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Simon sighed as the biodome’s simulated breeze ruffled his hair around his face, leaning back in his bench-swing and closing his eyes to feel the back and forth motion.
A pile of stones collected from the beach earlier that day sat on the seat beside him; his medium of choice for his newest craft project along with an octagonal xenonite canvas that sat on his lap, strapped to his leg to brace it while he glued the stones in place.
Now, if you’d told Simon while he was in prison that, in just a few short years, he’d be spending his days listening to audiobooks, watching movies and doing crafts, and his nights using a gorgeous middle school teacher as a body pillow, he would have smiled, nodded, then quietly avoided you forever because you were obviously fucking insane.
Life’s weird like that, he supposed.
As childish as it felt, crafting had, in fact, become an integral part of Simon’s day-to-day. If nothing else it gave him something to do with his hand that had a tangible result. What started as crude stick-figures drawn in Sharpie on the Mary to try and train up his offhand had evolved into a gentle satisfaction in making things. Drawings, bracelets, charms. None of it was what Simon would call impressive, but it was his.
Which led him to his latest self-assignment: a family portrait for Rocky and Adrian’s nursery. He knew it had to be very textured- human babies required high colour-contrast for cognitive development, it only made sense that newborn Eridians would need high texture/audio contrast -hence the rocks glued to xenonite.
From a human perspective it looked abysmal, but if you couldn’t see the horrifically clashing colours it was actually coming along pretty well.
Opening his eyes again, Simon studied the mess of glue and rock; the large, flat stone he’d found that was exactly shaped like Rocky, the five medium-sized ones he’d puzzle-pieced into Adrian, the negative space he’d left for Ryland’s glasses-
“Simon!”
Speak of the devil.
A soft smile grew on Simon’s face as he looked up from his canvas to see his partner trudging up the hill to their “orchard” (it was only four medium-sized apple trees, but it was more than enough to Simon).
“Hey, Angel,” He greeted, shifting to sit a bit closer to his rock pile so there was room for Ryland between his body and the swing’s arm. “How was class?”
Ryland sighed, dropping himself right into the intended spot and sending the seat swinging again. “Amethyst and Tenzin are fighting again.”
A soft laugh huffed out of Simon as he looked back to his canvas, absentmindedly selecting a stone to act as one of Rocky’s hands. “What about this time?”
“I don’t even know!” The older man replied, exasperated. “I think Tenzin said Amethyst stole his zebra at recess?”
Simon paused, holding the stone in place while the quick-dry glue did its thing and looking up at his partner with a raised eyebrow. “Just to clarify: this is an imaginary zebra?”
Ryland shrugged. “To the best of my knowledge, considering I have no clue where he’d get a real one.”
“Hm. And how do they know about zebras?”
“We just started our African Wildlife unit.”
Simon nodded. “Okay, I’m up to speed. What’d Ameth say?”
Ryland raised his hands in utter frustration. “That it’s an imaginary zebra, so it doesn’t matter if she stole it!” He dropped his head into his hands, pulling his glasses down to rub his eyes. “And I mean, she’s right, but I also know she’s only doing it to upset him, but he’s only telling to get her in trouble and God, those two work so well together when they get along, I just don’t get it!”
Simon couldn’t help but laugh again, undoing to strap around his leg to set his canvas aside and scoot closer to his partner; even if he hated seeing him frustrated, it was adorable how invested he got in his students’ social lives. “You gonna be okay?”
Letting out another long sigh, Ryland sat up again, taking Simon’s hand without even needing to ask and giving it a squeeze. “Yeah, just… kids.”
And God, if what Simon saw whenever he visited Grace’s class showed even a fraction of the chaos those pebbles were capable of, truer words were never spoke.
He absently raised their joined hands to his lips, kissing Ryland’s knuckles as his Angel sighed a much calmer sigh and leaned his head on Simon’s shoulder.
Ryland’s eyes wandered over to the canvas. “Can I see it?”
Simon felt his cheeks go red; yes, he was proud of his creations, but that didn’t mean he thought anyone else should be. He’d never been good at taking compliments, and even approaching four years of knowing Grace and Rocky hadn’t helped with that particular skill.
Ryland squeezed his hand again, sensing his hesitance. “C’mon, I’m sure it looks great!”
Simon let out a sigh, “It’s not done,” and reluctantly pulled his hand from his partner’s to grab his canvas and hand it to the older man, before immediately intertwining their fingers again before he could miss the warmth too much.
He always missed Ryland’s warmth when he wasn’t touching him, now. It was probably concerning, to be honest, but since Ryland seemed to be in the same boat when it came to Simon’s touch neither of them felt a need to address it at the moment.
Grace held the canvas up with his right hand, moving even closer to Simon to lean fully against him as he smiled at the mosaic. “Oh man, it’s looking great so far!”
Simon's face went redder and he rolled his eyes, mumbling “It’s just a bunch of rocks…”
“Very well arranged rocks,” Ryland countered, using their joined hands to point to each of the figures. “Let’s see, you’ve got Rocky, and Adrian, that guy with the glasses must be me, and there’s you!”
