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The panorama of San Francisco streets fills with drizzling rain and billowing fog. It’s dim out, save for the shop lights and neon signs glowing like little beacons through the evening dusk. Music hums through hidden speakers, some songs familiar and some not. There’s a certain kind of home in it, even if I’m not sure I’ve ever walked down these specific sidewalks or biked down those back alleys.
It’s easy, leaning back-to-back against Simon, quilt draped over my lap, to let the comfortable sights and sounds wash over me. If I close my eyes, breathe through my mouth to ignore the missing scent of rain on the pavement, I can almost pretend I’m there. Maybe waiting out a shower beneath a coffee shop’s awning. Maybe ducking into a bookstore to find something for the classroom.
It’s a nice daydream anyway.
My thoughts are a little cloudy and meandering, mind mostly switched off. Eventually, though, they wander to Simon. It’s his first time seeing all this. Earth, still alive and thriving. Recorded before the sun started to (noticeably) dim, even. I wonder what he thinks of it.
Before I muster the motivation to break the cozy atmosphere to ask, something else snags my attention. The song’s switched, smooth vocals playing over piano and acoustic guitar.
There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea.
A sharp burst of nostalgia takes hold of my heart and squeezes. It aches like an old bruise. Comes so suddenly, and with so much force, that it takes my breath away.
The missing, longing, hurting isn’t just for Earth, though. For home. It has deeper roots than that. I would have felt the same even if the song was drifting through my apartment while I worked on grading tests, long before I knew anything about star eaters and what distant solar systems looked like up close.
And you became the light on the dark side of me.
This song lives nestled in hazy, 3AM club booth corners. In the radio of a stranger’s car with rain drumming on the sunroof and condensation fogging the windows. Drifting from a propped-open door all invitingly tangled up with laughter and chatter and the scent of cherry cocktails. Hummed and sung around a smoky fire in someone’s suburban backyard with lost marshmallows melting on the logs. Blanketing a wedding for a now-faceless classmate, when they’re too young but bright and sparkling like champagne and I’m alone at a table with my dress jacket striped off and empty glasses at my fingertips—when loneliness eats my bones likes moths chewing holes through wool and I slip my glasses off my nose to turn the bodies across the hall into blurs of color swaying under the warm lights instead of—
“What’s wrong?” Simon asks, startling me out of my thoughts.
I blink a few times, memories fading, and take in the display of San Francisco streets once more.
Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey.
I swallow once, a little sticky, before I answer. “I don’t… What do you mean?”
“You’re breathing weird,” he accuses.
It’s not exactly specific enough for me to know what he’s taking about, until I try to pull a measured breath in, but it hitches partway. Ah. I didn’t realize there was a knot tying in my throat. A telltale pressure in my sinuses. My eyes are dry, though.
“You can hear that?”
“I can feel it,” Simon says. He leans a little harder against my back and takes a deep breath in lieu of an explanation. It’s just as effective. I can feel the planes of his back rising and falling with the inhale and exhale, pressing more solidly against me. His warmth bleeds through too, making it past layers of fabric. He must be able to feel the heat of my skin too, even muffled as it might be.
The thought makes me tremble a little. I don’t know why.
“Oh.”
Simon scuffs a heel on the floor. His hair tickles the back of my neck when he drops his head low. “I’m not… I get some stuff’s private. Personal. But if you want to get something off your chest.” He’s quiet for a few beats, nothing but the rain and rhythm. “I’m here, for whatever that’s worth.”
It’s worth so much more than I’ve been able to make him understand—him being here. Rocky’s my best friend, and I would literally lay down my life for him, but there are just some things he can’t do. Some things he’ll never be.
When I need more than a hard xenonite ball to cry on, Simon’s there with a shoulder. When I need some empathy about a distinctly human struggle or joy, Simon understands in a way Rocky can’t. (Mostly—there are definitely still some cultural differences between his reality and mine.) When I need a break from being literally seen though, even if I don’t want to be alone, I can count on Simon to linger quietly in the room without monitoring every little tick in my body.
He’s slowly become just as integral a part of my life as Rocky has.
His invitation to talk is also slowly sounding more and more appealing the longer the song plays, tinged in a dusty, rosy hue that seeps under my skin. I don’t know where to start, though. The feeling tangled up around my heart isn’t really a simple thing, a decipherable problem. Not like the nightmares or moral conundrums I’ve talked through with Simon or Rocky as my sounding board.
I take a breath; it wavers a little.
“It, uh, took a lot of revisions to make me into the Grace sitting here now.”
It doesn’t seem like that should be such a weighty thing to admit. Everyone changes throughout their life. That is life—going along experiencing all sorts of things, changing the world and being changed by it in turn. Yet, for some reason, I feel a little lighter for saying it.
“Yeah?” Simon asks, soft enough I hardly hear it.
