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It’s not like Simon’s ever really hidden it.
It’s not overt, not the colorful spine on a drab bookshelf or the awe-worthy display behind the shop window. He doesn’t wear it proudly like a badge. He doesn’t call any attention to it.
Still, he doesn’t hide it. No turtlenecks (and it’s not like Grace doesn’t have plenty of those to spare) or conveniently placed hands over his throat. He makes no grand effort to cover it — it simply exists, and it exists because he allows it, and Grace sees it every day and always wonders, wonders, wonders.
He has, however, been far too anxious to bring proper attention to it the way Simon doesn’t. It’s not neglect born from disinterest — it's anything but that. Grace is terminally interested in Simon, in his good and his great and his imperfect, and he swears he could dedicate the rest of his little human life to studying the hairs on his head and the lines on his body. He’s spent hours beside him, studying each curve and dip with his hands. He wants Simon mapped to memory. He wants to close his eyes and see him anyway, every small detail. Yes, unquestionably, infinitely, Grace is hopelessly interested in the subject of his overflowing devotion.
Simon, however, is decidedly far less desirable to himself. He seems to think himself as a technically flawed painting. Well put-together, at least from a considerable distance, but as you begin to pry and pick away at the details, the entire piece falls apart. Simon thinks he is nothing more than the sum of a few rusted and decrepit parts. To attempt to dig further, to unravel the ball of insecurity and loathing that Simon harbors, has never yielded a great amount of success.
As Grace has discovered, Simon will reveal himself in small, palatable chunks, in the moments in the in-between, when he feels especially safe and comfortable enough to do so. Consequently, Grace has made it his mission in life to foster an environment that allows for as many of those moments as possible. Because Simon unequivocally deserves a life of security, even if it’s a foreign idea to him, even if nobody in his life has ever agreed, even if he does not think himself worthy. Grace knows, intrinsically, like he knows how to breathe, that Simon deserves every bit of happiness he’s never been afforded.
So he gives Simon his time. He doesn’t push or prod at his raw wounds. He doesn’t wrap them in gauze without asking. He allows them to breathe, to heal, to exist simply on their own before Simon feels ready enough to hold them out and say this is me, this is my hurt, will you hold it? And every time, every single time, Grace will respond with yes, yes, yes.
He’s not sure what about this moment makes Simon begin to speak about it. They’re lying in bed, watching a documentary about bees on Grace’s laptop. The way Grace treats Earth can be likened to how a parent would treat their loved but estranged child. He loves to show Simon the beauty of it, and he loves to flaunt its accomplishments and complexities, but if you were to ask if he’d ever want to see it again, his answer would be a hysterical, resounding no. Grace loves Earth; he does not particularly like it.
As the sweet bumblebee covers its fuzzy body in a dandelion’s pollen on screen, Grace lazily looks over at his lover. Simon is laying on his side, pillowing his head on the crook of his arm. He’s wearing an oversized t-shirt (Simon has always preferred loose-fitting clothes, ever since his arrival) and boxers, with the blanket covering the majority of his body. His eyes are half-lidded, focused intently on the video.
A surge of warmth overcomes Grace. He is here, he is alive, and he is happier than he’s ever been. His gratitude for Simon knows absolutely no limits, no restrictive boundaries. He doesn’t understand what he did to deserve a lover like him, but he wouldn’t give this up, not for the entire universe.
The warmth is so potent that he feels a primal desire to release it physically. He needs Simon to know that he is Grace’s starlight, his beacon, his home.
He moves his hand first, gently placing it on Simon’s cheek. They’ve moved past the point of flinching at physical contact, and it kind of makes Grace want to cry, knowing how far they’ve come from those first days of distrust and skittishness on both ends. Simon’s eyes flick to Grace, a small smile forming on his face, laced with pleasant confusion.
Grace chooses not to explain himself. His love is self-explanatory, at this point. He leans in and kisses him, feeling every last inch of Simon’s velvety lips with his own. Simon inhales sharply, relaxing into Grace’s featherlight touch and slowly moving his lips in tandem. It’s a little hesitant in the beginning, it always is, but Simon soon slumps and allows himself to be loved.
Grace’s fingers travel down to Simon’s neck, tracing every rivet of his figure, every little blemish. Some of the skin is raised from scarring, and Grace’s fingers gently glide over it, not avoiding, but not drawing any special attention to. They’re simply there, just like the rest of him, and Grace will accept him as he is, wholly, undoubtedly.
