Chapter Text
MAY - SIMON (how to eat the sun - prologue)
//
It begun as most things do; as a trivial suggestion over tea.
Simon isn't in the business of social calls these days, but he makes an exception for Ellie, the librarian who frequently tucks herself away in her office in the archival section of the library for the better part of the year.
He's not sure how old she is. Her perfectionist nature feels ancient; her contemporary 'tastes' in ceramic animals decorating her desk sing juvenility. But she's decent company, if not driving him a little crazy with her voice ringing in his head half the time.
There's a comfortable familiarity here. One he doesn't have to analyse too much.
The usual cluster of people inhabit the library this time of the day—a few students desperately leeching off of the wifi to get their homework done (it's always two groups of kids—some of them are experiencing a resurgence in the scene phase, which makes him feel old); one tired-looking man with a yellow raincoat flicking through an astrophysics book and—he thinks he's taking notes and cursing?—and an elderly couple who seem to go on reading dates here.
Okay, that last one is, admittedly, quite cute. But it's too saccharine for him to embrace, so he grumbles at the sight instead and elects to ignore it.
"So," Ellie says, not lifting her eyes from her… computer? He didn't ask—it's some camera that can read old newspaper reels. She's been cataloguing things for days, digitally scrap-booking something for a catalogue on the library website that's still in development. "Have any jobs bitten yet?"
Simon grimaces into the reflection of his cup, and she's kind enough not to comment. "I'm… applying. Frequently."
"And that's starting to feel like a job in of itself?" His resounding groan and clunk of his head against her desk makes her lips quirk. Simon doesn't need to be looking at her to know that. "Well, that's a shame. I thought my corrections on your resume were outstanding."
And that's the thing—they were.
Embellishing his qualifications, sure, but all truthful. Simon isn't unqualified for a want of trying.
"I have something for tonight. Event security." His face does not lift from the desk. He's ready for the grain of it to grow into his eyeballs as he thinks of his upcoming trial. "…Sweet-sixteen. In some fancy hired hall. There are, apparently, horses involved."
"Horses? Perish the thought."
"I can handle the horses. The horses do not offend me. I cannot handle children intoxicated from smuggled alcohol on said horses."
She hums thoughtfully over her mug. It says 'UNT' in white text, the curved handle in black. "Well, I can't offer a magical solution to your employment problem. So, unfortunately, the horses will stay tonight. Hopefully away from intoxicated teenagers who think they're better than everyone else just because Mommy and Daddy have a platinum credit card."
The migraine that will inevitably develop after tonight teeters on suicidal. Simon is ready for the abyss to swallow him whole.
"—but, I did have a proposition for you. If you're interested."
Ignoring the rigidity in his spine, Simon sits back up. "Yeah?"
Finally, Ellie catches his eye, holds it, and doesn't let it go. "So, summer vacation is coming up in a few weeks. Are you interested in some volunteer hours to tide you over, help bulk up your resume?"
Generous.
There's some catch.
"…You want my help in the archives?"
Ellie frowns. "If you think I'm letting you near my organised papers after finally getting the purchase order on another filing cabinet approved, Simon Park, you've another thing coming. You're ornery."
Simon raises his hands. "Sorry, sorry. So… volunteering?"
Ellie smiles.
"How do you feel about gardening?"
//
Garden is an abstract word to describe the library's…. plot of land.
It's an old storage shed and compacted dry grass at best. It's fenced-off at least, but dozens of cigarette butts lay strewn about, there's broken glass on the floor from an abandoned drink bottle, and the access point in the back has been overgrown with a thicket of weeds.
("We weren't able to pay for the upkeep until recently," Ellie explained, taking him for a walk-around, "but the money to pay someone professionally it—I've fought to get even this much approved."
He thumbs a piece of dead grass, crouching down to inspect the damage. "All of these planets are rotting. You'll need to scrap them." Simon looks up at her from over his shoulder. "You want this in time for summer vacation?"
Ellie's lips stretch into a thin line. "Ideally, yes. Some of the children expressed interest in having reading time outside."
"You realise I'm not an expert, right?"
"True, but… you're the closest I have to one. Considering your background."
Simon hangs his head and sighs, standing back up. "I can't promise any miracles. I can do a general clean-up and fix up anything that's broken, but that's about it."
Ellie unfurls a piece of paper and hands it over to Simon. "I've already put together a list of plants native to the area that I think would go well in the space. All I'm asking for is you stick to a schedule and make it look pretty! You can do that.")
Make it look pretty.