“My memories are still a little fuzzy in places, but I remember enough. I know enough of who I am and who I was. And I know this song.”
Soulful saxophone sounds through the room in an achingly familiar melody. “I heard it a lot when I was in college, but not in… gosh, I don’t even know how long. Maybe a decade? It feels kind of like a time capsule now. Brings me back there.”
Against my back, Simon stiffens a little. I hear some rustling and shifting, and tip my head to the side just enough the catch a glimpse of what he’s doing. His knees are drawn up towards his chest.
Memories are complicated for him too. I’ve gathered that much at least, even if he rarely opens up about why. That’s one thing I won’t pry about. His mutations are another story entirely—too scientifically fascinating to pass up.
“Is that a good thing?” he asks, sounding a little skeptical.
I absently pick at the seam of my pants, considering. “I don’t totally know. Mostly, I guess? There’s a lot of nostalgia there, but that’s also kind of why it hurts. Missing the good ol’ days when life was different and I was different.”
I can certainly say my life has changed a lot more than a lot of people’s. Others might have marriages, moves, job changes, you name it. Though, not many people can say they’ve ended up in a different star system while saving two worlds with a rock spider alien and someone from another dimension (maybe?) for company.
For a moment, there’s nothing more than drizzle and music to fill the quiet. Eventually, Simon hums a wondering note.
“What were you like back then?” he asks.
Thinking back, I can’t help the small smile that twitches at the corner of my lips. I was stupidly young and free, more than anything. “Man, college Ryland, huh? I was a handful for all my friends, I bet. Just full of curiosity and love for life.”
“I don’t know—that doesn’t sound too different from now,” Simon puts in.
That makes me chuckle; he doesn’t even know the half of it. Those traits might still be there, but oh boy do they manifest differently. “I used to lick pills out of strangers’ mouths, Simon. Didn’t even know what they were most of the time. Just guessing some kind of club drug was good enough for me.”
I can’t even fathom the idea anymore, even if I was still on Earth and could do that kind of thing. People say you mellow with age, but I think I just cultivated an anxious disposition instead. Even elevators make me nauseous now when they used to be no problem.
It’s nice to not feel any of that now, though, settled and relaxed instead, thoughts drifting. “Did you have fun drugs on your station? Stuff just to make you feel good, or was it essential medicine only?”
Letting go of a breath, Simon rolls his head to the side and leans it back against my shoulder. His hair is soft on my neck, close enough now I can smell the simple clean of the Hail Mary’s sole shampoo. Luckily, we haven’t run out of that yet.
“Officially? Nothing like that. But there were rumors. If you knew the right things to offer the right people…” he trails off. A few beats pass by. “I stayed out of it. Not worth the trouble.”
“Fair enough.”
There’s a lull of quiet. The song’s changed now, something new filling the room. A yawning ache opens up in my chest, wanting Kiss from a Rose back. I’m not quite ready to let go of those memories floating nearer to the surface than they have since waking up on this ship. I want to bundle them close to my chest and hold tight.
All the same, I can’t bring myself to get up to go back and loop the song. Gradually, bit by bit, Simon’s been relaxing against my back. He feels pleasantly loose now, a warm weight that anchors me in place. Having someone around to touch and be touched by has soothed the horrible, touch-hungry hurt that used to curl up in my ribcage and chew fretfully. Even if that beast is quieter now, I’ve still got the tooth marks in my heart, my ribs—there’s no going back from years and years without any type of contact. That kind of thing scars.
I just… I don’t want to lose this comfortable moment with Simon.
Plus, I’d feel a little bad asking him to move. It’d be like kicking a cat out of my lap.
Simon stretches out a little and lets more of his weight rest against me. I might have a few inches on him, but he has a fair bit of muscle on me, so he isn’t exactly light. I don’t mind, though. There’s something grounding and reassuring about it. He’s here and real and solid, and he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
“You said there were a lot of revisions,” he states, somewhere between curious and deliberately neutral.
It takes a second for his meaning to click into place. “Oh, to get to the current me.” I drum my fingers on my leg, sensing where he’s going with this. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t press me any farther than that. He stays quiet, just leaves space for me to talk if I want to.
I don’t know if I want to. On one hand, I like to talk. I like having someone to talk to, someone who actually wants to listen. (The fact that Rocky and Simon both fit that description is nothing short of a miracle.)
Yet, some of what comes next in the chronicle of Ryland Grace… isn’t pretty. And that’s probably being generous.
Air heaves from my lungs. “After school, when I got into the shockingly cutthroat world of academia, something just. Fell apart.” I rub my eyes. “I don’t know when or how it happened exactly, but I just got so angry.”
