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It doesn't happen often, but sometimes, rarely, the weight of Simon's body against his feels to much like being pinned to the ground.
Most of the time, he can catch it before it snowballs. He can cram it small, flatten it out, push it aside where it can't overwhelm him. He can ground himself, can remind himself of what's different- the mattress beneath him, the texture of the blankets, the soft murmuring of Simon's breath. Often, that is enough.
Sometimes it isn't.
He's not quite aware of it. They had been dozing, the both of them, and while Grace hadn't been asleep exactly, he had been far enough away that when the feeling came- the press of bodies atop of him, the crunch of grass, the desperate, keening fear- he hadn't managed to catch it.
He doesn't remember his reaction.
He remembers the panic. The sudden smell of late evening, crisp grass, sweat and desperation, his lungs aching in his chest, his knees stinging. He thinks he lashes out. He thinks he must have shouted.
"Grace," Simon's voice is loud, pitched, and Grace flinches, curves himself small. Feels the echo of hands on his back, the keening sound of an animal in his throat, and he thinks no, no, please-
His mouth is moving.
"Don't-" he is saying. He gasps, raw. "Please, you're killing me-"
He remembers the prick of a needle. The sun, fracturing across his vision, and the shadow of someone he knew, someone he trusted, their name on his lips faded, smeared.
"Please," he keens.
"Ryland!"
He flinches again. Sobs, raising a hand to shield his head, to curl his fingers into his hair, to press them to his scalp. His body aches. A bruise, blooming quick, and they had knocked the air out of him, when they had tackled him to the ground. He hadn't wanted-
There's a soft, pleading, sound. Someone kneels beside him, on his level, and at first, Grace curls himself smaller. Thinks of that needle-prick again, and he doesn't know how it can get worse, how he can be taken apart further, but the fear is huge, overwhelming.
"You're safe," the person says. "No one is here."
You're here, he thinks.
But they aren't- touching him. They sit a hands breadth away, kneeling, eye to eye, and slowly, gradually, Grace registers the truth.
No one is touching him at all.
He scrambles upright. Gets his hands beneath himself, then his knees, then throws himself backwards-
"Ry-!"
He topples over the side.
Bonks his head against something cool before he actually hits the floor, body folding in half, and he yelps, claws at the air and then, twisting, manages to catch himself on the edge of the bed; he digs his fingers in. Holds himself still, muscles straining, and oh.
"Oh."
He almost lets go. Remembers, thankfully, that he's halfway off the bed, and hitting the floor won't end him, but yes, actually, he'd prefer if he could just- he wriggles. Claws. Manages to heave himself up, back onto the bed and, kicking his legs off the window, he squirms back onto safety.
He smushes his face into the mattress.
Breathes.
The motion halting, wheezing, but steadier. Proper, instead of something wild.
There is no one touching him at all.
"What the fuck, Ryland."
He winces.
"Sorry," he squeaks.
Simon sighs. Loudly. Grace can hear the creak of the floorboards, can feel the weight of the bed dipping. He doesn't sit too close. Keeps to the other side.
"… You gonna explain all that?"
Grace squeezes his eyes shut.
"Do I have to?" he asks, and immediately cringes. He just freaked out at Simon over nothing. Just had a full on panic attack, a breakdown, whatever, and he's not even going to explain? After everything's Simon shared with him, after all the things he's told him, all the ways they've been honest with each other- after Grace has said, time after time, that sharing can help.
He's just going to shut it down?
Childish.
"No," Simon says, quiet, and Grace snaps his head up, stares at him, eyes stinging. He hears himself, reflected there.
"Just-" Simon's voice goes small, hesitant, body curls into himself, and Grace's heart lodges in his throat. "Was it something I-"
"I didn't want to go."
The words rush out. Slips from his mouth, falls between them, and Grace looks away again, presses his face back into the sheets, cannot, will not, look at him for this.
"… What?"
Simon's voice is very, very, blank.
Grace laughs. Doesn't even know why, except his chest is tight and his throat is locking up, and there is something small, wounded, in the hollow of his heart.
He hasn't even told Rocky this.
Has kept it so close, tucked beneath his ribs, a knife lodged deep, and he hasn't dared to try and pull it out. To let himself really linger on it, to feel the full effect of that memory once more.
He's had nightmares. Has laid awake at night, panic wild in his chest, and remembered it like it was still happening, a physical recreation of hands on his back and his own voice, pleading, begging. He has seen the sun break across his vision more times than he can count, and recalled the tilting view of Earth slipping from his fingers, again, again, again.
It's a wound he has ignored, and here is it, raw, in all its infected glory.