Easy for her to say. She's sitting all cushy in her office watching him inspect the grounds now, the traitor.
Simon rubs the back of his neck. "I just want to pay my rent on time. I did not voluntarily sign up to spill blood for a garden with no actual value."
Predictably, the overgrown thicket of weeds chitter back taunts at him in the chilled morning breeze.
If it were up to him, he'd be here in the dead of night, sorting this out without prying eyes. As is, he can see some of the regulars looking on through the windows with curiousity, some more eager than others.
One of them—and Simon isn't sure how those pair of glasses are staying on his face—is talking with Ellie about it. Keeps talking at the ground as well with gusto. Weird.
He hangs his head, and rubs the back of his neck.
"They better have an expense account."
//
"Can't we just look at planters?"
"No."
"What about pots? I like a nice ceramic pot."
"Those we'll buy in bulk."
"Seriously? Not even one with a cute little eel on it? Look at it!" Ellie holds it up to Simon's face until the cool ceramic squishes his cheek. He remains unmoved, expression unchanging.
"She wants to come home with me!" Ellie, however, won't stop grinning at him like some sort of raggedy-Ann doll. "You know you want to…"
The eel, it beckons.
He does not get paid enough for this.
Simon brings the cart to a stop and glowers. "Stop trying to embezzle library funds to suit your aesthetic. You have a budget. You are here to advise sensibly on said budget." Relenting, he adds, "any pots we get, we can paint ourselves."
Ellie immediately puts the pot down and grins wider with a gasp.
Simon is re-contextualizing the laws of biology to consider if two-dimensional cartoon characters are eliminated from their plane of reality if that's how her face works.
"Ellie. The list."
Really, he would have preferred buying all of this alone. Alas, his car is too small, and Ellie is too enthusiastic and feels determined to eat up all of his free time with her antics, so here he is on a Sunday morning, pushing a cart around a garden centre.
Looking for plants.
With the local librarian. Who won't stop rambling at him. About ceramic fish.
In his free time.
The prickle of a migraine returns with a vengeance. It's hacking away at the thin strings holding together his patience.
Think of the full-time work. Money to pay rent. Being able to move out of his shoebox apartment.
"It isn't thematic yet, right?"
Ellie shakes her head. "We aren't aiming for a fully-bloomed garden the first go-around. Just enough for a reading corner, and maybe a quiet section. However, we're thinking of having an online survey for what kids want as a theme, maybe getting the local schools involved for a painted mural? Maybe four sections later dow the line? It might be good if we could expand…"
Simon grimaces. "Let's focus on functional right now. I'm not building you a damn koi pond."
"Boo."
"Practical."
"Toma(y)to, toma(h)to." Ellie claps her hands together. "Oh, that reminds me. I'll go ask an employee about if they can do a deal on seed packets. We're thinking of starting a seed library as well and this place came recommended for setting up as a regular supplier."
"Don't go down the garden ornamental section."
Ellie swishes away, walking backwards with an impish grin. "What's that? Go the most economic route to the front? Of course I will, dear Simon!"
"I'm not being implicated in your scheme! Do not buy more ceramic fish!"
"The noise is drowning you ouuuuuut!"
She carries on until she's turned a corner, and he can still hear her cackling.
Simon tries not to breathe a sigh of relief.
He fails. (Miserably.)
The slump in his shoulders tighten, squinting as he reads the list Ellie wrote in her chicken scratch.
Decent gardening equipment. Gloves, boots, and tools for maintaining the grounds.
He hasn't parsed how to fix up the actual shed yet. That will need, at minimum, repair work on one of the panels and the window. Definitely a fresh coat of paint. Not to mention a lock procured to keep out thieves.
…Maybe multiple locks.
He's seen the youths of today.
And their parents.
Simon gets to work. This is at the library's expense, so he tries to keep it to items with deals, on clearance. Things that will free up space later down the line.
Some things are unavoidable in needing to keep it quality.
He leans against the cart as he ticks off the checklist Ellie prepared.
Pruners, shovel, a hoe, weeding tool. A broadfork to help prep the soil they plan on planting without boxes or pots. A larger shovel. Larger pitchfork.
If they need planters, he knows how to build one. Might need to bring his tools to said shed so he can use the grounds as a makeshift workshop again, he doesn't have time for another rented space.
Right—so repairing and setting up the shed needs to be a priority then.
"Watering can next… mm. Fuck."
Of course, of course they're on the top shelf.