Simon’s breath hitches as the pads of his fingers brush over a certain spot. That strange jagged X on the side of his neck, covering a swath of deep black lines. Grace moves to retreat, opens his mouth to apologize, but, as is how it often goes, Simon surprises him.
His xenonite arm jolts, the mechanical fingers capturing his wrist in a loose grip. Grace’s eyes widen, allowing for Simon to gently guide his hand back to the scar. They lock eyes, the world shifts and crumbles, and it’s only the two of them, alone together. Grace’s thumb brushes over the scar, tracing the X shape in gentle, sweeping motions. Simon relaxes, however marginally, and closes his eyes.
“It was a tattoo,” he says, unexpectedly. Grace startles, but quickly resumes his soft ministrations. He looks at Simon’s face, soaking in every gorgeous detail.
A tattoo. Grace supposes he should've guessed that. He studies the black lines quietly, waiting for Simon to continue or drop it.
“Everyone on Eden had one. A symbol of our loyalty.”
A loyalty that was ultimately not reciprocated. Grace’s heart curls, bile bubbling low in his stomach. The hatred he carries for Eden is heavy, perhaps to an unhealthy degree — he does not care. Simon’s opinions on the cult that raised him are reasonably complicated. Grace’s are not. Simon was just a child, lost, afraid, without a mother, and Eden sank its fangs into his tender flesh and turned him into something he did not ask to be. Simon is not violent, he was not born honing his claws, he does not enjoy the hunt. Simon was born to cook synthetic pasta at three in the morning, he was born to wear soft sweaters and dance in the kitchen light and hold Grace like he never wants to let go. Simon was born to smile, to sing, to love, love, love.
And yet, Eden took this soul so full of light and used it not to warm but to burn. They twisted his nature into something unrecognizable, to the point where Simon sees himself as something not quite human. They told him he was his best self with a blade pressed to their enemies’ throats. They convinced him he was more of a sword than a shield.
They filled Simon’s brilliant and curious mind with doubt and fear that can never be erased, and Grace hates every last one of them.
A dizzying swell of affection blooms in his chest, and he can’t stop himself from coaxing Simon closer, pressing his lips to the old wound in a quick peck. His fingers return in an instant, brushing his knuckles over the bumpy, irritated skin. Simon exhales slowly, allowing his tense muscles to uncoil.
“How old were you?” Grace asks after another lapse of silence. He can sense Simon wants to talk, but isn’t sure where to begin. It’s Grace job, then, to take his hand and lead him to a solid starting point.
Simon hums noncommittally. “I don’t remember. Twelve, probably.” He pauses. “Kinda feels like I’ve had it my whole life, though.”
Twelve. Twelve. He could’ve been one of Grace’s students. He should have been doodling his way through the period in a middle school classroom. He should have been wondering what he would get at the cafeteria during his lunch. He should’ve been goofing off with his friends and causing mayhem like any twelve-year-old boy does — and instead, he was branded like cattle for a cult that would turn their backs on him the first chance they got. Grace wants to rage against the injustice of it all, he wants to wring their necks, he wants to turn back the clock and know Simon at a different time, be his anchor, his escape. But he can’t do any of that, so he settles for caressing his gnarly scars and, god, when had his hands begun to shake?
He feels the skin under his fingers stretch as Simon swallows. “I liked it. I was proud of it. It made me think I was a man.”
Grace’s mouth dips into a dissatisfied frown. “You weren’t a man. You were a kid.”
“Well, I know that now,” Simon smiles weakly. Something about it soothes Grace, not entirely, but enough to chase the rather unkind thoughts out of his head. He knows they’ll be back. “Back then, though… I guess I figured you stopped being a kid when you stopped being treated like one.”
And if that isn’t just the worst thing Grace has ever heard.
“You were still so young. They forced you to grow up. That’s their fault, not yours,” Grace reminds him quietly, pressing his lips to the scar again, letting them linger a little longer. Simon’s breath hitches, his brows twitching the way they always do when Grace manages to hit a sweet spot. Grace smiles contentedly against his neck.
