Archive of Our Own

Simon is five when he witnesses it for the first time. 

He's too young to know what he's seeing and his mother hurries him away from the woman gagging up daffodils before he can really get a good look at it, start to understand it. When he turns his head back, he can see a small crowd forming around the woman, who is now doubled over and hidden from view. His mother yanks on his arm as she pulls him away, snapping his attention forward; they don't stop their pace — fast, too fast, Simon keeps stumbling, his mother's hold the only thing keeping him upright — until they're home safe. 

When he tries to ask about the woman and the flower, his mother hushes him and reassures that there's nothing to worry about. It's just an illness. She was just a little sick. 

No, Simon, you won't catch it. I promise. 

The plant life on Mars is extremely limited. While Simon can stick his legs in between the gaps of the railing on the small terrace of his home and see the vast, spanning Martian deserts anytime, you have to plan if you want to see more than the occasional flower pot. 

One year the apartment next door had three whole pots, two full of bright pink and blue flowers, and one full of herbs that Simon couldn't name. He had tried to say hello once to the nice-looking lady watering them, only to be quickly ushered back inside. Now the terrace is empty, and the red desert remains. 

Most plants and flowers are kept in special places for important people who know how to take care of them, his mother explains. You can grow plants on your own, if you want, but they're not likely to make it. 

Mars, his mother likes to warn, is not a planet to be lonely on. Nothing gets done if you do it by yourself. 

He's sick of the desert; it's never-ending sprawl and the dust storms that keep everyone inside. He wants to see life and plants and something different. But any mention of that and his mother gets misty-eyed, so Simon stops asking. She placates his curiosity with a book, thick with a faded cover, that lists hundreds of terran plants and flowers. He lugs it around from kitchen to living room to bedroom and back, absorbing bright colors and names both common and scientific, sometimes reading aloud while his mother happily hums a tune under her breath and sometimes under the covers while his mother cries and sleeps. 

His favorite part is the pictures; he spends his time tracing the lines and colors of plants he dreams of getting to hold one day, but the parts he memorizes are the meanings. Loyalty, death, betrayal, innocence, devotion, sometimes even whole phrases. You could have a conversation with plants; no need for words. 

Maybe, Simon thinks after his mother finally explains lovesickness, it's a disease you catch by holding in your love for someone else. Maybe it's just your body trying to have a conversation without words. 

Not that Simon will ever know; his mother promised he wouldn't get it. 

Sometimes his mother doesn't just cry. 

More often than not, she's okay; she can smile and laugh and cut the crusts off his sandwich before giving it to him. Her hugs don't hurt, she presses their foreheads together before kissing his cheek, and tells him how much she loves him. More than Simon would like, she spends her days in bed, sobbing to sniffling, while Simon covers her in the softest blankets he can find and puts on shows for her to watch with his favorite stuffed animals. He even does voice, though he knows he isn't any good at it. 

Sometimes, though, sometimes she's worse. 

She doesn't hit or throw things or even yell, as Simon has seen in some of his classmates' parents, and he's thankful for that. But she doesn't smile or cry, doesn't look happy or sad. Simon doesn't know what she looks like other than sort of like his mother. 

During this, his mother will snap at the neighbors and stare out the window, wide-eyed in a way that makes Simon want to stay in his room, peering out from behind a cracked door to watch how she doesn't blink as the blue light of sunset illuminates her face. She'll check the locks regularly and pull him into hugs that bruise his arms and crush his chest. Simon spends these days walking from room to room on his tiptoes, hating how, if she notices him, a shiver runs down his spine. 

He loves his mother. She loves him. It shouldn't feel like this. 

She calls them spells. Simon imagines a witch far away in a tower, cursing his mother, wicked and mean and laughing while watching them through her crystal ball. His mother tries to explain that it's a different kind of spell, not a story, but he's not sure he believes her. 

His mother bares her teeth and snatches a birthday invitation out of his hands, crumbling it and throwing it into the trash while scolding him that he doesn't really know the other kids in his class, does he? He doesn't know their parents, and neither does she. How can she send him away when it's dangerous out there, outside? 

Simon wishes he could curse the witch back. 

At least these spells, these witch's curses, don't last forever. Every time the witch opens her crystal ball, Simon knows that all he has to do is stick it out, wait patiently for the magic to fade and his mother to wake up. A kiss won't do it like in the stories, only time. Then she'll unlock the front door, and Simon will be free again to roam the neighborhood to see his friends and hang his feet from the terrace while eating crustless sandwiches. 

One day, always after a long sleep, his mother will wake up, her eyes will sparkle again, and Simon will know it's okay. 

Every time after she wakes up, she sits him down and tells him the same story: of a time long ago when she had visited Earth and fell in love, but it was a forbidden love, so she had to leave it behind. We can leave love behind, yet it always seems to follow, she explains. Then she came down with lovesickness; she loved someone who couldn't love her back too much, and it almost killed her. Things like that leave scars, scars that take years and years to heal, and sometimes maybe never will. 

"Don't cry, Simon, that's how I got you. And I wouldn't trade you for anything." 

She doesn't explain until he's much older how you can't have a healthy birth with vines growing in your lungs. Or how sometimes getting them removed leaves you more damaged than you would have been if you let them overtake you. 

"Simon, don't be like that," his mother coos, cradling his face in her hands. Her thumbs brush away stray tears that run hot down his cheeks. "You'll like it there. I promise." 

"No, I won't," Simon insists, hating how his voice is thick and shaky with grief. He's ten now, but he feels like a baby, throwing a tantrum because he's not getting what he wants. "I promise I won't, I won't. Why can't I stay with you?" 

It's the first thing he's managed to say since he found out she was sending him away that brings tears to her eyes. She squeezes her eyes shut against them, tight like she's trying to will them away, but they spill anyway. Now the two of them match. 

"It's better for you this way." Her voice cracks, and her fingers press into his cheeks a little bit more. When she opens her eyes, they're sad. They're always so sad. "But I'll come join you as soon as I'm feeling better. Think of it like a- a vacation. Or a sleepover. The time will go by so fast you won't even be able to miss me." 

I miss you now, Simon thinks, but can't bring himself to say.

"I don't want to be alone," he confesses instead. 

She gasps out a broken sob and pulls him forward into her chest, crushing the two of them into a hug tight enough that Simon hopes nothing in the universe can separate them. They can stay on Mars forever and she'll never be sad again. 

"I know, baby, but you won't be. They have a lot of kids on Eden. And- and did I tell you?" She pulls away just enough to see his face again. He can see a wild, familiar look in her eyes, red-rimmed and desperate. "They have a tree. You'll be able to see it all the time." 

A tree. Plants. Away from the desert. Just like he always wanted. 

How stupid he was. 

His mother's hands tremble. Simon hates to make her upset. He smiles through the tears, small and hardly there, but enough to make her eyes light up again. 

"Promise?" He can't help but ask.

"Promise," she seals it with a kiss to his forehead. 

Six months later, the Quiet Rapture will steal away everything Simon has ever known or loved. 

It becomes easier for Simon, just as Father promised. The blood only stains his clothes, really, and if he prays hard enough, he can drown out the dying screams of strangers. Simon can pray to the Tree while scrubbing his hands and then lie in bed and almost feel like a person again. 

Simon had faltered the first few times in the field, hands too small, too unsteady for the efficiency needed. But hesitation only makes the agony last longer. Imprints it more into your memory. 

The Butcher, they've started calling him. 

He's not sure how many people he's stolen life from, but he knows that his Brothers turn to him when it's time to bleed someone. It's a revered spot within their Family, being able to feed the Tree so well. His Brothers are envious; he can tell from the looks they give when they think his back is turned, but none step up to take his name. 

The knife his mother had gifted him — just in case; you never know who is on a space station, she had whispered into his hair — still feels awkward in his hands sometimes, between missions. It feels oversized and clunky as he turns it around, tracing his thumb over the grooves until it catches on the sharp edge. 

It's not a toy; his mother's reminder comes back to him with each plunge into a man's chest. 

Simon presses his forehead against the bark of the Tree, shouting the prayers in his head, focusing on how the wood digs into his skin. There are no flowers up here, no God, only the Last Tree and Simon's bloody hands. 

Simon doesn't know why he's the one Abigail comes to for help. 

She's caught the sickness, coughing up her love, bloody and lavender, all over her hands. He grabs a bucket and rubs her back in circular motions in the same way he's seen adults do to ill children. He thinks he can remember his mother doing it, back home. 

"I don't know what to do," she sobs into the viscera and flora. "What do I do?"

Like Simon knows anything of love. 

Abigail speaks of another, Neriah, how her hair is fiery red like their home used to be, and her eyes green like Earth had to have been. She has faint freckles that Abigail confesses to dreaming about darkening under a sun that no longer exists, the two of them lying in a field while holding hands, Neriah's touch soft. Her tone is wistful as Simon takes her confession, and when her repentance comes out as an entire stem with purple flowers, she cradles it close as one would an infant. 

If this were a different place, a different life, Simon would tell her to admit it, tell Neriah her feelings, but this is the place they are in, the life they've been given. He knows of Eden's disdain for people like them and knows of Father's adoration of Abigail, among others. 

