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Grace had taught Simon about the different religions on earth. It was a rather interesting concept, so wildly alien yet familiar. All this about a God, or in some cases multiple. And some people didn’t even believe in a religion, they just existed. No rules to police their everyday lives, no need for comfort in a higher being, no real explanation for existence other than pure luck.
See, Simon was from a colony on Mars, in a universe unlike Grace’s. Where Simon was from, the stars had all died. Simon was one of those few “lucky” humans who just happened to be on a space station.
He grew up believing in… well he wasn’t sure what. The Father? The man who founded Eden, the space station he survived on? Simon didn’t really remember too much from his childhood, only bits and pieces.
Like the time he and his brothers first heard the story of the Quiet Rapture. That he remembered clearly, The Father’s rough and gravelly voice recalling the day all habitable planets and life on them just… vanished.
Or praying to one of the only remaining trees on Eden. He wasn’t sure what he had been praying to, but he prayed for his mother to get better. It hadn’t worked. The Father found him crying after she had passed, and lashed him over and over again, lecturing Simon about “wasting precious resources.” He never dared to let a tear fall from his deep brown eyes again. Then Simon thought to try and pray for resource abundance, but he didn’t want to risk being found crying again and whipped when it didn’t work. To think, resources were so scarce that your own spilt tears were considered a waste.
However, the one memory that was most prominent in his head was when he became “The Butcher”. It was an accident. Simon couldn’t follow through with his Brothers’ cruelty. He turned back to try and save someone, anyone, but he was met with injustice. He was thrown in prison for blood he didn’t even spill. Years of his life, spent in a dingy cell, treated cruelly for simply breathing wrong.
Then he was given a chance to redeem himself. All he had to do was collect some photographs for some science shrinks and he could go free. It sounded straightforward enough. Go down in a submarine on the blood moon, AT-5, and capture images with a special camera. Only, it wasn’t.
Simon was sent back down against his will, only to be met with death.
Or, what he was almost certain was death.
But then he woke, missing an arm and even more traumatized, but very much alive.
He thought, at first, that the sweet kiss of an angel had come to take him to die, just like The Father said would happen.
But Ryland Grace wasn’t an angel. He was a man. A human man with a strange, sentient rock best friend named Rocky.
Simon wasn’t in Heaven, or in a paradise, or an afterlife, he was on the planet Erid, in the 40-Eridani system.
How he got there was anyone’s guess, but he was there. And the stars? Alive. Very alive.
Simon had never been shown much kindness in his life, apart from his mother, so it surprised the man when a greenhouse appeared one day outside of his own little house inside the human biodome.
Grace had shown him around, explaining that the plants inside were from his ship, the Hail Mary, and they were now Simon’s.
He nearly wept at the thought of owning something so precious as life.
He planted the seed inside his pendant he found on the sub that same day.
Now it was growing. Slowly, of course, but it was growing. Grace helped him identify it as a birch tree.
And despite his misfortune with prayers to trees in the past, Simon started doing it again. He prayed every night, knelt at the dirt before the sapling, his hand pressed firmly to his chest, feeling the bumps of his rosary beads under his clothes. He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the religious necklace, but he kept it hidden. Some nights he prayed for good health for him and Grace, other nights he prayed for his nightmares of the blood ocean and prison to cease. And some nights he even prayed to ensure he was alive, that he was awake, that this wasn’t a dream, or an afterlife.
If it was an afterlife, Simon was sure it was hell or somewhere adjacent deceiving him. He knew he hadn’t been a good man in his life, so hell was the only place warm enough for a demon like him to spend eternity in. He knew one day the illusion would lift and he’d be back in the blood ocean, drowning in the blood of those lost to the Quiet Rapture, being dragged to the gelatinous bottom by a giant mutated eel with teeth longer than himself.
But days passed, and everything remained as it was. No thick red liquid clawing at his nose and mouth, no stabbing pain from teeth sinking into his skin, just peace.
Only the calm lapping of waves on the shore, the gentle breeze of fresh air, the early morning fog, and Grace.