“…I know,” Simon finally whispers stiltedly. Grace is aware of the difficulty Simon has with Eden as a topic. After many, many conversations about it, some more productive than others, he now understands that he was a victim of ‘father’ and his grooming, at least, on some level. Maybe not as strongly convinced as Grace would like him to be, but Eden was also, for all intents and purposes, Simon’s home. Even a rotting and dilapidated building can serve as shelter. Even scraps of food can sustain the starved. Simon was faced with something cold and hard and chose to treat it like a gift anyway. With that sort of self-assured destruction, paired with the violent dogma fed to him by those he mistook as having his best interests at heart — even a breathtaking betrayal like the one he was handed can’t unwind that kind of programming in its entirety. And maybe nothing really can, but Grace will be damned if he doesn’t try. Because Simon is beautiful, and worth it, and deserves someone who will achieve the impossible for him.
At this reminder, Grace’s hands find Simon’s hips, pulling him close, practically into his lap. Simon curls into him like he’s magnetized, sapping at his lover’s abundant warmth.
“After Filament,” Simon whispers after a moment, and Grace tenses involuntarily at the name, “after… all that. The C.O.I. had me. Months… maybe years. I lost track.”
And if there were ever an organization somehow more detestable than Eden.
He supposes it’s a point of personal contention, which group is more worthy of his ire. It doesn’t matter, ultimately, because either way, they’re all gone, and Simon is safe, and instead of attempting to quantify the heat accumulating in his belly every time he thinks about either one, he will instead hold his tongue except for two words: good riddance.
His hand travels up to Simon’s fluffy black hair, gently carding his fingers through the strands. His nails gently scrape at his scalp, and Simon rumbles lowly, like a purring cat. His lips find the scar once more, giving it more soft pecks.
“The cell was small. Empty. I slept on the floor with my hands cuffed behind my back,” he huffs, and the mental image alone nearly sends Grace into a frenzy. Simon, Simon, who can’t sleep peacefully without Grace’s arms wrapped around him, who cuddles pillows and buries himself in mountains of blankets. The thought of him in those conditions makes Grace want to scream his lungs out.
His tongue slowly runs over the scar tissue on Simon’s neck. He begins to nibble and suck on the area, and Simon releases a small noise of pleasure from the back of his throat.
“You didn’t deserve that,” Grace whispers, his breath tickling Simon’s skin, “you didn’t.”
Simon leans further into him, his body wracked with subdued tremors. “I know.”
He sounds unsure, and Grace wants to press it, to confirm that Simon understands, fully, without a shadow of a doubt, that he did not deserve to be treated as something less than human. But there’s a stark difference between applying pressure to a bleeding wound and a healing wound, and he can’t stand the thought of putting Simon in any more pain than he’s already endured.
So Grace nods and returns to coating his scar in affection, his fingers still playing idly with Simon’s hair as he kisses and sucks on the mark. Simon has gone practically boneless in his hold.
“They burned it off,” Simon confesses in a halting breath. It’s enough to stop Grace in his tracks.
“I guess… they didn’t want their property to have a mark of Eden. So they held me down and burned it off.” He sniffs, eyes trained on something far, far away. “Hurt like a bitch.”
It’s like a dagger in his heart. Slowly, he pulls his lips away from the mark, just far enough to look his lover in the eyes. Simon’s jaw clenches, then slowly relaxes, and it’s like Grace can see the walls crumbling.
“It really hurt,” Simon repeats, his voice cracking.
Grace wraps his arms around his lover and holds him together as he shatters.
There’s a little jagged piece of him that wants to respond with righteous rage, scream and kick and cross time and space to kill whoever had laid a hand on somebody so undeserving. It throbs with the need for vengeance, burns like an open flame. It’s a temptress, the anger and the hatred, but one he knows he needs to resist, because he loves Simon far more than he’s ever hated anything and Simon has had more than enough time for hatred. Now it’s time for him to feel the affection he’s been so cruelly deprived of.
Grace cups the back of Simon’s neck and tucks his face into the crook of his neck. Simon’s tears coat his skin as he breaks, short hiccups and sobs spilling from his lips. Another hand tangles itself in Simon’s hair, scratching at his scalp soothingly. It doesn’t take very long for Grace’s tears to join the mix and drip from his face down onto Simon’s head.
“I was so alone,” Simon cries and shivers. “I knew nobody would come for me but I— I thought maybe— I don’t know—” he whimpers. “I just wanted to go home, Ryland.”
Wanting to go home without having a home to return to. Grace understands that more than he can adequately describe. He squeezes Simon closer, mindless of the tears running down his cheeks.