Simon tries not to feel guilt alongside the relief that Father's love of him doesn't extend quite that far. 

There is only one real answer. Abigail silently cries as Simon sneaks her into Eden's infirmary. He steals extra rations for a surgeon so Father will never find out. After she wakes up, her eyes are dry and empty as she thanks him. 

Simon isn't sure if he's done the right thing, with how it leaves his chest cold and hollow. He meets Neriah several months later, assigned to the same scouting mission; he can't look her in the eyes. 

Abigail was right. They are very, very green. 

"Love has no place in a dying universe," Father preaches, hand clamped tight on the back of Simon's neck. He focuses on his Brothers in the corner of his vision, how they stand tall by his side, instead of the man suffocating on his own tulips on the floor. 

"The flowers are a gift; they always have been." Father continues easily over the gasps of the man, the choking sound of him trying to spit out the yellow petals. "Nature has always taken care of us. The petals of a flower, the leaves of a tree, the creep of a root, taking hold in your body to guide you. But times have changed, and the messages from Beyond must be heard as they are meant to now, not as they once were. We are gifted this reminder, this proof that we will return to the roots. The soil calls for us to feed the Last Tree, and we must listen." 

Noah stands the farthest; he is but a dark shape in Simon's vision. Two days ago, one of their Brothers had stumbled across the two of them, hiding in a storage closet, trading soft kisses for just a moment. Simon isn't even sure why he agreed to it, but Noah had offered, and he is pretty, and sometimes he splits rations with Simon. The entire time, his palms were slick with sweat; his heart felt like it was going to explode out of his chest, but the undeniable rightness Simon felt told him that there couldn't be sin in this action. 

The horrified gasp of their Brother opening the door told Simon otherwise. 

Simon had assumed their Brother hadn't told, had kept their secret in quiet loyalty. But by the way Father's nails dig into the skin of Simon's neck, he thinks that maybe his Brother went straight to confession. 

Is this a lesson or punishment? 

"Rejoice, Brother," Father tells the man. "For the Tree is calling you. It fills your lungs, desperate to bloom. And who are we to not oblige?" 

Two months from now, Noah will lie dead at Simon's feet in the ruins of Filament Station. 

Right now, Simon listens to the last gasps of air from a man in love. 

"It's not like it matters," the man, David, says loud enough for Simon to hear. They're talking at normal volume, not even bothering to whisper, like he's too stupid to understand them. "He's from Eden, barely human at this point. I hear those freaks can't even get lovesick. Something too fucked up with 'em." 

The woman, Simon doesn't know her name even if she's obviously the one in charge, doesn't even bother glancing up from the papers in her hands. "I don't care where the hell he's from; I want him sealed up in ten."

They get it done in five.

Simon dies. He dies down there, in that submarine, in that nightmare ocean; he's sure of it. A metallic tang fills his mouth and nostrils, rushing to replace the air in his lungs. It squeezes and pushes the essence of him out of what remains of his body. His skin sloughs off in chunks, melting into the burning ooze of the blood overtaking the sub until he can't tell what is him and what is the rest of existence anymore. 

Above him, the black box floats to the surface, guided by his prayer to his mother. Below him, the eel opens its maw. All around is red, red, red, burning red until his vision is no more. 

Join us, God beckons. 

Simon gasps awake. 

He is dead; he has to be, with the bright lights surrounding him and the pain flooding every inch of his body. He is not with the roots, not with his Brothers, condemned, he is certain. 

There is a man. An angel? A demon?

He hovers and touches and says something that Simon cannot understand over the pain and confusion. His shape is blurred against the light, and each breath Simon takes burns. But there is no metallic smell, not here. 

At least hell is not an eternity in an ocean, Simon thinks as he is dragged back into unconsciousness. 

Ryland Grace is a naive idiot. There is no other explanation. A naive idiot with genius-level intellect and a pretty face, sure, but he is also certainly the dumbest man Simon has ever come across. 

"And this is ramen," Ryland says, presenting a cup like it's a magic trick and Simon is a young child. Simon blinks at him, and he falters, just a little, before placing it on the tray across Simon's lap. "Fully synthesized, but you can hardly tell. No add-ins; I don't think your body is up for any heavy food yet. I've also got these pills for nausea if you need them." 

Simon stares at the cup, watches the way steam wafts out over the rim, and tries to remember the last time he was offered a hot meal. When was the last time he'd even had a meal? Before AT-5, he thinks, right before they put him on the transport shuttle. It hadn't even been warm. 

The blood had been hotter, pouring down his throat. 

Ryland clears his throat; Simon realizes he's been staring too long. His eyes sting. 

"It's just noodles and some broth-"

"I know what ramen is." 

"Oh- oh, good! I, ah, wasn't sure they had that. In the end of the universe, I mean. Apocalypse? Is that the right term?" 

His tone isn't one that sounds like he thinks Simon is lying, but rather that he can't quite wrap his head around believing it either. Like Simon has said he's a vampire, or he's Ryland from the future, or something else completely incomprehensible. Maybe he just thinks Simon is crazy. 

The giant monster eel corpse out on the beach is hopefully too much proof to deny. 

Plus, he believed Ryland when told about the sentient rock aliens, so it'd be kind of a dick move not to believe anything Simon says. 

Is Ryland Grace a dick?

No, Simon decides as he watches Ryland slurp up his own cup of noodles too quickly and burn the roof of his mouth. Ryland lets out a ridiculously loud gasp and wildly fans his hand, trying to chase away the pain. Not a dick, just an idiot. 

Sharing his food, his water, hell, even his oxygen. This is the richest man Simon has ever met, throwing around painkillers and antibiotics like they're nothing. He has fucking ramen ready to go, and he's giving some to Simon. For free. 

When Simon first woke up, after the first bout of morphine-induced delirium wore off, he had tried to reassure Ryland that he could work. The arm was a shock when he remembered — when he saw the mutilation, the horror that is now permanently etched into his being — but once he was healed, he could still be useful, he knew it. Ryland had blanched at the promise, shaking his head, firmly refusing ot even hear of Simon's ideas on how to earn his keep. 

Now Simon is heavily in debt to the one man he's ever met who won't collect. 

Confined to bed rest, Simon waits for the other shoe to drop, for it to finally be revealed how Simon will earn the right to any of this. The pillows he's propped up on are the softest he's ever felt; what could he possibly do to earn the right to feel it?

Maybe Ryland will want to experiment on him, being a scientist and all. Simon still hasn't gotten to look in a mirror since he's woken up, but he can still see the way his skin is pocked and scarred, can feel the teeth sticking out of his face. He knows the radiation he was exposed to must have done something horrific since it didn't kill him. Simon has to be the discovery of a lifetime, especially for someone venturing out into the stars. Or, maybe the aliens want to dissect him, and Ryland is just nursing him back to health to hand over. What's the point in experimenting when your subject dies right away?

Whatever. It's not like he can do anything about it right now. The last time he pulled out his IV and tried to stand, he had ended up face-first on the floor, with Ryland having to help him back into bed. Humiliating. 

"So!" Ryland says around a mouthful of food. "I've been working on some theories on how you could have ended up here. Wanna hear some? I didn't specialize in quantum mechanics, but I've done some light reading." 

The smartest idiot in the universe. 

"Sure." Why not? It's not like Simon has anything better to do. 

Maybe it's the drugs he's been injected with or the way exhaustion has seeped its way into every fiber of Simon's being. It could be restlessness; he's never handled being bedridden well, and now he's trapped in this bed on this alien planet in this entirely other universe. Just like another pair of shackles if he thinks about it too hard. Or it could just be the way that Ryland keeps smiling at him, open and sunny, as if Simon deserves it just by being alive. 

Whatever it is about this moment, drugged up and angry and half asleep, Simon's mouth decides to confess without his brain's permission. 

"This is dangerous," he whispers, watching as Ryland fiddles with the robot Simon has only recently learned is called Armando. The bright lights around his head bend and flare into otherworldly colors, but Simon tries to focus on the way that Ryland squints as he works, his glasses nearly falling off his face. 

"Oh, yeah?" Ryland asks, only half paying attention, not even looking away from whatever it is he's doing. "What is?"

"This." Simon would gesture to himself if he had more than one arm, and that arm didn't currently feel like it weighed a thousand pounds. "Keeping me like this. Don't even have restraints..." 

"No need for that. I mean, outside of the medication, you're completely lucid." Ryland says.

Simon huffs, maybe a chuckle or maybe a pained sigh; he's not exactly sure. "'s not the problem. Should be me locked up. Sa... safer." 

It's getting harder to talk. The lights are fading as his eyelids droop against his will. He keeps going, though; this feels important. 

Ryland finally looks up, eyebrows knit together, concern finally covering his face. "Simon, why would I lock you up?"

He asks the question slowly, like he's picking each word carefully. 

"That's what you do to- to- me. To me. And... all of 'em." 

"Who?" 

He can't find the right words; they sit just on the tip of his tongue, but when he tries to get them out, they jumble and mash into incoherence. He sounds ridiculous. He sounds silly. He giggles at it and then at himself giggling more, and, wow, morphine is really great; everyone should be on it all the time.