How could the devil possibly conjure such an image as Ryland Grace?
Blonde hair, pale skin, blue eyes? A smile brighter than the sun? A voice smoother than silk? Such a person would make the devil recoil and hiss in pain, surely.
Grace had saved him, given him an out to his miserable life, shown him kindness and empathy.
Simon didn’t worship Grace because he saved him, though he was eternally grateful. He worshipped the man that showed him how to live. He showed Simon how to sew, together patching up some of Grace’s tattered clothes, and making new ones for Simon. He taught him how to cook, even though their options were limited on an alien planet. They made burgers, or as Grace and Rocky called them, Me-Burgers, in the afternoon light, the smell of grilling meat filling Simon’s nose. Grace had even taught Simon how to dance.
“Okay, mirror my footsteps.” Grace was resting his forearms on Simon’s shoulders, while Simon’s singular hand rested on Grace’s waist.
His movements were stiff and awkward. Grace took a step back with his left foot, Simon took a step forward with his right. The two started to slowly sway, and eventually, Simon relaxed into the rhythmic movements.
“Yeah! There you go!” Grace exclaimed with the brightest laugh Simon had ever heard. “You’re a natural!”
Then Simon smiled. It was an inept sight, but he smiled.
Not because he was good at dancing, he certainly wasn’t, but because he could. He let himself feel the domesticity of it. No fellow inmates breathing down his spine, waiting for him to do something wrong so they could beat him for it. None of his “Brothers” screaming at him for being a coward. No one calling him “The Butcher”.
But there was a nagging, a voice in his head. It sounded like The Father’s. No, it was The Father’s.
“Man must not lie with man, and woman not with woman, for if they do, they shall be doomed to eternity in purgatory.”
So Simon dulled his smile. He could not let it been seen that he lo–
That he enjoyed Grace’s presence.
He knew The Father wasn’t present in his life anymore, but he was a lasting stain in Simon’s consciousness that he just couldn’t scrub out.
Simon had learned about homophobia briefly from Grace. The school teacher had explained how he was bullied growing up for being queer. Simon had selfishly thought “You will burn in hell.” It wasn’t malicious in intent, but silent observation. He wished no ill will to Grace, no, he could never.
Simon kept his thoughts to himself, for he knew they were wrong and Grace wouldn’t support them. He didn’t want to support them either, but it had become instinct at this point. See something wrong? See someone sinning? Note it aloud in his mind.
But if Simon could choose to sin with one man? It would be Ryland Grace.
It was late at night, and Simon knelt before his birch tree. The soft light from the artificial moon poured in from the skylight, illuminating the space around him like a spotlight. He pressed his calloused hand to his chest, feeling his rosary beneath his clothes, and bent his head.
Tonight Simon prayed for the voice in his head to be silenced, to stop himself from thinking horrible thoughts about the man he held so dear.
He ended his prayer with the same line.
“In mind,” He pressed his hand to his forehead. “In heart,” Then to his chest. “And body,” Finally his stomach. “Emunah.”
Then Simon stood and exited his greenhouse, crossing the rocky ground and entering his house. It was a little barren, considering he showed up to Erid with no belongings, but both Grace and the Eridians had made him decorations and furniture to fill the space.
He changed into shorts and one of the nerdy t-shirt Grace lent him. It said “Never trust an atom, they make up everything”.
He pulled it over his head and adjusted his rosary.
Simon settled onto his mattress and curled up under the covers. He slipped into sleep easily, but sleeping soundly was always a challenge.
He felt a weight dip the mattress, and looking over, Simon saw Grace sleeping soundly beside him. He turned over in bed to face the beauty of the other man, and gently reached out a hand to brush blonde hair out of his face. Upon the softest brush, Grace had burned and turned to dust, blown away by some invisible wind.
Simon jerked back and tried to grab after him, but caught nothing. Then he was plunged into darkness, no longer in the safety of his own bed. He was drowning in blood now, the eerie scarlet liquid grabbing at him and pulling him down.