…alright, if it was that easy to pinpoint who was who, Simon must’ve been better at this than he’d thought. He supposed he’d always had pretty good spatial reasoning; you can’t map an under-blood cave system with nothing but paper and a shitty cancer-camera without that much.
He leaned his head on top of Ryland’s with a gentle sigh, his body relaxing into the touch.
Two months they’d been together like this, and it was everything Simon had wanted for years. Ryland was his and he was Ryland’s; the red bracelet that never left the older man’s wrist symbolized that connection for everyone to see.
Contentment was a feeling Simon hadn’t had much experience with throughout his life, but he was sure it felt something like this.
“So,” Ryland started, squeezing Simon’s hand as he sat up straight again (Simon needing to reluctantly lift his own head to let him). “I made you something.”
Simon raised an eyebrow; it was by no means the first time Ryland had made him a gift, but it was more often the other way around. “Why?”
Ryland shot him a familiar look: a fond one, but one that told Simon that he’d either said something ridiculous or sad, and his partner couldn't quite decide which yet. “Uh, because I love you? Duh?”
Simon chuckled despite himself, shrugging to acquiesce. “Alright, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Ryland reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, xenonite box, holding it out to Simon. “If you need a reason, thanks for helping me with the field trip.”
Simon rolled his eyes; the “field trip” had just been Mr. Grace taking his class into the biodome to play on the beach, and Mr. Simon’s “help” had simply been sitting on a blanket with the pebbles who didn’t want to go in the water and supervising them while listening to an Eridian translation of Charlotte’s Web that Ryland had made with his teaching keyboard.
Ryland read his mind, as he often did, gently nudging his arm. “Don’t downplay that, I really do appreciate it. Take it.”
Simon whined, turning his head to hide his face in his partner’s neck as he squeezed the older man’s hand again. “Then I’d have to let you go.”
A chuckling sigh escaped Ryland as he shook his head, pressing his cheek against Simon’s hair and disturbing the strands with his breath. “We all have to make sacrifices, Si.”
The younger man whined again; because he could, because he knew Ryland would continue to coo and chuckle and comfort him, because he was allowed to be needy and obnoxious. He could drag this out as long as he wanted, and Ryland would wait for him.
They had time.
However, while Simon knew his partner would absolutely not push him to hurry up, Ryland’s apparent anticipation would absolutely keep him softball negotiating. “Five minutes, pal. Then you can lean on me for as long as you want.
Simon huffed a laugh, his eyes slipping shut as his warm breath bounced right off of Ryland’s skin and into his face. “Stop calling me ‘pal’ , and we’ve got a deal.”
Ryland laughed with him, warming Simon’s face further. “Well, what else should I call you? I’m getting kinda bored of ‘sweetheart’.”
“Bullshit,” Simon mumbled, settling in to show that he had no intention of moving.
The older man hummed, his thumb running over Simon’s knuckles. “How about ‘Handsome’?”
Alright, the chances of Simon leaving his hiding place were going down by the minute as he felt his face burn an even brighter red. “No.”
He could feel the smirk in Ryland’s voice as the taller man turned his head slightly, now whispering directly into Simon’s hair. “Dearest? Darling?”
“Grace.”
“Yes, cutie?”
Almost dizzy from the heat of his own blush, Simon finally retreated as he started struggling to breathe, unable to keep the smile off his face as he raised an eyebrow at his partner. “You done yet?”
Ryland smiled, “Not even close,” and held the box out again.
God, that smile did things to Simon’s psyche.
Reluctantly, letting out a long, dramatic sigh, he untangled his hand from Ryland’s and accepted the box, turning it over and studying it warily.
He didn’t know why it was making him uneasy, but the anxiety was scratching something at the edge of his memory.
“...it’s not gonna bite you, y’know,” Ryland joked after a moment, leaning forward into Simon’s line of sight.
Simon knew he was being ridiculous; it was a box! There was no reason for him to be so hesitant about opening a-
"I'll open it on my birthday."
“Open it now.”
The reason for his nerves hit Simon like a truck with the memory of the last time he’d opened a gift: eleven days before his seventh birthday.
Nine days before his mother’s death.
He’d received gifts since- mostly from Grace, some from Rocky and Adrian -but none of them had been wrapped or in any kind of container; he’d just been told to close his eyes and then received whatever object they had for him.
Simon’s knowledge of psychiatry may have been rudimentary at best, but he knew enough to understand how his brain could have made this connection.
He held the box back out to Ryland. “Can you open it for me?”
“Oh, the lid just flips up,” The older man told him, clearly assuming the hesitance was about Simon’s physical limitations as he pointed to a small hinge on the back of the box. “No latch or anything-”
“Can you open it for me?”
Simon really didn’t have the energy to elaborate right now; maybe another time, but he didn’t feel up to the crying breakdown such a conversation was likely to result in.
Ryland frowned, but he didn’t ask why; he raised his free hand to rake into Simon’s hair. “You sure?”
Fuck, Simon loved him.
The younger man nodded, closing his eyes with a soft sigh as he melted into his partner’s touch (maybe Grace was onto something when he jokingly compared Simon to a cat).