Ryland laughs a little, still looking confused, but his shoulders relax. "Wow, you're really out of it, aren't you, big guy?"

Simon snorts at the name. That's not what he's called. 

"Oh, yeah? Then what do people call you?"

Oh. Simon didn't mean to say that out loud. Or any of it, really. What did people call him? He tries to remember. It's not Simon, that's for sure. 

"Lot'o'things," the sentence comes out slurred. He clears his throat, trying to straighten out his thoughts. Names, names, names, they're so important. Keep 'em close or take 'em away; that's what really matters. "Bastard. Brother. Convict." 

"Convict?" Ryland repeats, voice cracking on the word. 

He doesn't like that word coming out of Ryland's mouth. It doesn't feel right. It's much nicer when he says Simon or big guy or other stupid things. Still, there are worse things to be called. Oh! Right. 

Simon shrugs, at least he thinks he does, and finally lets his eyes close. "'s better than Butcher." 

"Butcher?"

"Or murderer."

He always hated that one the most; he remembers as he slips into unconsciousness. 

Simon wakes up alone.

He's alone for a while.

Time is hard to keep track of on bed rest. He's not sure how many days it's been since he last saw Ryland. The rock-alien-things keep stopping by, offering food and water and checking Armando, so it's not like solitary. Still, Simon can't deny the relief that fills his chest when the door to his room creaks open and Ryland steps in. 

The relief is immediately washed away by dread. Somehow, it's worse that Ryland is here. Uncertainty hangs heavy between them. 

"The Eridians have managed to unseal the files from your sub." Ryland's voice gives nothing away. He closes the door and drags his usual chair over, yet keeps a safe distance between himself and the bed. Maybe Ryland Grace isn't as naive as Simon thought. "We've looked through them."

"Are you here to lock me up?" Simon asks, despite knowing the answer. They've unsealed the files. They know now. It's foolish to hope for anything else. 

"I'm here to get your side of the story," Ryland says. 

"And then lock me up?"

Ryland doesn't answer. 

Fine. If it's confession Ryland desires, then confession he shall get. 

The words to explain the Quiet Rapture and Eden and AT-5 don't come easy; he has to dredge them up from the very core of his soul and recount experiences that make him want to scream and bleed without doing so. He's already frightening Ryland so much, he can tell, with just his words. No need to worsen this experience. 

It's unnerving how little Ryland says, how little his expression gives away. Sometimes he squeezes his hands, tampering down a reaction, or Simon can see a muscle in his jaw jump, holding something back. 

Every so often, Ryland gets up to help Simon drink from a glass of water, soothing his parched throat. Every time, Simon flinches. 

Filament Station is easier, somehow. It wasn't his fault; he didn't do it. His brothers were the ones with the orders. His only sin is failing to stop them. He's paid the dues others have racked up, as unfair as it is. Betrayed in every way by those he held close, he can recount that easily. 

The silence returns, unnatural. Simon hates it, but he has nothing to offer in its place. 

There's something dark and complicated working on Ryland's face. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, jaw clenching, before reaching up and rubbing at his eyes. He leans back into his chair with a small groan. "How old were you?" 

"What?" Simon asks. 

"Your files say you've been in custody for over 15 years." Ryland's hands are still pressed into his eyes. "So that would make you, what, Sixteen? Seventeen when Filament Station happened?"

Simon's head aches a bit trying to do the mental math. Fucking Earth years. "Sounds about right."

"Jesus," Ryland breathes, slouching forward. His head ends up between his knees, hands shaking slightly. 

Maybe Ryland will have the Eridians kill him, save the trouble and resources of lock-up. 

"So, how old were you? When it started?" Ryland asks, as if that could matter. He sits back up, but still looks away. "When you first- first-"

His voice cracks, the question going unfinished. 

Simon does the math, converting Mars to Earth. "Twelve Earth years? I think?"

All the color drains from Ryland's face, horror reflecting in unshed tears as he finally looks Simon in the eyes for the first time since walking in. 

"What the fuck," Ryland gasps the words like a dying man. Simon would know. 

"It wasn't supposed to be like that. At first. I mean- they didn't- didn't send me out to do it. It was supposed to be a scouting mission, and everyone has to pull their weight." Simon doesn't know why he's defending it, any of it, but a part of him feels like he has to. Ryland wasn't there; Ryland can't understand unless Simon explains it right. "There was a new mining colony, only a couple of people, and we were running low on resources-" he can't even remember what they were sent to get "-and I was supposed to scout ahead. Some guy was hiding in the- in the shadows or something, fuck, I don't know." 

He can still feel it if he thinks about it too long. How his legs, so small compared to now, were shaking as he walked through the darkened halls, straining to hear the sound of his Brothers. Or anyone. It wasn't a big base; he had to keep reminding himself, you couldn't get lost. And yet he had. Then, suddenly, he was on the floor, and his head was spinning, and a man loomed over him, pressing him down. All he could hear was his mother's voice - just in case, Simon, just in case - echoing in his ears. He can't even remember grabbing the knife, but he can remember just fine the blood gushing from the man's neck. Hot and thick as it splattered across Simon's face. 

His Brothers had cheered when they found him, taking turns kicking the cooling corpse before loading up their goods. Father had smiled when they recounted the story.

Simon had kept his head up to hide his shaking hands. 

Years later, he'd end up back at a mining colony just like it, before the Iron Lung, working off a debt that could never be repaid under the C.O.I.'s watch. 

His hand is shaking again. 

"It wasn't, it wasn't like anyone asked me to do it. They saw that I was-" Naturally gifted, Father had said. "-good at it. I could be useful like that. And- and I was, Ryland. I got really fucking good at it." 

Slip your knife between these ribs for the least resistance. Deep cut through the jugular veins and carotid artery and watch the way they crumple, death almost instant. Slice here to maximize blood flow as you feed the Tree. Flex your arm like this to cut off the trachea; make sure they can't get your eyes when they reach back to push you off. Each tip and trick, passed down or learned in the moment, sits snug against Simon's consciousness. 

Ryland's eyes sparkle with tears, and Simon is back in the infirmary. Some deep part of him wants to reach out, wipe away the ones that fall, but Simon curls his fingers and keeps to himself. He hates when people cry. 

"You were twelve."

"I was a murderer." It's a fact. 

Ryland is then up and on his feet. Wairly, Simon watches the way he paces back and forth between the bed and the door, lips silently moving — a prayer? — hands dragging through his hair. Every so often Ryland's gaze flickers to meet Simon before jumping away again. Anxiety is creeping back into Simon's bones when Ryland stops and spins to face him, eyes wild and hair askew in all directions. 

"Did you enjoy it?" 

Simon doesn't understand. "What?" 

"Being the Butcher. Killing. Did you enjoy it?"

Enjoy it? What does that have to do with anything? Simon can't see the connection. He was good at it, so he did it. No one came to clean him up after a mission and ask him if he had fun; at most, they would pat his head and tell him he did well. No one ever asked him if he liked it. 

If he had wanted to in the first place. 

Simon swallows back his first response, the back of his throat stinging. His eyes hurt. His head hurts. Everything hurts. "I was good at it," he repeats. 

"But did you like it?" Ryland presses, stepping into Simon's space. 

Fuck Ryland for asking that so softly. 

He tries to imagine, just for a moment, if someone in Eden had asked him that. Elisheba, who was always there to greet the scouting groups when they returned, or his bunkmate Jonas, who liked to kick Simon's mattress to piss him off for fun. Claudia, who managed the kitchens and would look the other way when Simon would swipe extra water, or Psalm, who stuck to the shadows and would smile whenever Simon spotted him until one day he vanished and his name banished from the Grove. If Abigail or Noah had asked. 

Father's hand on the back of his neck, questioning his loyalty. 

Yes, he would have answered any of them. Yes, I enjoy providing for the Grove and nurturing the Tree. I am blessed to be able to provide as such. 

"No," Simon admits, voice trembling. The world blurs, not from exhaustion or drugs, hot tears stinging his eyes. They nearly burn. He grits his teeth against the hiccuping sob that threatens to rip out of his chest. It's stupid; it's so fucking stupid getting this upset. He doesn't deserve to cry. 

Ryland reaches out and takes Simon's hand; for a moment, he feels like a little boy again, clutching his mother and sobbing. He curls in on himself, gasping, trying to wrestle control over his own body. 

Why does Simon get to live? After taking so many others, why has he been gifted this chance? Ryland should end him right now, or as the rocks to if he can't stomach it. 

I just want to live, Simon thinks as dozens of voices respond so did we. 

"So," Ryland says, squeezing Simon's hand, "you were a twelve-year-old kid, all alone on a space station. Your mother died recently, most of the universe did, and you were by yourself in the middle of a cul- of a group who valued death more than life. Do I have that all right?"

Simon can't help but hide behind his hair. Coward. "You're oversimplifying things." 

"Am I? Simon, you were just a kid. I- I used to teach kids, okay? They all think they're so grown up, but they're so... so small."

"I made the choice. I didn't have to do it. You're making excuses for me." 