Simon is not a short man. A good few inches off of 6", but he's firmly in the 'average' camp of height, and it's not a complex. Except when it prevents him from reaching one of the few watering cans left in the store and he does not want to interact with more people today.
(Talking to Ellie is like conversing with a legion.)
His eyes do a visual sweep. Nobody near him.
Simon, embarrassingly, has to strain to reach up to try and swipe the spout. His fingers brush, but to no avail. He huffs, putting his hands on his hips and gaging the distance.
He is not about to jump to grab it. He is not. This is not something he is paid to do, and he is a grown man.
(It doesn't work.)
Great. Fantastic. Simon's about ready to throw up his hands. Ellie isn't here, he can at the very least escape here with a big of dignity—
"Excuse me?"
Simon feels the heat crawling up his neck. There's a person casting a shadow behind him like they just appeared. The shadow covers his face.
Simon cranks his head sideways, gritting his teeth. The flush reaches his ears. His eyes capture a tall, yellow blur next to him. "Yes?"
"I—sorry! Bad time? I just, um. Here?" The voice props a watering can into his cart, and takes a step back like Simon is some sort of terrified animal. Simon can't help but stare at the watering can. "This was the one you wanted, right?"
It was not. He wanted a smaller one.
Simon pushes the lies past his teeth. "Yes. Thank you."
His dignity remains wholly intact as he grabs his cart and speed-walks (not runs, running would mean he's fleeing) to try and find Ellie, grab her away from a glass fish fountain, and pay for the materials in full.
//
A shovel hits the soil, and the first layer of glass and rocks are cleared away.
Roots are dug up. Dried weeds are cleared away.
It goes deep. Someone doesn't just forgo the maintenance of a yard without layers to peel back. Rocks that have been broken, shattered glass that has remained uncollected, forgotten things left to rot.
At the back of the courtyard, Simon finds a painted rock. It's dotted, with the vague outline of a brown crab dotted with a cerulean carapace. Something about it feels oddly sentimental.
He props it up on the wall, and hits the soil again.
Ellie hasn't mapped out where she wants the points of interest to be, so for now he focuses on getting a generally-clear corner nearest to the door, but tucked away. Able to be observed from the main reading room, but enough so there will be a path.
It's not something he's envisioning, of course. Just practical to map out maybes and whatifs when applied to work.
Don't dream when it comes to work.
Doesn't do you any favours.
(This mantra carried him for two days worth of work.)
//
The third day rolls around, and Simon settles into his lunchbreak in the archive room with a groan.
Weights are one thing. This is another.
He's ready to consume anything in sight.
Sure, he's not technically supposed to eat here, but Ellie's regularly consuming… stuff he'd rather not name (her cooking is an eldritch horror he dares not speak allowed; even Lovecraft would be telling her to tone it down), so he reasons he's alright to snack on a damn sandwich.
"Hi."
He's mid-bite of his sandwich when a little hand tugs on the bottom of his shirt unprompted. Simon gives pause, and a pair of beady brown eyes blinks back up at him.
It's… a kid.
There's a kid standing in front of him.
What the fuck do you do with a random child that just appeared in front of you?
"Mm?" Simon put his sandwich down and swallows his pathetic portion of the last bite. "Can I help you?"
He does not say this softly. He does not say it nicely. This kid gets the same tone of voice as anyone else who would dare interrupt his lunchtime after a day working in the scorching sun for no money.
"Yeah."
Simon stares. The kid stares back at him.
Miraculously, nobody has the ability to read minds in this equation.
The (teleporting?) child points over toward the library grounds. "Are you CPRing the garden?"
Simon's brain buffers as he tries to remember how to function. The wording of children will never cease to mess with his brain.
"I am… attempting to fix it up, yes." Simon glances around, desperate for some sort of responsible adult figure. When that proves fruitless, he engaged with the child (who, again, randomly teleported in front of him and he will not claim any sort of responsibility for). "But it's not ready yet."
"Because you have to do CPR on the soil?"
"I have to do a lot of stuff to make sure the plants can breathe, yes." He puts his sandwich back into his lunchbox. "Including helping the soil get healthy enough to plant things in."
"I don't really like plants."
Then why are you asking about the soil?!
Simon clicks his tongue, biting off the irritation. "You're asking a lot about them."
"Not 'bout plants. About the dirt." The kid—okay, so this kid is just sitting on the floor in front of him now. Cross-legged. Drawing in the carpet with his finger, stained with what (Simon hopes) is soil. He can imagine this child trying to dig his way to China on sheer belief and stubborn willpower alone.
