath hitches at the disruption, a jolt of terror freezing him in place that he fights to calm. Grace notices quickly, which he only knows because a sudden guilt twists those pretty features of his and it makes Simon's heart ache that he'd ever think Simon's failures are his fault.
"M'sorry—" Simon starts with a shaky breath, "I'm okay, keep— keep going."
He hates how pathetic he sounds, how pathetic he feels. Grace takes a step back and Simon can't even move, stopping the two of them yet again, and he hates it. It feels like weights have been tied to his ankles. The shake in his hand has travelled to his shoulders.
"Simon—"
"Keep going, please." Simon's voice is strained. The water, growing slowly darker with the advancing sunset, is nearly to his waist. It's not long now. "Take— Take the lead…?"
The look on Ryland's face makes Simon want to cry. Regret, kindness, concern. But not pity, no, not even when a nasty part of himself wants to insist Ryland is looking down at him for needing to beg like a child for something as simple as asking for help in wading waist deep into an artificial ocean. It's water. It's just water. Even as the setting sun dyes it in a reddish orange, even as his legs struggle to function under the viscosity of the liquid enveloping him.
It's water.
His plea is granted by Ryland's ever exceeding mercy, as he squeezes Simon's hand and takes a careful step back. With a gentle tug, Simon is able to follow after him.
Finally, with agonizing relief, they reach their marks. The water, darker than ever now, shining a color he dare not acknowledge in his terrified brain, waves and lightly crashes against his waist. He laughs, somewhat incredulously. He's done it. He made the leap.
Grace's face squeezes into barely contained joy, and pride. Something that makes Simon's heart flutter. He'd capture that look forever if he could. It's enough to make him forget his surroundings, just for a moment.
Grace laughs, and swings their conjoined hands so they splash into the water and submerge. To his credit, Simon only flinches at the suddenness of it.
And then, Grace lets go, an unmistakably playful look on his face, as he takes a few quick steps back, putting distance between them. Simon huffs in disappointment and mild discontent at the loss of touch, and he makes to ground himself in the absence. Pulling his hand out of the water after the departure, he reaches forward to attempt a playful grab, the shimmering red liquid dripping off him from its time underneath—
No, that can't be right.
His breath catches in his throat as he blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision of the paranoid hallucinations. And when his vision clears again—
The reset of his vision forces him to take in the view of everything around him instead of just Ryland. He takes in the sunset first. It's—
The sunset, entirely artificial on the biodome's distant walls, has not abandoned its warm hues. Instead of comforting oranges giving way to gorgeous purples and ultimately into the starry darkness of the night sky, it's… wrong. It's like the dulcet orange tones have instead just gotten darker, gotten redder. It's red. The sky is red. The sunset is red.
He can't breathe, he can't look away. It's wrong, it's all wrong. What's going on with the biodome? What happened to the screens? Were the Eridians testing the visuals? Why didn't Grace warn him?!
Grace. Grace hasn't noticed, he has to tell Grace something is wrong. He forces his gaze to part from the horrifying wrongness of the reddened sunset and towards the visage of his saving Grace, standing a few feet away from him now with the water up to his mid torso.
"Grace, the— the sunset it's—"
Simon chokes on nothing and gurgles in alarm.
The water— no, the ocean— it's red too. It's all red. It makes sense, he distantly tries to soothe himself, it's reflecting the colors of the sky and—
"It's nice, isn't it?"
He snaps to attention. Ryland's gaze is entirely on him. He watches Simon with a fondness that Simon would've found heart warming in any other situation. But right now all it does is make him want to bolt right out of his skin.
Awash in red, either from the sunset's eerie glow or a dip in the ocean he hadn't noticed, Ryland speaks as if noticing nothing wrong at all. "I never was a sunsets type of guy, but… Seeing it like this, with you, maybe I am."
Ryland laughs softly. It sucks the air out of Simon's lungs for all the wrong reasons. With an embarrassed flush to his cheeks and a crooked grin, Grace stumbles over his words, "You- ah- It's a good look on you. The sunset, I mean."
He hasn't noticed. How has he not noticed? Simon feels sick. He's sure he looks sick as well. He's sure he looks terrified. It's all too much, any facade of calm he had leading up to now thoroughly abandoned without remorse. If Grace hasn't noticed the sky or the wrongness of it, then surely he must notice just how scared Simon is. He was so attentive earlier, surely he must—
"Ah, en-enough about that, though." Grace sheepishly tries to brush off his previous flattery, settling into something more playful yet again, "Come on, we're almost there! You can make it farther!"