"For you? Or for a scared kid who just lost everything?"

What's the difference? Simon thinks. 

"Look," Ryland sighs. "I'm not saying that it's a good thing or- or something, that you did that. But it's more complicated than if you were just — I don't know — just some guy going around killing people for fun." 

Simon frowns at that. "Who has fun killing people?"

"Guess you guys don't have true crime documentaries, huh?"

"The hell is a documentary?"

Ryland laughs a little, quick and small. "Add that to the list of things we should show you. Documentaries, I mean, not- anyway, that's not important. The point is, I'm not thrilled about all of... that, but I'm glad you told me. And I'm not going to, uh, 'lock you up' or anything." 

"Then you're an idiot."

"Maybe." Ryland shrugs. He still hasn't let go of Simon's hand. "But I don't think you're going to hurt me. You don't seem all that dangerous." 

"Didn't we just have a conversation about that? Right now?"

What the hell is wrong with this guy?

"Yeah." Ryland drags the word out, rubbing the back of his head. "I think people change, though, and you don't seem thrilled with who you used to be. I mean, after hearing this, I'm kind of surprised you didn't attack me or anything when you first woke up." 

There's a gap in his memories. "I didn't?" 

"Nope. You tried to run for it, actually. Got kinda far before Rocky got you." 

There's a vague flash of something heavy and brown bowling into him in the back of his mind, but it's gone before Simon can grasp it. 

"Besides..." Ryland looks away, squeezing Simon's hand so hard it nearly hurts. "I can't judge too much. I'd be a heck of a hypocrite." 

Simon should probably push back, at the very least ask what Ryland means, but he's tired, and Ryland's hand is shaking now. Simon squeezes back and enjoys the feeling of being held.

When Armando declares Simon well enough, Ryland shows him to his room, helping him walk the whole way there. It's larger than any other room Simon has ever had, even back on Mars, with a door that locks and a bed big enough that Simon can stretch in all directions and still not touch the edges. Along the walls are spaces for him to put things — things that Ryland assumes he'll collect or make or something. 

It's more than Simon has had in a long time. 

And somehow Ryland gives him more. 

He carves out a space in the bathroom for Simon to have a toothbrush, soap, and his own towels. He insists on putting together a list of things Simon wants so he can ask the aliens to make them. A shelf on the fridge is dedicated just to the snacks the Eridians synthesize that Simon likes the best, and a closet is full of new clothes that are made from the softest materials Simon has ever felt (he even gets to decide what they look like, what the fuck).

Simon is officially living like the richest human in his universe, maybe even better off. 

Some days that realization is enough to make him dizzy. 

Ryland still doesn't ask for Simon to do anything, really. He offers things, items or activities he thinks Simon will enjoy, but bristles when Simon tries to earn his keep. It drives Simon up the wall, waiting for this paradise to inevitably come crashing down around him, to finally figure out what will make his place here safe and solid, until one day it hits him. 

It's not chores or labor or even craftsmanship that Ryland wants. It's company. 

Nearly six months pass and Simon realizes Ryland is always right there, just an arm's length away; smiling, laughing, and just being there. He's shuffling into the room, pretending to do something while standing around awkwardly before asking what Simon is up to, or insisting on taking Simon out to show him something. 

Company doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world. 

So he starts agreeing. 

Ryland shows Simon the space elevator he's helping Eridians work on and the school building where he teaches the pebbles. His hands dance across a teaching instrument as he explains how to use it, and he doesn't even look upset when Simon gives it a go and it sounds horrifically bad. 

Simon asks Ryland to teach him how to play the antiquated board games stashed away in a closet and tells him everything he can remember about life on Mars, memories muddled but accessible. He refuses to go to the beach, but he'll watch from a window as Rocky tries to coax Rocky deeper into the waves. Adrian synthesizes pen and paper for him to scribble drawings on; once or twice, he finds some taped up to the fridge, some Earth ritual he is unfamiliar with. 

On nights he can't sleep, he'll stay up mending both their clothes, adjusting the techniques his mother shared to do one-handed, and deny it in the morning. Something about the look Ryland gives him makes him warm all over, leaving him hiding behind his hair. 

He's gifted a computer that holds the sum total of information of all of humanity and spends days devouring it. Ryland peeks into his room, three days in, and asks to join him. They sit on Simon's bed together while Simon plays a documentary on Central American rainforests. Ryland doesn't even complain when Simon keeps pausing the movie to gush about information he's spent days gathering that relates. Simon ends up falling asleep in the middle of it and wakes up the next day to Ryland softly snoring, curled up on the other end of the bed. He watches the rise and fall of Ryland's chest, the way his eyelids move with REM sleep, how he mutters unintelligible things into the blanket. When Ryland finally wakes up and smiles, something twists in Simon's stomach, and he practically flees from the room, offering to make breakfast. 

Simon soaks up the positive attention like the roots of a tree do blood.

It's not perfect. If it were, it would freak Simon the fuck out. He's too messed up in the head for everything to be wonderful and, admittedly, Ryland is too, a bit. 

Sometimes, the idea of touch makes his skin crawl, and he snaps at Ryland for smothering him. Or visions of things he can't understand will creep in, and he'll end up breaking something (once a mirror and another time one of the computers, something that made Simon feel so guilty he cried hard enough to actually throw up). Every so often, he'll yell and lash out; more often he withdraws and hides among the rocks on the cliffside. 

He doesn't hurt Ryland. Never physically. 

Simon will kill himself before he hurts another person.

In this competition of fucked-up headspaces, Ryland can hold his own. He gets clingy, hovering at odd hours and peeking in at Simon's room when he thinks Simon is asleep. Other times he'll seem to detest that Simon is in their shared space at all, griping about invasions of privacy (which seems redundant since Ryland always comes back, even just to be in the same room, never able to part for long). He'll snap right back when Simon feels the mundanity of daily life too keenly and nearly starts scaling the walls, or even just when Simon asks the last time he took a break, when Ryland gets too immersed in his work. Other days, Ryland spends the day away, pacing the beach, straying farther from the house if Simon tries to approach. 

Ryland calls these days they have "bad brain days". Simon, privately, just thinks of them as going fucking crazy for a little bit. Inevitable, in Simon's opinion. 

One memorable night, Ryland has a night terror loud enough to wake Simon in his room, begging and screaming not to go somewhere. Simon tries to wake him up and gets a fist to the face for his effort. It's a solid punch, which is impressive even if Simon won't admit it out loud. He's fairly certain Ryland wouldn't appreciate the compliment, anyway. 

Ryland spends the next four days apologizing whenever Simon walks into a room until Simon snaps at him to knock it the fuck off. And then things return to normal. 

When had they created a normal together?

Eventually, Simon has to admit he's endeared by this strange school-teacher-turned-astronaut.

Watching the artificial sunrise while Rocky and Ryland argue the semantics of expanding Ryland's school, Simon thinks to himself that there are much worse places to be. 

There is a large map of the stars in the lab, a thin red line connecting Erid and Earth, and Ryland is explaining something. Simon can't hear any of his words over the roaring in his ears. For a brief moment, Simon thinks it almost sounds like waves, but that thought alone rears up a panic so intense it makes Simon's vision blur at the edges. He tries to focus on the red string instead. 

It's just that it's so far. 

Sol. Mars. Earth. Humanity. 

Before the Quiet Rapture, space ventures were common, traveling from star to star, planet to planet, moon to moon. Further journeys could get expensive quickly, but it was still possible. Once, Simon's mother had brought up the idea of him applying for higher education at Saturn's newest university when he was older. It wasn't like it was far. 

But Simon knows that here, in Ryland's time and universe, space travel is a novelty. The Hail Mary could only exist as a suicide mission, and as far as either of them knows, no one has yet set foot on Mars, let alone set up a colony. It's a miracle that they're out here at all, this deep into the galaxy. 

Between building a new ship and actually setting off, it would probably take nearly a decade to get back to Humanity. In Simon's universe, before, it would most likely only be a few months. 

Simon reaches out, gentle, and runs his finger along the red string. Feels the texture of the yarn as he goes. 

They really are all alone out here. The only two Humans as far as the eye can see. Simon and Ryland. 

A cold feeling creeps up the back of his neck; the air feels thicker. 

It hasn't sunk in; Simon is quickly realizing. Beyond the Eridians, Ryland is now his only source of companionship. Humans are social creatures; he knows this, remembers how Eden fostered and then strained social bonds, how it kept you and everyone else in line. Sure, he likes Ryland (a lot), but he hadn't quite realized that he also needs him. 

If something happens between the two of them, that need will go unmet. 

Simon can remember solitary confinement. This would just be a bigger cell, more space to carve in his crazy rantings and ravings as his mind deteriorates. The Eridians could watch, study his descent into madness. Adrian would love to take notes. 

No, no, no, that's not fair. Simon knows they wouldn't do that; they wouldn't. The Eridians are friendly, and Ryland is the kindest person he's met in a long, long time. Even if Simon fucked something up horrifically bad, they wouldn't just leave him to suffer; he knows this, he has to know this. He has to remind himself that he knows this. 

The cold feeling lifts, a little. 

