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The Last Tree stood tall at the centre of the garden, long after the sap under its bark had dried up. Years after the last leaves had fallen, never to regrow. Never to fulfill their biological duty of photosynthesis again. Simon supposed it didn’t matter. There wasn’t any sunlight to synthesize anyway.
There hadn’t been since he was eleven years old.
He sat across from the tree, as he often did, settled on the concrete boundary of another plant bed. His knees pushed up a bit too high for comfort, but he didn’t mind; at least the garden was quiet.
Quiet was hard to come by on Eden, despite the fact that they existed in a vacuum. The steady whir of life support, footsteps echoing through every hall, hushed voices flooding the station like a noxious gas, ready to choke anyone in its path.
Simon hated this place.
“No you don’t,” Said a strong, gentle voice that scared his monsters away when he was young. “You’re just tired.”
Something akin to a laugh huffed out of Simon’s mouth as he nodded, not turning toward the voice. “Yeah… yeah, I am.”
“You should get some rest, Simon.”
She was right.
Simon kept staring at the corpse of Eden’s last hope.
Soft fingers raking into his hair made his eyes slip closed, a soft sigh escaping him as he felt practiced hands divide the greasy, unwashed strands into sections.
She’d always loved braiding his hair. Even once they knew he was a boy, she just dropped the butterfly clips she used to weave in. The star clips sometimes still made an appearance, but those he didn’t mind as much.
“I’ve told you, you need to keep it clean,” She scolded, though he could tell from her tone she wasn’t angry: just exasperated by his stubbornness.
She always said it was his best and worst quality.
Simon shrugged.
The business he was in, washing his hair properly wasn’t as much of a priority as getting the bodily fluids off of his flesh; the urine, the vomit, the blood.
No matter how careful he was, there was always blood.
She didn’t have to know that, though. He could protect her from what he’d become.
“One hundred and seventeen.”
Simon’s eyes shot open, his blood running cold as the hands in his hair grew decidedly less gentle.
The garden was red, every window coated in thick, liquid blood.
“That’s fifty-five before we even count Filament, right?”
She tugged a section of the growing braid to tighten it, squeezing Simon’s scalp so suddenly that he cried out.
“Come on, aren’t you going to check my math? Fifty-five?”
Another sharp tug; Simon dug his teeth into his bottom lip.
“Fifty-five people? For a dead tree that will never benefit from their soil?”
She pulled the entire braid tight, tying it off as Simon began to taste his own blood.
She couldn’t know that. How could she know that? She was dead long before he’d ever been sent out in the field.
The hands left his hair. “Look at me, Simon.”
Terror shot through his heart and Simon shook his head, closing his eyes again. “No.”
He couldn’t look at her; not yet. He knew how this ended, it always went the same way.
Why couldn’t he pretend a little longer?
“Look at me, Simon.”
“No.”
“Look. At. Me. Simon.”
“Mom, please-”
His throat tightened as his closed eyes burned, but Simon was stubborn. He wasn’t going to look.
The gentleness of her touch returned as a hand was placed on his cheek, ignoring the sharp teeth sticking through his flesh. It might’ve calmed him if her waxy, cold skin didn’t stick to him.
“Si.”
Despite how tightly he was squeezing them shut, tears began to escape Simon’s eyes, running down his face. “I don’t want to, please, don’t make me…”
“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”
“Please, Momma, I-”
“Open your eyes.”
He shook his head again, but she just put her other hand on his face, holding him still.
Simon cried like a child, continuing his frantic pleas through tears and snot.
He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it.
“Mom-”
“Look at me.”
Red light burned Simon’s retinas as his eyes shot open against his will; he desperately fought to close them before they could adjust, but he had no control over the movement of his lids.
His mother’s rotted face faded into view.
Missing one eye, cracks and wounds all across her skin, a thin layer of soil clinging to her clothes and body.
“There we go,” She said softly, holding Simon’s face and preventing him from turning away with a grip of titanium. “There we go.”