"I like bugs. Bugs like plants. And they like dirt. Ergo."
Ergo?
Who the fuck this kid?
Simon pauses. "You, uh. Got a favourite type of bug?"
The number one rule of children—don't engage with their weird little dialogue. They'll stick to you like velcro.
Dammit.
"Not a bug-bug." The kid flashes him a wide grin. Little gap-tooth there. "But I like worms. They wriggle."
Well. Alright, that's fair. If he had to tier-list bugs and crawlies and the like, he supposes worms are pretty decently high-up there. They don't hold a candle to bees, but maybe that's him being bias.
Simon isn't sure when the last time he examined his opinion on bugs of all things, but he doesn't typically converse with children who aren't big enough to see over a chair.
The discomfort creeps into his back, and he's looking around again for any sign of life.
"So, uh… not that this isn't inspired conversation, but are you here with your parents?" He does not feel like being on the receiving end of a punch should someone get the wrong idea. Maybe he could pass the kid off to Ellie— "Did you wander off?"
"Yeah. But Doc'll find me. He's got sonar."
Simon blanches. "Wha—who?"
He feels like a cosmic plaything of the universe to this kid's quips (seriously, how old is this kid?), because one moment he's trying to parse what the hell this child's level of education is, and the next—
"Bee? Bee? Are you here? I—" Footsteps quicken in stride, and a shadow streaks the reference section. "There you are!"
All Simon sees is a yellow blur as a man (Doc?) blitzes over in a rush and crouches in front of the young boy, putting his hands on his shoulders. "I told you not to keep wandering off! How did you even get over here? You were right behind me!"
"Went under."
"Under—" The man pauses. Takes the words into consideration. Seems semi-fluent in the language of child with the look he gives his kid.
Simon sees the entire emotional journey flash on the man's face in about three seconds.
"You went under the gap of the bookshelves again. Robin. We've talked about this." The sudden deep tone from the man catches the kid and Simon's attention. "You cannot just run off."
The disappointment in the man's voice seems to trigger the first bit of shame he's seen from this kid. No audacity in sight. "I was bored!"
"Robin—"
"No, it was boring! And stupid! I hate when you do school stuff!"
"Robin, that's no excuse." Simon finds he has to look away for a moment, heat on the back of his neck. Almost feels like he's intruding. "Right. My hand is up. If I say you could have been in real danger, what does that mean?"
"…That running away scared you?"
"Right. And why would it scare me?"
Christ, he can hear the kid's trembling lip from here. All he wanted to do was finish his cheese sandwich, but even he can't stop his heart from lurching when the kid says, "because you love me."
The man lets off a sigh of relief. "That's right. I love you. And because I love you, it means I want you to be safe. I can't see you're safe if you run off without telling me first."
(Don't go where I can't follow you, Simon.
You wouldn't go anywhere I couldn't reach you, right?)
"Can I trust you to do that if you want to go somewhere else?"
A little sniffle. "Mm-hm."
"Good boy."
"'m sorry, Doc. I just wanted to talk to the gard'ner man."
That brings the man out of whatever paternal trance he was in before. "Gardener man…?"
The man looks up. There's a sudden flush on the bridge of his nose just concealed by his glasses when realisation of an audience settles in. His shoulders hike halfway to his ears.
"Oh."
Simon folds his arms together. Resists the urge to do something stupid, like introduce himself.
"…Uh. Yeah. Hi."
They both blink at each other.
A feeling of vague familiarity. Oh, you're the person I see around and about, but now it's going to become a pattern of observation after one interaction.
"I, uh—" The man scratches behind his neck, and Simon can see a nervous little bounce in his posture. "I'm sorry if he interrupted your lunch."
Simon casts an eye to his pathetic excuse of a sandwich, then looks back toward the mess of a parent in front of him, who's hefted the boy onto his hip.
Wilted pale frame wrapped up in a yellow raincoat, skinny, dark circles under his eyes, and blond hair that looks like it's been dragged through the hedges he's been pruning.
Simon has seen dying houseplants surviving in their environment better than this man.
"…He was asking about the library garden." Simon hesitates, then after a beat, adds, "and, apparently, an impassioned reasoning why worms are the bugs despite not technically being bugs."
A laugh bursts out of the man's chest, the suddenness showing the surprise. "Oh, you're the new volunteer! Ellie mentioned they'd gotten someone to help fix it up, finally!" He hefts Robin further up his hip, keeping him in balance. Simon tries not to feel anything with how instinctively Robin's hands curl around Ryland's coat flap. "It's great to know it'll have a bit of life breathed into it. Will it really be ready before summer vacation starts?"