Still, though, the thought that this is all there is — that Ryland is the only possible source of human connection for most likely the rest of his life — is fucking with his brain a bit. 

"So, yeah, that's how the Beetles worked. Wish I saved some of the videos." Ryland finishes off what he was talking about. Simon tries not to feel guilty that he's missed most of it with his freak-out. 

It's just a bad brain moment; that's okay! I'll tell you again, Ryland would say if Simon confessed. Worse, he would mean it. 

Videos. He was talking about videos; Simon's mind snags on the brief piece of information he's managed to catch. 

"You have plenty of videos already, don't you?" 

Ryland grins; he's always grinning or smiling at Simon. Like he deserves it. Like it's easy. "Sure, but Rocky and I did this amazing rock karaoke marathon, and I really wish I'd saved it. You would love it." 

Simon tries and fails to not make a face. 

"Hey! Don't look at me like that, I know you secretly love my singing." 

Simon keeps his voice deadpan, fighting off a smile that Ryland is getting better and better at pulling out of him. "Yes, I only really enjoy songs that are sung off-key. It's my favorite way to enjoy music, actually. The farther away you can get from the tune, the better." 

"I'm improving!" Ryland insists, jutting out his bottom lip in a ridiculous pout. 

"Your optimism is inspiring." 

It is not adorable, the way that Ryland cups both hands to his heart and leans his head back, as if he's been struck. "Oh! I can't believe it! Being bullied like this, right in my own lab, by my dear, close friend. When will the injustices end?" The whole show is ruined by Ryland peeking an eye open to gauge Simon's reaction. 

He will not smile, damn it. 

Fine, yes, he does. It would be impossible not to. 

"Close friend? Not even best friend?" Simon puts his hand on his hip and raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like the bullying is justified." 

"Bullying is never okay," Ryland says in a voice that Simon is fairly certain he's had to use on more than one student. "Plus, Rocky's already grabbed the spot of best friend. You snooze, you lose." 

"You're ridiculous." Simon rolls his eyes and ends up looking right back at the map. "But you're right. I know I can't compete with Rocky." 

Again, his gaze settles on the line. So far. 

He points to the red line, waving his hand like he can wave the thoughts away. "Why d'you still have this plotted out anyway? Got some travel plans you haven't told me about?"

"Oh! We're trying to figure out how to send a message to Earth and shorten the time it will take. I'd like to let everyone know I'm- well, alive and everything, you know? And I'd like it to get there...sooner...rather than later..."

Ryland's voice trails off, strained further and further with each word. His eyes glaze over a little, staring at the map. 

Bad brain moment, Simon thinks. 

Before he can think of a way to actually do something useful and help, Ryland abruptly claps his hands together, sound echoing through the lab. Simon only flinches a little at the noise. Ryland turns to face Simon, smile a little too wide, eyes darting around to catch on something else to hold his interest. 

"Anyway, want to check out my latest Taumoeba experiment? I'm trying to see if I can get them to taste like ice cream. Would love a volunteer to taste test." 

The Eridians would build a ship. Ryland would synthesize the best rations possible. They'd all send him off with a smile, and he could rejoin the rest of Humanity. Find out what Earth is really like and experience life to the fullest. Meet people he didn't have to hurt and who don't want to hurt him. Be normal, for once. 

He's not trapped here, not really. 

Under Simon's gaze, Ryland fidgets. Shifts from foot to foot, rocks back on his heels once and then again, just a bit too far, stumbling slightly before catching himself before it can be a real fall. His expression turns sheepish, face slightly pink. 

Simon could ask. 

"Yeah, course. I'll give it a go." 

Ryland smiles, real this time. 

Simon doesn't want to ask. 

Ryland spends the next half a week apologizing every chance he can get that the Taumoeba did not taste of ice cream while Simon is laid out in bed, dying from food poisoning. Once, many years ago, he had to stave off his hunger on a mission with rotting rat meat. Ryland strokes Simon's hair back from his face as he's sick, and Simon doesn't have the heart to tell him he'd preferred the spoiled meat. 

What is most ridiculous about all of this isn't the time traveling or the universe hopping or even the singing alien rocks, but the fact that Simon doesn't even realize he's in love until he's already coughing up flowers. 

It happens in the garden, ironic and perfect and infuriating when Simon thinks about it. He's been teaching Ryland the little he remembers from caring for the Tree: testing soil, proper watering techniques, and checking the roots. The Eridians take care of growing and synthesizing most of their food, but after hearing from Simon that he enjoyed tending to the Tree, Ryland had insisted they make a little garden. Mostly it's alien flowers that can survive the atmosphere and won't kill them — so not a wide variety — but they do have a few herbs like basil and thyme that someone snuck onto the Hail Mary. 

Outside it's sunny; the Eridians insist on letting the fog clear every once in a while to ensure adequate vitamin D absorption, and it's the warmer season in the biosphere. Sweat drips down Simon's back, but not in an uncomfortable way; in a I can feel I'm still alive kind of way. Ryland's skin is turning pink, and he's lying on the ground, chest still heaving from Simon making him move several bags of nutrient-rich soil to help replant some smaller flowers. 

Life is all around. 

It's tranquil in a way Simon couldn't have dreamed of before, rapidly turning comfortable. Domestic. Simon is getting used to feeling like this, despite everything about himself. He could live an eternity here. 

"I miss lemonade." Ryland says because he can never let a quiet moment pass. 

Simon smiles and indulges. 

"Tell me about it." 

"You've never had lemonade?" Ryland gasps like it's an affront that he's been denied such a thing. 

"'M not sure. Maybe when I was little. Help me remember." Vague memories sit at the back of his mind, a bitter or a sour taste, maybe, shoving a glass away while his mother laughed. He can't remember the sound. He tries not to think about that. "Not a lot of drinking options where I come from." 

Water, tainted water, ethanol, leftover wine or whisky someone stashed away if you're lucky. 

"Okay, okay, let me see." Ryland turns his head to watch Simon work, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips as he tries to think of the right description. "It's like the perfect blend of sweet and sour. Acidic too, but not in an overpowering way. Lemonade is made by juicing lemons and adding in water and sugar in the right ratio. Sometimes people add other things, too, like mint or honey, for example. But I miss classic lemonade. You typically serve it in the summer with ice, sometimes with slices or wedges of the lemons in it."

"Why summer?" 

"Acidic and sour foods, like lemons, activate your salivary glands, stimulating more saliva. More than other tastes, I mean, which makes for a stronger sense of relief with dry mouth. Also, probably the social conditioning? If you grow up drinking it in the summer and expect it to be refreshing, it's more likely to be so." 

"Makes sense." 

"I used to drink it all the time in the summer. I don't like the bland taste of water — don't give me that look; I know it's weird — so the sugary sour mix was way better. I think my parents were just happy to get any liquid in me rather than risk death by dehydration. So, there's a lot of association there." 

"And this feels like summer?" Not for the first time, Simon wonders how the environment of Earth felt. The heat and cool, changing seasons, all of it. How close is the biosphere? Is Simon's closest experience to life on Earth still completely alien to Ryland? 

"Late summer, early autumn more like, but close enough. I would go inside and make a big pitcher of it right now if we had any lemons." 

"Now I get it. An excuse to get out of more work." 

"No!" Ryland lifts his head, face properly pink now and indignant. "I'd come back out, you cruel task master. Maybe I'd even bring you some. Oh, with a swirly straw." His eyes light up.

Simon can see it easily. Ryland ducking back into the house, Simon calling out to tease him for being weak-willed and leaving all this work behind. They'd call out back and forth from the open window; maybe Ryland would try to convince Simon to join him in the AC, but he'd come out anyway with two glasses. He'd be wearing that goofy grin as he brought a glass over to Simon, probably trip over a root or rock and stumble a little, spilling a bit of it, but steadying out before he could lose it all. Ryland would hand it over, gently scolding Simon for working too hard (the hypocrite), and he'd lean down to press a kiss to Simon's hairline and-

Simon is suddenly wracked with a harsh coughing fit. One cough, then two, then too many to count; his chest spasming with the need to get something out. He doubles over, pressing his hand into his sternum, trying to catch a breath. It feels like something has taken up residence in his esophagus, pushing back against his body's desperate attempt to rid it from his system. 

"Oh heck, let me get you some water," Ryland scrambles up to rush inside. 

Something comes up and out. 

Over his fading coughing, Simon can hear the faint sound of a faucet turning on. His hand is wet and sticky, and he opens his eyes to look at whatever sickness he's coughed up, cursing the lingering effects of radiation, and then he stops hearing anything but deafening static. 

Simon is holding a handful of mallow, white and purple streaks clumped together with spit and mucus. 

Sweet disposition, a long-forgotten memory helpfully provides in the roaring blankness of shock. Consumed by love. 

No. 

No, Simon thinks, icy panic trickling into his veins. No, no, no, this can't be that. It's something else. Some fucked up alien shit, something with the Eridian flowers or the blood or the universe travel or anything else; it has to be anything else. 

Simon is not in love. 

Daydreaming of Ryland kissing him is an anomaly, a side effect of the heavy isolation of the sub and the following isolation from a greater human group. Ryland is the only other actual person Simon will ever see again; of course his brain is crossing wires and latching on in odd ways. It's a one-off. It won't happen again. 