"I didn't want to go," he repeats, and his voice is awful, even to his own ears. Choked and pained, breaking at every syllable. "They-"
Hands on his back. The dying keen of an animal in his throat.
He pushes himself upright. Tucks his legs to his chest, folds his arms around himself, and he wheezes in a desperate, dragging, breath. Squeezes his eyes shut, and curls his toes into the sheets beneath him, soft and nothing at all like crackling grass.
"I said no."
It feels like he's trying to convince himself.
"They pinned me down," he says. "I ran. I remember- I ran. They tackled me, the grass was-" he wheezes. Sees the sunset behind his eyelids. "They drugged me. I remember-"
He curls up tighter. Feels his own fingertips at his neck, feeling for a scar that isn't there, a wound that's long since healed. The pinprick of the needle echoes in his head, his body. He tastes the fear in his mouth, acrid.
"I didn't want to go," he says, at a loss for anything else, trying to remember the words, the truth of it all, ugly and faded and in awful, fractured pieces. His memories are so slippery, so distant, and he knows, in the way he knows he taught kids, that he knows he biked home from school, that he didn't have anyone, that he didn't want to. That he was forced. That they drugged him and put him there, sent him to die for the good of humanity, and Grace didn't want to go.
"Ryland," Simon's voice. Gentle. "I believe you. You didn't want to go."
He sobs. Keens. Curls up as tight as he can, chest aching and fingers digging at the back of his head, and he can still feel the betrayal of it, the horror of knowing his friends- he thinks they were his friends- did that to him.
"I can't even remember why," he hiccups. "I know it was for the best, that it had to be like that, but I don't-"
He remembers sitting in a chair. He remembers Eva, vaguely, the shape of her, her presence, the trust, the safety. He had liked her, he thinks. He had thought-
"Fuck that," Simon says, and his voice is flat, in the way that means he's tucking his emotions away, that he's keeping himself at bay. "That doesn't make it okay."
He shakes his head. "Earth was dying," he says, and he remembers that, knows that, Earth was- the sun was- he had to go.
He hadn't wanted.
He had said no.
"Ryland."
He feels the bed dip. Feels the shadow of Simon lean a little closer, and he flinches, but Simon doesn't reach for him- just leans in, and Grace hesitates a moment, then, opens his eyes.
Simon's face is serious. Grave. His mouth is a thin, downturned, line, and there's a fire in his eyes, a snapping, burning, anger, and Grace thinks, for me?, and feels his throat close up.
"They shouldn't have done that to you," Simon says. "I don't care that Earth was dying. Fuck Earth. You didn't want to go."
Grace feels his face twist up. Feels the rush of emotion, and then the tears, welling up and spilling down his cheeks, hot and fast and furious, and he sobs, keens, digs his nails into the back of his head and clings to himself, breaking apart.
"I didn't," he says, through the tears, the hitching of his chest. "I didn't."
"I'm sorry," Simon says, softer, and he doesn't reach out, keeps his hand curled in the sheets. "They shouldn't have done that to you."
"They had to," he repeats, because he knows that, he knows that. "I don't- they had to, Simon. They had no choice."
"Who cares," Simon snaps, and Grace flinches, nearly topples backwards. Simon inhales, the sound sharp. "I don't- was it okay, when they welded me into that sub?"
The question throws him.
It's an easy one, though.
"No!"
He's unfolded. He's looking at Simon, is staring him in the face, and he has to, suddenly, remind Simon of this- has to repeat it, because Simon didn't deserve any of that, he didn't deserve to get welded into a death trap, he didn't deserve-
"What's the difference?"
Simon's face is open. Genuine.
"At least I agreed to it."
"You didn't-" Grace falters. Feels the words trip over themselves, trail off. Simon's eyes are kind. Sad. It reminds Grace of someone else.
"Yeah," Simon says, slow. Careful. Like Grace is something fragile, and he's being broken apart, and maybe it's for the best, but the shattering- it's still painful. "I didn't. Neither did you."
Grace opens his mouth. Finds nothing to say. No words. No argument, for why this is different, why it doesn't matter that Grace didn't want this. Simon had agreed to it, but how could he have known, understood, the horror of what awaited him? What other choice had he had, pressed beneath the Consolidation hand, than to take the offer?
What other choice had Grace had, than to run?
(what other choice had Eva had, but to pin him down like a bug, and rip the wings from his body?)
He folds.
Presses himself small, hands to his face and knees to his chest, and he makes a low, wounded, sound. Feels it tear at his throat, at the pieces of himself that hadn't yet broken apart, that he had tucked into his chest and let grown poisonous. He shatters, feels it happen, like snapping a broken bone again, and it hurts, the truth of this, that it had happened and it hadn't been kind, it hadn't been necessary, it had been, it hadn't-
He hadn't deserved this.