That wasn't… part of the plan. Simon feels entirely off balance, his world is spinning. He's going to vomit. Something is wrong. Something is wrong and Grace doesn't see it. Grace is in danger, he's—
"Ryland." He tries to sound steady, but his voice shakes without his consent. "I'm— We're done…! We have to go, now."
Ryland tilts his head ever so slightly, a gesture he's picked up from Simon. He sounds slightly impatient in his excitement, "It'll be worth it, I promise."
"No. We're done. We have to go. Now!" He insists through gritted teeth, darting his arm forward to desperately grasp at his companion.
Grace ducks away from the grasping hand, his playful expression filling Simon's gut with bubbling, frustrated anger. Anger that is quickly doused as Grace looses his balance and, with a look of surprise, disappears beneath the waves.
"Ryland!" Simon shrieks, stumbling forward in a sudden striking terror that Grace will be lost to him forever. The ocean is thick and hard to navigate, and he hardly manages to get more than a few inches in covered ground before Ryland rises from the waves with a gasp and, incredulously, with a laugh.
Standing once again, nearly up to his pecs in the all too familiar liquid that he was certain had killed him once upon a time, the other man smiles at Simon. It's a look of comfort and fondness, of certainty in something that Simon can't place. It fills Simon with a primal terror that leaves him with one goal; Escape.
With gasping dread, Simon turns to dart towards the shore as fast as the blood will let him run.
He was so stupid! So wrong! Of course it was going to end this way! He should've never gotten in the water! Should've never been swayed by Grace's pleas! He should've noticed everything was wrong when it started getting hotter. The heat, that was his first warning back on AT-5, in the fucking hemorover surrounded by blood on all sides that was somehow so warm, and he's ignored it yet again for the false comforts of a man who's always smiled too kind, too understanding. Too warm. He didn't deserve such comforts. But he had grown complacent and soft in Grace's presence. And now it was going to be the end of him.
Simon turns with the urgency of a fox with dogs snapping at it's tail. And he freezes.
The safety of the shore he longs to throw himself onto, of the house he's called home for the past year and a half, of the tree that's not real yet that he still finds the effort to sit beneath every morning, it all crumbles to dust and sinks beneath the all encompassing redness of the ocean and the sky.
As far as the eye can see, without break or reprieve or comforting familiarity, is the ocean. Crimson and bubbling, not a single glimmer of a star reflecting off its surface.
An ocean of blood.
Simon can't stop himself from wailing. A strangled cry that tears his throat ragged echoing into the visceral nightmare he finds himself surrounded by. He was so close. He was free, he was happy, he was alive. Yet hell had finally reared its ugly head, let the other shoe drop, and shattered every hope he had meticulously glued back together after he had finally accepted maybe his rescue had been real.
"Simon."
Another choking sob wrenches its way free at such a familiar voice. It had once been such a comfort to him, to listen to it ramble on and on, to hear it talk about the Eridian children that it calls its students, to note the joy when it was visited by its best friend after a busy week. Maybe it still is a comfort to him.
Simon turns, slowly and wobbly, hoping desperately that somehow everything will be different when he settles himself. Until he finally comes to a stop.
Ryland Grace, his savior, his angel, his dearest friend and companion, stands right where he was the last time Simon had looked at him. He's veiled in scarlet which rolls down his skin and drips from his hair. There's a surreal beauty to it all that makes him want to bury his face in Ryland's neck and let the other man cradle him into the dark depths of the moon's never ending torment. At least then he wouldn't be alone in it.
Raising his arms out of the blood, they bend in front of him in a beckoning motion, Grace smiles. It's inviting and warm and it makes Simon want to disappear into it.
Simon blinks, and he notices something he hadn't before. The darkness at Grace's back is broken up by lighter shades as it gets further out, and then is broken up further by an impossibly familiar sight. Teeth, he realizes, are stationed like a cage above and in front of Grace. It's as if the other man sits in the center of a giant maw, one sudden move away from snapping down on him and ending his insignificant life without any effort at all. Yet, Grace doesn't move. Like he doesn't even care. Like he knows no harm will come to him.
There's a gleam in Grace's eyes, bright and red and unnatural. How long has it been there? Simon isn't certain, but he longs to stare into them forever, as much as he longs to gouge them out entirely so he never has to see them again.
And above it all, above Grace and the darkness at his back and the teeth that hover above him, above that comforting smile and the menacing maw, are eyes. He knows those eyes, he's seen them one too many times from the pictures taken through the blood, illuminating the interior of his coffin by the flash of x-rays.
Simon feels the crushing weight of an unmovable bind around his wrist.