Another cough. A gag. More petals. 

His body decrying him a liar. 

But he's not lying. He would know if he were in love, and he is not. 

The back door to the house thumps open, and Ryland comes stumbling out. If not for the look of concern on his face, it would be just like in Simon's imagination. His chest twists painfully. 

It's only just before Ryland gets close enough to see that Simon realizes he's holding spit-covered petals that aren't like any other flowers in the garden. He shoves his hand forward into the dirt, sloppily burying them in the soil. 

"Geez, Si, you okay?" Ryland asks, making a pained noise as he bends his knees to be at eye level (a noise he makes often and that Simon makes fun of for sounding like an old man). He holds out the water, pressing the glass against Simon's chapped lips. "Careful, slowly now." 

Simon lets Ryland tilt the glass, welcoming the cool water to soothe the raw burn in his throat. He watches the way Ryland observes, eyebrows furrowed, absorbs all the attention focused on him. 

Up close like this, Simon can see a streak of dirt Ryland accidentally rubbed across the bridge of his nose, and how the color of his eyes is so similar to the last peaks of sunset on Mars it can make him homesick. His hair is a mess, and the concern he wears on his face makes Simon's heart swell and his throat itch. 

He's beautiful, Simon thinks, delirious against the heat and lack of oxygen. Then he realizes that it's not the first time the thought has occurred to him. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

If Simon goes back into the garden in the dead of night and digs up those first few mallow petals before spending a day recreating the pendant he used to craft for his Brothers until it was second nature, then that's no one's business but his own. 

It doesn't hang, instead tucked into a cord wrapped tightly around his wrist, pressing into the skin. A reminder. 

I love him, I love him, I love him...

Okay, so Simon is in love. He's survived worse things. 

On a list of most fucked up things he's had to survive, this is probably number four. Maybe three. If he can get out of an ocean of blood with a man-eating God eel thing, he can survive loving Ryland Grace. The pink orchids and red carnations he keeps gagging up disagree, but Simon isn't going to listen to a bunch of stupid flowers. 

There are only three options for what comes next:

1. Tell Ryland that he's in love with him, risking their entire friendship and ruining the only good thing he's had in his life and possibly getting kicked off the planet or, at the very least, out of the biodome in the process. 

2. Have the surgery, removing the flowers and love that Simon has been growing, and risking the side effects that he knows he has a family history of. 

3. Die. 

It's not looking great. 

At the very least, he needs more time to decide between his options. Stall a little. Just because he and Ryland's lives have become incredibly intertwined doesn't mean that Simon can't hide a little, tiny secret from him. He can do this. It'll be easy. 

Easier than option one, that's for sure. 

Only Ryland seems unconsciously determined to make it as hard as possible. 

Simon coughs up a whole pansy when he wakes up to find that he fell asleep in the living room, and Ryland covered him with that worn quilt he loves to pad around the house in. Swallows a batch of thorns when Ryland offers to braid his hair, to keep it out of his eyes. Bell flowers follow Ryland, gushing about his students and tulips when Ryland slides a cup of tea across the table for him. With each horrendous joke Ryland makes, giggles and orchids bubble up, too many to count. 

Simon spends most of his time ducking out of rooms or brushing off concerned looks. Oh, his throat is dry; oh, he just swallowed wrong; oh, it's nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Ryland doesn't push, but he doesn't seem to believe it either. 

The flowers keep coming. 

Once, Simon catches Ryland hunched over his desk, head resting in his right hand, softly snoring and asleep in the middle of his work. Something about the way the low sunlight splays golden over Ryland's slack face or the way his glasses are hanging from his left ear causes Simon to stumble to the bathroom and throw up a bushel of daffodils. 

He's pale and drawn, just overall sickly looking when he looks in the mirror. He coughs up another yellow petal, and when he looks back into the mirror, for just a moment he swears he sees himself at five years old looking back. Uncomprehending, a little terrified, before all the blood and death of it all. 

Simon blinks; the apparition is gone. 

He leaves the mirror behind to gently wake Ryland up and help him to bed. 

Simon curls up into Ryland's side. They're outside, underneath a tree the Eridians have provided, in the dark of night. Simon is still trembling with the aftershocks of his nightmare. He doesn't know how long he's been out here, or how long he was alone before Ryland came looking. 

Ryland's hand rubs up and down Simon's back. He's saying something, voice soft and soothing, but it's drowned out by the sound of Simon gasping, the racing of his heart in his ears. 

I love him, I love him, I love him, Simon thinks to keep his thoughts above bloody water. 

"Why doesn't he just tell her?" Simon asks around a mouthful of synthesized popcorn. A few pieces fall from his mouth, and Ryland scrunches his nose in disgust, not knowing that's the only reason Simon lets it happen. He swallows the food, pushing down the tickle of petals in the back of his throat. "She's obviously in love with him too. If he can't see it, he's the densest man alive." 

On screen, the two leads are standing in a rain-drenched scene. She's crying, and he's deflecting. Simon thinks he can remember seeing a movie like this once, his mother asleep on the couch, but there are no scenes of anyone gagging up roses, so the emotional bits aren't quite as gripping. 

"Agree." Rocky trills, reaching over Ryland's lap into the bowl to grab a handful of popcorn. Simon watches as he throws it towards the screen, a habit he's picked up after seeing it on some Internet video. Pieces scatter on the floor while Ryland gives a weak noise of protest. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. Are all leaky humans like this?"

Ryland lightly swats at Rocky's carapace; Simon knows that both he and Rocky will get scolded later about having to clean it up. 

"It's not stupid!" Ryland argues, not for the first time this evening. "Okay, well, maybe a little, but it's realistic too! People have trouble expressing their feelings all the time." 

"Breaking out into song and dance is realistic?" Simon asks, hiding a grin behind his hand when Ryland swats at his shoulder. He enjoys watching the way a frustrated flush rises on Ryland; it's completely worth the scratchy feeling in his throat. 

"You know what a musical is!"

"Explain again." Adrian pipes up from their spot behind the couch, large enough that even sitting, they can watch the texture monitor. 

"No! I know you know what it is too."

"Do puppets!" Rocky agrees, bouncing up and down so the entire couch shakes. 

"Ooooh, puppets," Simon snickers, unable to help himself. 

The glare Ryland sends him would be enough to wither any of the flowers outside in the garden, but Simon can feel how it makes the ones in his chest bloom as if the sun has finally come out. He wants Ryland to look and glare and laugh and tease and argue and give every other bit of his attention while Simon still has this love inside him. He wants to know how it all feels; he has to know before he is unable to ever again. Let him be greedy while he still can. 

"I am not doing puppets," Ryland says to everyone, but only glaring at Simon to let him know not to push it. 

What else does Ryland think he's going to do?

"No, no, I think we need puppets." Simon dodges another swat to his shoulder. "I think there's a cross-cultural miscommunication going on here. Puppet shows can fix it." 

"You do a puppet show!"

"How am I supposed to do it if I don't know what a musical is?"

Ryland picks up one of the pillows Rocky shoved to the floor earlier and starts swinging it at Simon, grin giving him away. Simon laughs, loud and free, and hops up off the couch and out of range. 

"Simon and Grace enjoy frustrating each other very much," Adrian observes, in that tone of music that Simon has come to learn means they're mentally taking notes of human behavior to record later. Yes, it is very fucking weird living with aliens. "Is this normal behavior for human mates, question?"

Everyone freezes. Ryland chokes on his spit. Simon chokes on a sudden mouthful of flowers. 

Both of them turn their gazes to stare at Adrian, who just sits patiently waiting for an answer. The floral taste in Simon's mouth will quickly become overwhelming if he doesn't spit soon. 

"Ahahaha," Ryland laughs in a high-pitched register that makes everyone in the room flinch. His smile too wide, body suddenly tense all over. "Adrian, I think you've gotten your words mixed up."

"No. Adrian said right word."

Ryland does a rapid, weird hand gesture between himself and Simon that's hard to track the meaning of. It's more flailing than conveying any sort of meaning. "We, we, we're not- that's not quite-. Well, you see-"

More flowers push against his larynx, desperate to give him away, as Ryland does his best to reject Simon without even knowing he's doing it. Simon doesn't exactly feel like sticking around to throw up all his affection and just get the same panicked stumbling Adrian is getting. 

He ducks his head and mutters something about being right back, fleeing before he can hear Ryland explain the difference between friends and lovers. 

"We're not mates," Ryland manages to get out while Simon is still in earshot. 

It shouldn't hurt to hear; it's the truth. Honestly, it's the smartest thing Ryland has done since Simon arrived, not letting Simon get close like that. Simon is dangerous and bloody, and he knows that he would die before hurting Ryland, but with the number of bodies Simon stands on, how can Ryland really be certain?

But Simon is human and painfully in love, as his body loves to remind him. 

At least Ryland just sounded embarrassed and not disgusted; Simon tries to focus on this fact as he openly retches into the sink. He's used to the ritual of this by now, but it's been several weeks, and he's recently upgraded to the tips of stems as well. They rip his throat on the way up, bloody globs streaking the white stone, which just makes Simon nauseous. His stomach rolls, and he just manages to keep it down. Barely. 