"There is… an attempt of a deadline. It's the planning stages right now."
"Right, right! This one—" He ruffles Robin's hair, making the kid try to bat his hand away. "—is in a bit of an entomology phase right now, so he's asking anyone vaguely-adjacent to working near bugs any questions he can. You should have seen him with the neighbor's wasp pest controller. He catches one dragonfly in a jar and it's suddenly his lifelong obsession, which is incredibly since you're only five!"
"Dooooooc!" Robin kicks his legs. "Stop it! 'm not a baby anymore!"
"Could've fooled me."
Discomfort prickles at his gut. Someone's rubbing nettles all over the exposed organs, needles sticking in like fineprint. This isn't a moment he's meant to witness, let alone involved in.
Like a damned intruder with muddy feet trampling on storybook pages.
"Anyway, I should be getting this one home, it's late, and I have a feeling he's cranky." The little protests sound more like whines. Ryland hefts a bag over his shoulder, keeping Robin balanced on his opposing hip, and turns back to Simon with an awkward crook to his grin. "Uh, thank you for—humouring him? I guess. He likes to point out things. A lot. Which is good! He's curious. So thank you for—engaging with him."
The praise sits there in his gut, undigested. "You both like to talk."
It's an observation. Maybe a bit of a critique. The man doesn't seem to take it unkindly if the crooked smile on his face is any indicator. "I suppose we do. Oh—I'd shake your hand, but, uh, my name is Ryland."
"…Simon."
It takes shape. He has a name.
Ryland.
"Nice to meet you, Simon. Best of luck on the plant garden. When it's done, you can be sure this one," and he pokes Robin in the nose. "Will be eager to explore it. Now, we should—"
"Mr. Simon?"
Robin's interruption makes both of them pause.
"Yes?"
"You should put in a bug hotel. They get sleepy too. Not just flowers."
The man—Ryland—hums. "Like the one we have at home? Might not go with the decor here, bud."
An out. Simon recognises it when he hears it. Sees the shape of it, offered freely, packaged in a way that will give Simon a way to sidestep the issue without disappointing his kid at the same time.
It makes him swallow something down, affixed in his gut. Undigested gratitude again.
"I can… take it into consideration when planning what to put in."
The way Robin's big eyes suddenly sparkle at the notion?
Well, Ryland's clearly taken aback, but nonetheless pleased. He has this quality to his smile that's annoying Simon on principle. It's the type that's reflected at the ground rather than a person you're talking to, a hidden thing he's not supposed to be privy too.
They leave the conversation after that.
It's a brief farewell. Just a little smile and a nod of the head and a brief, "I should head out." Simon sees Ryland carrying his son (who waves at him and—look, he's no monster, he'll wave back at a kid who just wanted to talk to someone about bugs) on his hip, swallowing him in his ridiculous raincoat, until they make a turn for the parking lot outside.
Simon's eyes trail his ghost light until Ryland and Robin are out of sight, out of mind.
It lingers, maybe.
The echo of good, genuine parenting.
Simon sighs, the undigested words still rattling around in his stomach.
He rises, tosses his sandwich remains into the nearest trash can, and heads back inside to round up his volunteer hours with Ellie.
//
Simon gets home an hour later.
It's always quiet when he comes home. The light bleeds into the four walls.
The compression gloves come off in a tidy pile next to his keys. His shoes paired together next to the door. Hoodie hung up on the hook by the mirror in the hall.
Simon flicks through his mail. Bills, takeout ads, hospital reminders, community notifications of roadworks in the coming weeks. Some art show that he's got no interest in. A school carnival event for the summer as a fundraiser for more sports equipment.
None of which concern him.
He throws the envelopes on the kitchen counter, turns on his heel, collapses headfirst into bed.
The scars on his hands feel tighter. He's been in the sun too long. Thrown his back out doing too much labour.
If it hurts, it's honest work.
When's the last time you were honest?
Simon rolls over onto his back, crushing the words. The popcorn ceiling stares right back at him.
Clear the weeds away. Let the soil breathe. Build new planters. Keep Ellie away from the paint.
A bug hotel?
Well. It's just wood. A little drilling. Maybe finding the right material that would draw the bugs to the thing. It might have merit to help study. Ellie would probably approve of the idea as long as the budget was constrained.
…Shit. Now he's thinking over logistics.
Simon groans into his pillow.