“Why?” Simon sobbed, willing his eyes closed and growing increasingly frightened the longer they ignored him. “Why do you keep doing this?”
His mother’s expression remained gentle, though her words were anything but:
“It’s what you deserve.”
She would never say that.
Why was his brain so cruel to him?
“It’s what you deserve,” She repeated, wiping one of his tear tracks with her thumb and leaving a trail of slime behind. “Fifty-five families saw a loved one dead because of you. This is penance.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No. No, it isn’t.”
Maggots wriggled around in the hole where her left eye used to be, but she paid them no mind. She continued to brush away his tears, waxy flesh rubbing off her thumbs with every movement.
Blood began to drip into the garden from outside, flooding the floor and filling the space with the putrid smell of life and iron.
Simon gasped as his mother tore her hands away, a sticky, clear film holding them to his face for a few seconds before breaking away with distance. It sizzled into his flesh, leaving blistering burns in its wake.
He bit into his lip again to suppress the scream bubbling up in his chest. More blood splashed onto his tongue, churning his stomach.
The pain was dizzying.
“Be strong, Simon,” His mother said as she had a thousand times before. “You’re so strong.”
“I know,” Simon spat, his vitriol all directed at her because there was nowhere else for it to go. “I’m fucking sick of it. Why do I have to be strong all the Goddamn time? When will it be someone else’s turn?”
His questions fell on deaf ears; they always did.
Always the listener, with no one to listen to him.
His mother stepped back, onto the soil surrounding the dead tree. The ground slowly gave way beneath her, pulling her into her resting place.
“Be strong, Si.”
“Mom-!”
But she was gone.
Food for a seed that was never going to sprout.
Simon’s eyes, still refusing to close, remained glued to where she’d sunk. Voices down the hall outside grew louder, more frantic, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away.
“Mom?”
There was no answer; she was finally behaving like the corpse she was.
The blood now coated the entire floor, flowing around Simon’s shoes.
He was tackled from behind, his face slamming unceremoniously into the growing pond.
“Don’t you fucking move!” A new voice above him shouted, a hand to the back of Simon’s head pushing him down.
Simon tried to shout, but he only ended up inhaling blood; coughing and gagging and wheezing in some fruitless attempt to breathe.
“What did you do?!” The voice demanded, horrified, lifting Simon’s head by the braid. “What did you psychopaths do?!”
“I-!” Simon’s head was shoved back into the blood with a thick splash that soaked into his freshly braided hair; he sputtered.
“There were sixty-two people on that station, Butcher!” The voice was still loud, though the hysteria had faded out of it. “Every one of them is dead!”
“I never-!”
He was yanked back up and slammed back down over and over again, the blood continuing to rise but his assailant taking no notice of it.
“Twenty-seven men—” SLAM “—twenty-three women—” SLAM “—twelve children!” SLAM
Simon couldn’t tell how much of the blood was his anymore.
“You’ll fucking rot for this, Butcher!”
SLAM
“You’ll rot like that stupid fucking tree will!”
SLAM
“Simon!”
Simon’s eyes snapped open, locking onto the face above him.
No longer restrained, he grabbed the man by the throat and rolled, pinning him to the—
…the bed?
“Si-” A familiar voice choked; a voice that calmed the screaming adrenaline in Simon’s head with just the one, broken syllable. “—it’s just me! You’re okay, you’re safe! It’s Grace!”
Grace…
…holy shit, Grace!
Simon yanked his hand back as if it had been burned, scanning his victim’s face: his blue eyes, faint stubble, and not a trace of judgement toward the man who’d just tried to strangle him.
Grace’s hand went to his throat, rubbing at the skin while he coughed; luckily, Simon’s delirium and lack of a second hand seemed to have impeded his ability to actually injure his neck.
“Sorry,” Simon said quickly, shame welling up in his stomach as he sat up to give his friend space. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“I know,” Grace cut in, shooting Simon a pained smile as he massaged his neck. “It’s okay, I’m okay. Sorry I scared you.”