White Cape Jasmines clog the skin's drain, spit-logged and sticky. I'm too happy, Simon remembers the meaning from his book and agrees entirely. 

Somewhere between the living room couch and bent over the sink, Simon's pendant had slipped out from its spot tucked against his wrist. It dangles freely; each bump against his skin a mocking reminder. The mallow petal is just as bright as it was all those weeks ago. He shoves it back in, feeling the glass press against his veins. 

In the mirror, he doesn't look terrible. Maybe a little pale, eye bags a little too dark, hair a little too messy. He spends about thirty seconds trying to make himself look more alive before giving up and hoping that Ryland doesn't really notice. 

Everyone has settled back into their spots by the time Simon returns. When Ryland looks over and smiles at him, it makes all the flowers worth it. 

"I hope she ends up with the best friend," Simon says as the movie starts back up. 

"Yes! Yes! Exactly," Rocky sings. 

"She deserves better." 

It all looks so easy on the screen. What he wouldn't give to be in a movie right now, instead, where everything can wrap up nicely by the end. Wouldn't that be so much simpler?

Simon doesn't quite understand the appeal of Frankenstein yet, but he's not going to let that stop him from finishing the book. Besides, he's only really at the beginning, and Ryland seemed excited to talk about it at their next "book club" meeting; a small group he's put together only recently of the only two humans this side of the galaxy and a handful of Eridians that have expressed interest in human-based stories. 

This was Adrian's pick, and Simon has decided that if he reaches the end and still isn't a fan, he'll guilt Ryland into letting him pick the next one.  

Currently, Simon is trying to brute-force his way into the book on the living room couch. His socked feet are shoved under Ryland's legs (he has to wear socks when he does this; apparently his feet run ice cold, and Ryland will yelp and jump up if Simon tries this without the "extra layer of protection") as the two lounge together. The only real noise is Ryland shuffling through papers with a pinched look on his face. It's quiet. Peaceful. Nice. 

Elizabeth has just caught scarlet fever — something that Simon mentally notes to look up the meaning of later — when Ryland jolts so hard he tumbles off the couch. Simon peeks over his tablet, watching Ryland scramble up. His papers are crushed and scattered beneath him. 

"Thrum!" Ryland gasps, mostly to himself. "The elevator thrum! I'm supposed to be meeting them!"

Simon relaxes back into the couch and watches, not for the first time, Ryland suddenly remembering and rushing to get to an important meeting. He can practically hear Rocky scolding Ryland again about using a planner of some sort. "Right now?"

"Right now!" Ryland confirms, gathering up papers, glasses slipping off his face and onto the floor as well. He doubles back to grab those too. "Fudge, fudge, fudge!" 

I love him, Simon thinks, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the man he loves is. 

Maybe, Simon thinks late at night while alone in his room under the safety of his covers, just maybe he should tell Ryland. 

He doesn't like keeping secrets, hates the way Ryland looks almost hurt when Simon can't lie well enough. And he's getting sick of the feeling of coughing up flowers; it hurts. While the reminder that he's in love is always nice, the warm, bubbly emotion only lasts a moment before the pain overrides it. He's had so much pain; he stupidly thought he could just deal with a bit more, but it seems his tolerance has worn down with repeated exposure instead of fortified against it. 

The idea, ridding himself of this painful burden, is tempting; an apple in a garden. He has to remind himself why he cannot give in. 

There is, as always, the safety factor. 

Not that Ryland would do anything to hurt Simon; he's nothing like those on Eden proclaiming the sins of flesh and defying the Tree's will. He wouldn't take anything away or strike Simon, but the change that comes with knowledge is terrifying in itself, even without the threat of violence. 

No more late-night sleepovers or quick hugs before Ryland runs off to class. Ryland's smiles would no doubt change, thin out, not quite reach his eyes; tainted with knowledge. He would ask the Eridians to build Simon his own home, vacating the spots Simon has taken up, turning them from roommates to neighbors. 

Would he invite Simon over to keep up the garden? Would he ask that Simon take the garden with him? 

Besides, even if Ryland were open to the idea of pair-bonding, Simon isn't exactly sure where Ryland's attractions lie; he's heard tales from Rocky of a woman leaving him for a man named Mark, which is only a small bit of information to go on. And it's not like you can just ask someone that. Ryland has never broached the subject with Simon, so it must be a conversation you don't have on Earth as well — something they have in common with Eden. 

Maybe he isn't like Simon at all in that way. 

Or, maybe he is. It wouldn't even matter. 

Vanity rears up, an old sin he's struggled to suppress in the past. He used to look just like his mother, something he had taken pride in and had caused him to linger in the fleeting reflective surfaces in Eden — few and far between; wouldn't want to lead to idleness, would we? — but even that has been taken from him. Her face, twisted and punctured, ruined by sins of his own making. Choices he should have made differently. 

Maybe if he still looked like her, like himself, maybe then Ryland would feel that affection. Would want to decorate Simon with loving kisses, see him as worthy of them. He would look at Simon, unable to tear his gaze away, and cradle his face the way they do in stories and whisper sweet words. Ryland would be lying in bed right now, dreaming of Simon. 

Simon reaches up, brushes the tips of his fingers along the edges of the teeth that jut from his face, feels how they break through the now-rough skin, and banishes the thought of Ryland coveting him. 

And then there's Simon himself, just to add on. Above all else, even if given all the advantages of what he could have — appearance, Ryland even thinking of men romantically, Ryland desiring romance — there was still that drawback. Himself. 

It's not like Simon is easy to love. He's brash and mean and a little crazy now with the hallucinations and phantom pains. He glowers instead of gazes and is quick to spit profanities at the slightest annoyance. Anger flows through him too easily. Only his mother has ever loved him, and even then there was the worry that it wasn't really him she loved; just the ghost of someone else. Sometimes, that fear overshadows memories and makes him sick with guilt and anger. 

Even with it just the two of them, just Ryland and Simon, Ryland deserves better. He must know it, even if he's too kind to say it to Simon's face. Simon won't drag him down with his own pathetic need to feel affection. 

"We're not mates," he reminds himself, a soft whisper into the night. 

It's the end of summer, Ryland tells him, according to the pre-agreed-upon biodome seasonal calendar he set up with the Eridians. He spends the day splashing in the ocean, waving wildly at Simon before falling back into the water and then resurfacing, face bright with giggles. He teaches Simon how to make a sandcastle, and Simon lets him braid his hair. 

Simon still can't go into the water, so Ryland brings a bowl of ocean water over for Simon to dip his fingers into. It's small and stupid, this accommodation and how badly he needs it, but Ryland acts like him being able to do it without a panic attack is a huge accomplishment. 

Simon watches the way light glints off the droplets of water in Ryland's hair and thinks I love him, I love him, I love him...

"Eye movement detected. What is two plus two?"

"Fuck off." 

Simon blinks once, twice against the harsh light of the kitchen before giving up and shutting his eyes completely. With a groan, he reaches up to press his hand over his face, trying to chase away the stinging pain, listening to the fading ring in his ears. 

"Incorrect," Armando replies as Simon blindly bats him away. "Cognitive assessment. What is two plus two?"

"Four," Simon spits out, along with a healthy mouthful of blood. 

"Correct. You have collapsed. Assessment pending." Despite Simon's eyes being closed, he can hear and feel Armando hovering, probably scanning him or whatever the hell it is he does. He hasn't really taken the time to learn, even if a robot doctor is a lot less scary to be around than a human one. Simon has never enjoyed checkups; years of C.O.I. doctors have done nothing to make them any more enjoyable. If Ryland didn't insist on keeping Armando in the house, Simon would never see him. 

Yes, Ryland does complain and pester Simon about 'regular checkups'. 

"Diagnostic tool malfunction. Reading error." If a robot could sound worried, Armando has managed to do it. Or Simon is heavily projecting. "Airway obscured, source unidentified. Initial scans show Earth flora obstructing trachea, bronchi, and ribcage. Diagnostic tool malfunction." 

Beyond the fact that searching the Internet had brought up a grand total of zero results, here is Simon's confirmation that this universe does not have lovesickness. Except for freaking Ryland the fuck out, he won't know what the flowers Simon is coughing up mean, and Armando is probably going to be completely lost in trying to fix it. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Simon reaches out, still blinded by the lights and the pounding headache, pawing at the air once, twice, and then finally finding the smooth metal of Armando's arm. He gives it a light pat in reassurance. 

"'S okay." Simon's voice is croaky and thin as he whispers. "No malfunction. Don't worry." 

"Incorrect," Armando argues. For fucks sake, is everything from Earth stubborn as hell? "It is impossible for Earth flora to grow inside you to the extent shown on scans. I will run a self-diagnostic." 

"Nope, nope, nope." Simon pats a little harder, as if he can somehow get a robot's attention. "Not Earth illness. Mars illness." 

Mars illness, Mars culture thing, Mars custom; that excuse has gotten him out of more than a few tight spots with Ryland and the Eridians. Simon is going to keep using it for the rest of time. Who can prove him wrong?