Grace opens his mouth to speak, and Simon swears he can hear another voice hidden deep below, and then another. Arms still gently beckoning Simon towards the maw that he knows he can't outrun any longer, Grace laughs.
"I've got you, Simon."
Simon wakes with a choked gasp. His vision swims, the bright red of those lovely and horrible eyes staring into his own, flashing behind his eyelids as he blinks away tears.
It's all so vivid, every single moment of it, the dream more like a memory scarred into his mind. It's wrong. It's wrong. It's wrong. It's wrong.
It's all wrong, all of it.
Staring up at the ceiling of a house he can't call home, Simon shakes and huffs and tries desperately to catch his breath and focus. But it's so hard. It's so hard when he can see the ocean of blood clear as day in his mind and he can feel the restraint wrapped tight around his wrist, and he can feel the warmth of the boiling blood all around him. And it's all so wet and he feels so gross—
He's covered in sweat, he realizes, his hair sticking to his face and his skin in a way that makes him want to chop it all off so it can never stick to him again. It's sweat, he tries to reason, but the image of blood ocean as far as the eye can see raises doubt in his mind. It's too dark, he can't see right, what if it's not? What if it's not the clear sweat he wishes that it is? What if it's dark and viscous and that horrible crimson and he's coated in it?
He won't know until he looks. But he's scared. He's so scared. Because if he looks and it's red, that means it's over for him. None of this is real. But if it's not red? Well, what if he's just not seeing it right? What if he's deluded himself into thinking it's something it's not?
It eats away at him, a gnawing in his chest as his heart beats rapidly against his ribcage, the only assurance he has that he's still alive. The only thing he knows for sure is real. Somehow, despite all odds, he's alive.
But that might not last long.
Because he feels a warmth at his side, familiar and hot and quiet. He doesn't sleep alone anymore, he hasn't for a long time now, and it's a comfort he's taken for granted. Because now, knowing there's a body to his left, he knows it can only be one person. The person he had seen sitting in the middle of an Eel's maw as if he was part of it, as if it was home.
Terror steals his breath once again. He feels unwell. He has to look. He has to see. He has to turn and look for the gaping maw and jutting teeth that threaten his very life. But if he looks, and he sees nothing? Maybe that means it's just… Grace.
But he hadn't noticed the teeth earlier, had he? On the shore, in the ocean. He'd only noticed once reality shifted to what it surely always had been that there had been teeth at all. That the Eel was biding its time to wait for the perfect bite. It had almost got him, too. If he had just taken the bait. If he hadn't gotten distracted by the sunset and taken in his surroundings, if he had just kept his focus on the dazzling image of Grace. As if Grace was a lure.
Oh god.
Simon shudders a breath, shallow and fast, and he digs his fingers into the blanket he grips for dear life against his chest. It's warm. It's too warm. But he can't bring himself to remove it because what if he tries and the warmth doesn't go away.
Slowly, agonizingly, rolling over the concept in his terrified mind— a lure, a lure, a lure, a lure, a lure— Simon tilts his head ever so slightly towards his sleeping companion.
Grace's back is to Simon, curled up peacefully with the blanket pulled over him. The tag of his shirt is poking out from his collar, a terrifying habit of normalcy. He doesn't know. He doesn't know that Simon knows. That somehow, despite all odds, he had seen through the veil placed over his mind. Because surely, his subconscious wouldn't supply him with such a nightmare if it wasn't real.
He had been wrong before, how could he have been so naive to think he's creative enough to dream up the God peering down at him and acknowledging their mutual viewing of each other? No, no, it had seen him clear as day, just as he had seen it. And since it had seen him, it won't ever let him go. No, no, no, it's all just a trick. A ploy. Or maybe even an idle curiosity to see what would happen to a feeble human mind if it throws one into heaven just to see what happens when it turns out to be hell. It demands it's victim keep the feeble mind in check all the while, so it—
So it uses a lure.
Simon stares wide eyed at Grace. The warmth he once found so comforting now threatening to burn him alive as he shudders and shakes and stares, more terrified than he's ever been before. More so than when Filament Station was destroyed. More so when he was dropped into the ocean of blood. More so when Ava died and he suddenly knew he wasn't going to come back up. More so when Mars disappeared, along with every other planet and star in the universe.
He loathes himself and he loathes how complacent he became and he loathes how much Grace made him hope again.
He loathes how he hadn't seen it all sooner.
'How long have you been a lure?' Simon can't help but wonder. Dreadfully, woefully praying that at some point it had to have been real.
'How long have I been blind to it?'