“Alright,” Ryland agreed, taking the box back with his right hand; his left massaged small circles into Simon’s scalp as Ryland leaned over to press a kiss to his temple. “But you gotta open your eyes.”
Simon chuckled as he obeyed; that was by far his favourite part of their developing relationship.
While none of the small affections- hand holding, leaning on each other, comforting head kisses -had started in the last two months, the frequency had absolutely ramped up. The number of locations they’d each press kisses to had also exploded: temples, cheeks, hands, wrists, chests, necks.
Part of Simon liked to wonder where else he could kiss Ryland, if he were only bold enough.
Ryland flipped the box open with a stupid little grin. “Ta-da!”
The first thing Simon registered were the colours: shades of red and orange that immediately brought his Martian childhood to his mind’s eye.
Next the shapes: spheres and flowers, joined together in a ring.
…it was a bracelet.
A red bracelet, made up of rusty, red-orange beads and interspersed with deep red flowers.
Roses.
Four smaller ones with the thread of the bracelet strung through them, evenly spaced around the circle, and one larger charm dangling from the centre, decorated in small, red gems.
…Ryland had made him a red string. And he’d included not only his childhood home, but also his Mom.
Simon carefully untangled his hand from Ryland’s, reaching over to lift the bracelet out of the box.
It was gorgeous. When Ryland Grace put his mind to something, he never did it in halves.
He also never did it quietly; Simon registered his partner’s anxious fidgeting beside him, the older man was quickly talking again: “Yeah, I just figured, y’know, I have a bracelet for our ‘string’, and I like- love it! I love it, so I thought, I dunno, maybe you’d… like-love one, too.”
Simon hung the bracelet off his first two fingers, toying with the pendant with his thumb. Artificial sunlight refracted off the gems around the rose, almost giving it a red halo.
His eyes burned.
“...Si?” Ryland asked softly, his typical masking chuckle escaping with the nickname. “Give me something here, man, do you like it?”
Oh, Simon would give him something.
Shifting the bracelet past his hand to free it, Simon cupped Ryland’s cheek and closed the distance between them, kissing him gently on the lips.
Simon had kissed people before, but it had never felt like this. Quick supply-closet makeout sessions to vent hormones, grief and the stress of living in a dying universe had nothing of softly kissing the love of his life on an outdoor swing behind their house.
It felt warm; safe.
He broke the kiss after just a few seconds, staring directly into Ryland’s perfect eyes and feeling an unexpected pride in the dazed shock the blue held.
Ryland’s visible surprise slowly morphed into a smile as the older man leaned forward, gently pressing his forehead to Simon’s. “What was that for?”
Simon’s throat tightened as all of it hit him at once: the gift, the thought that clearly went into its creation, the kiss, the accidental and purposeful reminders of his mother.
The younger man took a shaky breath, moving his hand to straighten his partner’s crooked glasses. “...you used roses.”
It wasn’t everything he wanted to say. He wanted to thank Ryland for the bracelet, for the effort he’d clearly put into it, for humouring him and opening it without needing an explanation, for kissing him back, for everything.
Luckily, Ryland was very good at reading between Simon’s lines. From the way the older man’s smile softened, Simon knew he’d heard it all.
“I did,” He said, reaching to adjust the new bracelet and turn the pendant so it was facing out. “Felt right.”
The rose pendant came to rest over Simon’s green bracelet, clinking against the small circular charm that simply read “loved”.
If a few stray tears fell from the younger man’s eyes, Ryland didn’t mention it; he just wiped them away.
Simon caught his partner’s wrist before he could pull it back, pressing a long kiss to the inside.
He absolutely adored this man. He had no idea he could feel so much for a single person, but Ryland had always had a way of surprising him.
As he lowered the older man’s wrist, Simon’s mind finally started catching up with his emotions and he chuckled sheepishly. “Sorry, uh… I probably should’ve asked first, right?”
“What..?” Ryland started to ask, until realization snapped onto his face. “Oh, no! I mean- I appreciate the sentiment, really. That’s really sweet of you, but that was… more than okay! Promise.”
Simon couldn’t help but smile at his partner’s rambling… and even more at his words.
His hand slid up to Ryland’s face again, cupping his cheek and gently running his thumb down the hairs of the older man’s beard. “Can we do it again, then?”
Ryland grinned, running one hand into Simon’s hair again while the other held the younger man's to his face. “Yes, please-”
This time Ryland kissed Simon and, somehow, it was even better than when Simon initiated. The feeling of being wanted, being desired, being sought out as a source of pleasure and comfort, it was everything.
Ryland’s hand combed through Simon's hair, tugging lightly and scratching at his scalp, just making him melt further into his partner’s arms.
He was being treated so delicately- so gently -as if he were something precious. Something worth being careful with.
And part of him finally managed to accept that, to Ryland, he was.
Simon pulled back, relishing in the soft sound their lips made as they separated and staring at Ryland in awe.
God, his angel. The man was perfect.
Ryland gave Simon a soft smile, tucking a strand of his long, black hair behind his ear. “I love you, Si.”
Simon was sure of it, now: even though he was still alive, this was heaven.
“I love you too, Angel.”