Simon suddenly met Grace’s eyes again, dumbfounded. “I just grabbed you by the throat and pinned you down, why the fuck are you apologizing?!”
An awkward shrug preceded Grace’s answer: “Because you were scared? I dunno…”
…fuck, why did he have to be so perfect? It did nothing to stop Simon’s panic attack, and now he was short of breath for two reasons!
Grace noticed the increased distress (though thankfully, he seemed oblivious to its secondary root), turning to fully face Simon and folding his hands in his lap until he had permission to touch him.
He really was an angel, wasn’t he?
“…do you want to talk about it?” Grace asked, his voice calm and gentle.
Simon shook his head, eyes tracing the bright squares that made up the periodic table on Grace’s shirt as he tried to calm his breathing.
After a moment he heard Grace sigh, and the table shifted out of view. “I’ll get you some water-”
Without planning to, Simon reached out and caught Grace’s wrist. He was met with the man’s piercing eyes as he turned in surprise and sat back down.
Brilliant, Simon. Desperate and pathetic is a great look; exactly the one you want to show to the man you’ve been head-over-heels for for years.
“…Si?” Grace asked softly when Simon stayed quiet for too long; he placed his freehand over Simon’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You still with me?”
Simon took a shaky breath, holding Grace’s gaze. “…please stay.”
He knew Grace would come right back if he went to get him water— wouldn’t really be getting him water if he didn’t bring it back —but he was talking about after. He didn’t want Grace to head to the lab, or start on an early breakfast, or even head into Simon’s room to sleep there and give him space. He wanted him here, with him.
It was selfish. And stupid. And-
Grace’s hand tightened around Simon’s. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Something broke in Simon at the soft reassurance; the way Grace spoke as if it were easy, as if he didn’t even have to think about his answer.
As if Simon was worth staying for.
Tears burned Simon's eyes and he felt Grace’s thumb wipe one away as it fell; gentle and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, slimy trail left by the nightmare of his mother’s corpse.
Simon moved, swallowing what remained of his pride and hiding his face in Grace’s shoulder as he quietly sobbed. Grace’s arms immediately embraced him, one rubbing circles into his back while the other carefully cradled the back of his head.
“You’re okay,” Grace whispered into his hair. “I’m right here, Si, you’re alright.”
The warmth of the contact was like heroin to Simon; he wrapped his arm around Grace’s back, desperate to be closer to him and feel more of it. Grace took it one step further, crossing his legs and shifting Simon to sit in his lap.
Simon knew he should have felt shame. He should have been embarrassed, he was being cradled and coddled like a damn toddler over something as stupid as a dream!
But despite that, all he felt was… warm. Comfortable, like Grace wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Like Grace had the power to enter his nightmares and twist them into pleasant dreams. The blood ocean became a beach, the Last Tree part of a blossoming apple grove, Filament Station still proudly floating through a solar system, orbiting a star along with hundreds of natural satellites.
Safe.
Simon felt safe.
The realization staggered him; had he not been sitting down, his knees would have buckled.
Of course he knew he was safe, but knowing something logically and finally feeling it were two very different circumstances.
He’d felt fine on the Mary, but they were still in space; that always came with a background dread of “if we get hit by a rock, we’re doomed”. Even once they landed on Erid, there was about a month where they were racing the ship’s hull integrity to get an approximate Earth atmosphere developed.
But now, a week into living in their biodome, knowing for certain now that it wasn’t going to crack or collapse under the weight of Erid’s atmosphere… Simon felt safe. Physically.
And Grace was showing him, for maybe the first time in his life, that he was also safe emotionally.
“…I don’t deserve you,” Simon mumbled into Grace’s shoulder, his voice hoarse from crying.
Grace huffed a laugh, pressing a quick, soft kiss to the top of Simon’s head before leaning his cheek against the same spot. “Back atcha, big guy.”
…alright, so Simon might not have been in danger of dying due to random chance anymore, but Grace was definitely gonna kill him if he kept doing shit like that.