“You cannot love without sinning,” a voice echoed from somewhere. From everywhere. “The only love you should feel is pure, untainted by the demons and their tricks.”
The blood surged up and consumed Simon entirely. He tried reaching up to the surface and calling out for help, but his mouth was flooded with the rich taste of iron the moment it opened. He squirmed and flailed his body about, trying to free himself from the force pulling him down.
Then he sat up with a shout.
There was no blood. No voice echoing around him. Only the darkness of the night and the safety of his space greeted Simon.
And Ryland Grace.
Concern was etched on his face, his blue eyes wide with worry. “Simon?”
Simon came back to, and realized Grace was gripping his forearm. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to ground. And he wasn’t burning up. He wasn’t turning to ash and blowing away. He was just sitting there, on the edge of Simon’s bed, checking up on him.
“I was grading the pebbles’ work and I heard you shouting,” He explained quietly. “Nightmares again?”
Simon nodded once.
“Okay, you don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to,” That was another thing Simon loved about Grace. He never pushed, never prodded where he wasn’t wanted, and never forced. “But I’m here if you do.”
Simon nodded again.
They sat there for a while, just basking in silence, before Simon finally spoke up. “Stop staying up so late.”
“Don’t worry about me Si, I’m alright,” Grace assured him, relaxing his grip on Simon’s forearm. “I don’t do it often.”
They fell into silence again.
“Would you like me to pray with you?” Grace tilted his head and looked at Simon over his glasses. “I know it’s something you do every day.”
Simon hesitated. Something screamed at him, “No! Do not pray with a sinner! He will taint you! He will infect you!” but he pushed the thought away and nodded.
Grace took Simon’s hand between his own and bent his head slightly. “Don’t make fun of me, I’m not religious.” Always joking to lighten the mood.
Simon bent his head as well, mirroring Grace.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” Grace began, and Simon had to hold himself back from flinching at the word “father”. “We ask that you hear our words and listen with kindness and empathy. I pray for the health and safety of my friend Simon, and ask that you cure him of his night terrors and allow him to sleep soundly. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”
It wasn’t anything like Simon was used to saying, but who was he to police Grace on how he should pray?
His hand was warm between Grace’s soft ones, and the strangest realization hit him.
Simon didn’t feel like he was sinning. He felt like he was lazing in the light of some heavenly force. The only warmth he felt was not from the fiery pits of hell, but rather skin pressing against his own.
He met Grace’s soft blue eyes, and suddenly didn’t care much about The Father, or Eden, or sinning. He only saw Grace, not a devil in disguise.
So he pulled his hand back, and grabbed his rosary around his neck, before tugging sharply. The string broke and the beads spilled off, scattering in every direction.
Then Simon truly sinned. He gently took Grace’s face in his hand and kissed him.
And he understood why the devil enjoyed sinning.
Grace’s lips were soft and slightly chapped, warm against his own. His stubble tickled Simon’s palm.
When he pulled back, Simon could do nothing but look at Grace with love.
He did love Ryland Grace. He loved the man who came to comfort him in the night when he woke with a shriek. He loved the man who prayed with him despite not being religious himself. He loved the man who smiled at him now, after being kissed, returning the adoring gaze.
They kissed again, and Grace met Simon halfway. It was firmer, more confident.
Maybe Simon wouldn’t feel the sweet kiss of death from an angel, but Ryland was pretty damn close.
That night, Simon and Ryland fell asleep in the same bed, curled into each other. Simon had never slept so peacefully. He didn’t have nightmares, he didn’t even dream, and that was perfectly okay. Why would he want to dream when that was his reality?
The following morning, Simon woke first. Not with a jolt or a scream, but with a deep breath and heavy eyelids. He blinked sleep from his eyes and saw Ryland laying beside him, the soft morning light pouring onto his dormant state.
Simon reached out and brushed his fluffy golden hair from his face, and he didn’t burn or blow away. He remained, whole, and entirely Simon’s.
Simon learned two things that morning.
There really is nothing more precious than owning life.
And even between universal borders, we choose to hate the most pure thing out there:
Love.