He sobs. He cries. He wails, when that isn't enough, a scream ripping from him, and he digs his nails into his face till that hurts, and then tears them away from there, slaps his hands into the bed, and then does it again, even though it isn't enough, it doesn't do anything, it's not anything.
He wants to punch something.
He wants to throw something.
He wants to yell and scream and sob and cry and ask why, why did it have to be him, why did it have to happen to Ryland Grace, nobody at all? Why had Eva picked him up and kept him and then stabbed him in the back? Why?
There's no good answer.
He doesn't remember the details. Won't ever. So much of who he was has been lost, so much of what happened is just gone. He knows there was a reason, but it doesn't matter, because he'll never know, and even if he did- would it be good enough? Would it matter? Would it erase the betrayal, the harm, the nightmares and the fear and the memory of it all? Would that make it easier?
Could anything?
"Ryland," Simon's voice.
Grace looks up. Isn't quite breathing right, or thinking right, but Simon is there, holding out his arms, hand turned down, and Grace wants-
Can't-
"I won't touch you," Simon says. "You can just-"
Grace throws himself forward.
Scrambles across the bed, and collides with Simon, because he can't handle this, he can't fall apart by himself, he can't cling to nothing but his own body, numb and empty- and he can trust Simon, he can, he has to.
Simon doesn't touch him.
Just lets Grace cling to him, fingers digging into fabric and the skin beneath it, his face pressing into the curve of Simon's neck, and he's warm, he's solid, he's something Grace can shatter against, and he whines, high and pained.
Time blurs.
Grace cries. He breaks. He clings. He feels himself fall apart, and then, slowly- he feels himself come back. The pain doesn't fade. But it dulls, and his tears run dry, and eventually, Grace can't do anything but rest against Simon, body exhausted, mind empty.
He blinks. Slow. His face is tacky and his eyes ache, and there's tears drying on his cheek, against Simon's skin- a part of him cringes at it, but that part is distant, too far away. He can't feel embarrassed. Can't even imagine it.
"Hey," Simon says, into the silence.
Grace sniffs. Snuffles his face against Simon's neck. "Hey," he croaks.
"You want a hug?"
Grace pictures it. Simon's hand on his back, holding Grace against him, gentle, tight.
"Yeah," he sighs.
Simon curls his arm around him. Doesn't put a lot of pressure on his back, just rests his hand there, warm, solid, and Grace sighs again, lets his eyes close. It's nice.
"You have amnesia?"
It takes Grace a second to really register the words. Then- he snorts.
"Oh yeah," he says, the words almost a laugh. "I didn't tell you?"
"No," Simon says. "Guess you forgot."
Grace snickers. Simon's body moves with the sound, and Grace can imagine the amused look on his face, the quiet happiness at making him laugh, after this.
"Yeah," he says, exhaling the mirth. He turns his head. Winces, at the crick in his neck. "The coma kind of gave it to me? I don't really-"
He pinches his mouth shuts.
"Did I mention the coma?"
Simon snorts. "No."
"Oh my god, did I tell you anything?"
Simon laughs, then. And even though it isn't a new sound, it isn't rare, not these days- the sound still makes him smile. Even through the exhaustion, the dull grief, the pain- he finds himself smiling, eyes flickering up to see the barest glimpse of Simon's face.
He curls his arms around Simon. Hugs him back, properly, and Simon squeezes him, just a little, so very gentle, and it's-
Grace's lucky.
It wasn't meant to go like this. It wasn't a Eva, sending him off to a better future- it was a betrayal, it was wrong, but still- still. It's given him this. It's given him Rocky. It's given him a home.
Emotions tangle in his throat. Pushes against the safety of exhaustion, numbness, and Grace presses his face to Simon's skin, breathes in hard. Holds it till his lungs ache.
Simon's hand rubs at his back.
"They put me into a coma," he says, when he feels steadier, less. "Probably didn't intent to give me amnesia, but- you know. Happened anyway."
He tangles his fingers together, behind Simon's back.
"Sometimes," he admits, quiet, the words heavy. "It feels like the Grace of Earth died in that coma, and I'm just what's left of him."
There's so much he doesn't remember. So much of himself that's just gone.
"Yeah," Simon breathes, after a moment. The hand on his back is still. "I know what you mean."
Grace closes his eyes.
"I'm really glad you're here," he says.
Simon squeezes him. Just a little. Still so careful, despite the way Grace has pressed them together, the way he is lax against him.
"Yeah," Simon says, voice soft. "I'm glad I'm here, too."