“They took everything I had. My pendant, my tattoo, my fucking name. I wasn’t a person anymore. They made me—” he inhales sharply. “They made me think I never was.”
He sobs. “It’s not fair. It’s not— Eden wanted a scapegoat. The C.O.I. wanted somebody to punish. Either way, I’m the one left with the scars. I— Ryland, I didn’t— I never—”
Grace shushes him softly so the poor man doesn’t work himself up into a panic attack. “I know,” he affirms. “You didn’t want it to happen. You didn’t cause it to happen.”
“I didn’t,” Simon whines weakly. “I didn’t.”
Grace holds him tightly and sniffs. He thinks of Simon alone in that cell for months or years on end, believing that not a single living soul cared about him. To be so hopeless and isolated, and yet still carry such an indomitable will to survive — Grace admires his lover so much.
“I love you,” Grace says, because it’s worth repeating, and because Simon is worth loving. “I love your spirit. I love that you never gave in. I love that you survived because it meant that I got to meet you, and love you, and love loving you.” He gently moves his hand from its perch on the back of Simon’s neck, sliding it back onto his scar. “And I would give anything to go back and meet you then, so I could tell you the same thing when you needed to hear it the most.”
Simon’s shoulders tremble as he cries, both his flesh and xenonite arm clutching onto him like he’s the last thing tethering him to the present. “I love you so fucking much, Ryland. I’m—” he inhales sharply. “I’m sorry that I’m the way I am.”
“If you were anything else, I wouldn’t want it,” Grace answers resolutely. His fingers brush lightly over the scar tissue again, mapping each bump and groove. He presses his lips to it firmly. “I adore you, my starlight.”
It takes a few minutes for the sobs and keens to peter out. Simon slowly regains control over himself, and Grace allows him that time, gently kissing and caressing the mark on his neck. Grace has never thought of Simon’s scars as ugly, not ever, but somehow, in knowing this one’s story, it’s even more beautiful. The faded black ink below the seared skin is not a condemnation of character like the C.O.I. thought it was. The scar above it is not a sign of disrespect like Eden thought it was. Both of them, all of it, together, is a reflection of Simon’s bravery, his resilience, his determination, and his ability to look back at the world behind him and say I survived, screw you, I’m here and I survived.
Simon exhales slowly as his cries die out. Grace can sense it before it happens, so he pulls back and warns Simon, “If you apologize to me again for the cardinal sin of being a human being with feelings, I’m going to tell Adrian that you’ve been lying to them about how much you loved The Devil Wears Prada.”
A wet laugh escapes his lover, and Grace grins in triumph. “You wouldn’t. It's their favorite movie!”
“Try me,” Grace teases.
Simon sticks his bottom lip out in a dramatic pout, then rests his chin on Grace’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispers, achingly earnest.
Grace’s gaze softens, and he pecks Simon’s temple with his lips. “Well, it’s better than a sorry.” Simon laughs again, and Grace swears it’s a sound that could cure any disease. “You don’t have to thank me for caring about you, Simon,” he reminds him gently.
“Well, I’m going to anyway,” he says stubbornly, and Grace sighs fondly, because maybe there really are some things that will just never change. (He supposes there are much worse hands he could’ve been dealt.)
He gazes down at Simon, his fingers softly raking over his back. “I’m so proud of you, Simon. So unbelievably proud.”
Simon melts into his arms. “I lived.”
Grace grins from ear to ear, squeezing him tightly. “You lived.”
“I lived, and I’m here.”
“And I’ll never stop being grateful for it.”
They sit there like that for a few minutes, listening to each other breathe, the inarguable proof of their life and their love. Simon begins to slump into him, his eyes falling shut before he snaps them open again.
“Wanna keep learning about bees?” Grace smiles.
Simon huffs a little laugh. “Maybe in the morning. The crying kind of wore me out.”
Grace nods in understanding as he shuts the laptop with one hand, the other still firmly wrapped around his starlight. He sets it on the nightstand and gently coaxes Simon into lying down, still deeply entangled in Grace’s limbs. Simon hums quietly, resting his head on his chest. Grace’s hand finds Simon’s neck, his thumb brushing over the scar once more.
He thinks of Simon in that cell, alone in the center of the universe, afraid, waiting for someone to save him, knowing it would never come.
“It’s over,” Grace breathes, even though Simon’s eyes have already closed and his breathing has evened out, “and you lived.”