All the fascination and love I had for the world shriveled—the world itself seemed to shrink. Gone were the nights soaking in smoke haze and good music, learning the shape of a stranger’s smile. There were no more long, lazy mornings spent people-watching out a café window, or sprawled in the grass by a park bench, marveling at a vibrant, blue sky. My sight narrowed to beige conference halls, harsh computer light at all hours, terse and clinical labs, mounting exhaustion, bitter coffee and alcohol that burned going down, and a violent need to defend myself, no matter who that meant lashing out at.
Just thinking about it makes my stomach hurt. That Grace was wicked smart and dedicated beyond belief, but what does it matter if he was miserable? If I was miserable? I went from feeling like the world was in the palm of my hand, wide and wonderful, to sure every peer was a hound on the hunt, looking for any excuse to discredit me.
“I’m not proud of who I was then.”
I leave it at that.
Simon tips his face in towards my neck. I wonder if he’s trying to catch a glimpse of my expression. As it is, his nose brushes thin, sensitive skin. Warmth ignites in my chest, glowing in fitful bursts like a sparkler. An urge prickles through my arm to reach up and tuck his head a little closer into the hollow of my throat. Cradle him there. But that’s kind of a lot, I think. We’re probably not there yet.
It still doesn’t stop me from wanting.
“You’re not alone in that. I don’t… my memory’s jumbled and messy, but the guilt’s fucking choking sometimes.” His breath is warm and short against my neck. “I’ve done things I shouldn’t have, I mean.”
My heart breaks a little hearing that. I don’t know a lot of details about before he ended up in the submarine that Rocky and I found him in, but I can make some educated guesses. Especially since he admitted once, in the dark and hoarse from crying himself awake, that they never even asked his name until the end. Called him Convict for who knows how long. You don’t get a nickname, a condemnation, like that for no reason.
“Good thing we got second chances, huh?” I say with an attempt at a smile. It doesn’t quite reach my eyes, even though I really am grateful. It just… this, here and now, might be Simon’s second chance, but it isn’t mine. That came earlier.
Simon rumbles an affirmative, cheek resting against my shoulder. I can feel the vibration of the sound in my back, where we’re pressed together.
“Good thing.”
Whatever I’m feeling lightens just a little then. So I carry on. “My kids—my students—they turned it all around for me. After bombing out of the respectable scientific world, teaching was kind of the only door open for me, so I took it. And I loved it. Sure, some kids were brats on purpose, and others were difficult through no fault of their own. It was loud and messy and chaotic, but it mattered. I was actually doing good. It reminded me why any of what I was studying even meant anything in the first place.”
“Why’s that?” Simon mumbles against my neck.
“It’s for them, you know. Science is all about understanding the world. And the more we understand, the better we can make things for the people who come after us. Teaching let me pass on that passion, or at least try to.”
Before everything went sideways anyway. The world had other designs for me, it seems. Astrophage (and Stratt) really threw a wrench into my plans. But I’m here now, and there’s no changing that. I might even be better for it, if I’m feeling magnanimous enough to admit it. Braver for sure, because Yáo was right. I just needed to find someone to be brave for.
“Aaand you pretty much know the rest of my life’s story.” Hail Mary era details were the easiest and most relevant to share, so Simon got the rundown on those first. Enough so that he was probably sick of listening to me talk about years of space travel and research. “I guess I miss being old Grace sometimes, but”—I shrug—“what can you do? Time stops for no one, and you definitely can’t go back.”
I’m wouldn’t want to, even if I could. Not permanently, anyway. One more time listening to an old song in an old, familiar club, drink in hand, someone’s arm slung around my shoulder, warm all the way through, might be nice though.
The drizzling drum of rain comes back to the forefront again. Another song—an unfamiliar one—slowly fades to a quiet end. Simon takes a long, deep breath and tips his head just enough for his lashes to brush my skin when he blinks. I soak up every bit of contact I can.
“Do you feel better?” he asks, and at first, I don’t get what he’s talking about. It takes a minute for the pieces to click together.
“Is that why you listened? You thought it’d make me feel better?” It did, a little like cleaning out an infected wound, but he doesn’t need to humor me like that. That’s what Rocky’s for—the two of us have gotten alarmingly attached enough that even bugging the crap out each other feels good and right, somehow.
It takes a moment for Simon to reply. When he does, it’s begrudging, like he’s admitting something. “No. I was being selfish. And nosy.”
That’s actually kind of a relief to hear. I’m glad he was getting something out of listening to me talk.
“Oh, good.”
“Good?” he asks, and I swear I can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice.
“Yep. Good,” I parrot, smile coming back; it’s a little more real this time.
Simon huffs a disbelieving breath that’s almost a laugh.
“I don’t get you.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. “That’s alright. You’ve got plenty of time to figure me out.”
With any luck, I’ll get to do the same with him. We’ve got the rest of our lives, after all. There are plenty of revisions to come, and we can figure them out together.