Armando makes a series of high-pitched beeps followed by a string of silence. Processing? Adding the new information into its database? Simon has no idea how the fuck this thing works; he really should get over his stupid fear of it and figure it out sometime. 

"Understood." Armando's arm hums against Simon's hold. It twists slightly, pressing a three-clawed hand into his chest, right where the roots have taken hold. "Integrating new patient information. Please describe all symptoms and certified treatment regimens. Earth flora is constricting your respiratory ability and will continue to impede quality of life."

Quality of life, huh? Seems to be deteriorating fast around here. 

"Only treatment is surgery," Simon lies. Lying to a machine now, he's not sure how much lower he can go. Each word feels like it's being dragged out of his maw. "Gotta remove the flowers." 

Another series of beeps. "Understood. I will prep the area and alert Dr. Grace-"

"No!" Simon shoves Armando off and sits up, only to be stabbed in the chest with another spasm of pain. Have the thorns in here grown longer or something? Probably. He coughs again, more blood he has to wipe away with the back of his hand, and tries to calm his breathing. "You, uh, you don't have to do that. I've already- I've already scheduled it." 

"Incorrect. I have no upcoming appointments in my calendar." 

The fucking robot has a calendar?

He can't have Armando rat him out. If Ryland learns about this, he'll be worried and asking all sorts of questions Simon can't answer with those sad blue eyes that make Simon want to tell him everything. The bastard. 

Simon will give in. Ryland will reject him. Simon will have to live knowing for certain Ryland will never love him back. 

Quick, you dumb piece of shit! Simon thinks, scolding. Say something!

"The Eridians!" He blurts out, half thinking up the idea as it says it. "I've scheduled it with them. Already. It- uh, the plants need to... grow more. Before you can take them out. Safely. Yeah. Ryland- uh, I mean, Dr. Grace assisted me." 

Armando twists its three-fingered, clawed thing. Thinking?

"Understood. I will update my files accordingly." 

Simon collapses back onto the floor with a relieved huff. He lies there, feeling the ache in his chest, until he hears the familiar sound of Ryland trekking up the stairs. Of Ryland coming home.

Simon doesn't know what they're actually fighting about, but he's pissed, and Ryland stormed out a few hours earlier after practically shouting the house down at Simon, and everything is kind of horrible now. Maybe forever. 

He manages to wait Ryland out until the artificial sun dips below the horizon and then goes looking. The school isn't the first place he looks — the garden, the lab, even a quick message to Rocky — and he can't help but scold himself for that when he finds Ryland there, curled up under his desk. It should have been obvious. Fucking idiot. 

Ryland doesn't yell when Simon gets on the floor and scoots under the desk, across from him. There's not enough space, really; their legs are now tangled together, but it's fine. Under here, it's easier to see Ryland's puffy, red eyes and miserable expression. 

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Ryland whispers; its own kind of apology. He sniffles and rubs at his eyes again before bringing up his knees to hide behind. "I'm just- I'm not good at this. Being around people. I don't know why." 

I love him, I love him, I love him. 

"'S okay," Simon whispers back, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Ryland's ankle. Ryland peeks up at him, and Simon smiles. "I'm pretty bad at it, too." 

The fourth time Simon's nighttime coughing wakes up the house is when Ryland starts to get obviously concerned. 

"You don't have a fever," Ryland observes, back of his hand pressed against Simon's forehead. Simon shudders anyway and presses his face into his pillow. "That's good, that's really good. How are you feeling?"

Like a lovesick fool.

"Pretty fucking bad," Simon admits, wincing at how strained his voice sounds. He wonders how much longer he can keep this love before it fucks up his voice box forever. "Think I've got a cold." 

A bucket hastily shoved under the bed holds spit and bile and blood and moonflowers. Their petals say dreaming of love, and they always wake up Simon right before Ryland kisses him. Fucking buzzkills. 

"Heck of a cold," Ryland mutters to himself, settling into a spot on the bed next to Simon as he bends down for a better look. His touch is soft as his hand moves from Simon's forehead down his face, the ghost of a lover's caress, to lightly poke and prod around Simon's face. He leans in to get a closer look in Simon's eyes for something and frowns at what he finds. "You've been coughing like that for what? A month? Two?"

Three. 

How long has Ryland noticed?

"Yeah, probably." 

Simon is lying anyway, so what could possibly be so wrong about adding on the sin of greed to this night? He nuzzles into Ryland's touch; flowers tickling the back of his throat, threatening to crawl up and stick to the roof of his mouth. He smiles at both feelings. 

Lovesickness isn't a long-term disease; he knows this. If you're lucky, you get maybe half a year until the vines rip your lungs to shreds and flowers seed your heart. Some poor bastard made it a year and ended up in a history book. Simon isn't sure the exact date that the first root took hold inside him — which one of Ryland's smiles had done it? Which gentle touch had doomed Simon? — so he's been rounding up, keeping a close eye on the rapidly approaching date of too-far-gone.

Ryland bites his lip. Simon would like to kiss it better. 

"I think we should have Armando take a look at you," Ryland almost sounds guilty as he says it. 

Immediately, Simon starts twisting to face away, ignoring the stabs of pain in his chest. It's childish, but gets his point across. 

"Wait, wait, wait!" Ryland leans across Simon, trying to get into his field of vision. "I know you don't like Armando, and I get it, trust me, but what if this is something really bad? Like- like late-stage radiation sickness, or something? Or an Eridian disease? I just want to make sure you're okay." 

Ryland has to know what he's doing, the way he widens his eyes and tilts his head just so. There's even a light sparkle of tears in them; he has to be playing this up to pull at Simon's heartstrings. 

Fuck, it's working. 

"In case you've forgotten, I'm human." Simon huffs. "Pretty sure I can't catch something from Adrian or whatever." 

"Diseases cross species all the time!"

"From a rock?"

Ryland purses his lips, unimpressed with Simon's attempts at deflection. "If you let Armando check you out, I'll think about not telling Adrian and Rocky you're still calling them rocks." 

It's not like it isn't true. They are rocks! Kind of. 

"So they can call us 'leaky space blobs,' but I can't call them rocks?"

"They're not-! I'm not getting into this with you again, not while you're maybe dying." 

"I'm not dying," Simon lies.

Twist and squeeze and cough, but no flowers or blood. He's lucky. 

Ryland is back to touching his face, brushing hair out of his eyes and cupping his cheeks. It makes a weird fluttering happen in Simon's stomach along with the next batch of flowers starting to bloom. Gentle, gentle, gentle; Ryland always touches him so carefully. 

"Simon, I really don't want ot do anything to mess with your autonomy here, but you're not leaving me a lot of choices. I think you're getting sicker, and being a stubborn jerk about it clearly isn't fixing anything. I will drag Armando in here if I have to." Ryland threatens, voice thick. 

Ryland cries so easily. When he's happy, sad, worried, scared. It's like his tear ducts work overtime, or something in the wiring in his brain got crossed; the chemical relief of crying woven into any emotional output he has. He's seen Ryland cry more than Simon can remember himself crying. 

At least he looks pretty when he's misty-eyed. 

Still, Simon hates to see Ryland upset. 

"What if I go to an Eridian doctor?"

"What?" Ryland looks taken aback by the idea; either shocked by it or that he didn't think of it himself. It's been the plan, anyway. Just moving the timetable up. Honestly, Simon has probably been pushing his luck as it is. 

"An Eridian? Y'know, one of the rocks?"

Ryland giggle-snorts at that (something he swears he does not ever do and will defend against Simon's insistence), and ducks his head to hide it. He's still grinning when he glances back up over his glasses. "You'd be okay with that?"

Can't be too obvious, can't look too comfortable with it. Simon is almost done lying. Just a little bit longer. 

"I think so? Maybe if Rocky goes with me?"

Ryland smiles at that, that gooey friendship smile he gets whenever he sees Simon and Rocky getting along. Simon only feels a small stab of jealousy that he has to share it. I like that my friends like each other; is that so wrong? Ryland had huffed, refusing eye contact, the first time Simon truly noticed it. 

Simon wants to be able to bring a sappy smile to Ryland's face, completely lovestruck, all on his own. But if he could, he wouldn't be in this situation. Best to settle for friendship smiles. Even if he does have to share it with an alien. 

"That's a great idea!" The watery eyes are gone, instead alight with hope and maybe excitement if Simon looks close. "I'll message him and Adrian first thing in the morning — only so you don't have to. I'm a firm believer that if you're sick, you should get to sleep in-"

"That's a fucking lie, I've seen you try to work through a cold."

"-so you can rest as long as you want." Ryland continues easily over Simon, still holding his face. "You can go see my regular doctor; Sunny is practically a specialist in Human medicine by now, and I'll be sure to send over everything Armando has on file about you. Oh! It's nothing, like, weird or anything, just the radiation and, you know, other important things. I promise I haven't looked at it in depth; that'd be, ha, strange, but I do think it's a good idea to be familiar with-"

Simon isn't sure how long Ryland's rambling goes on, or when it starts to melt into an incoherent jumble as Simon drifts off. All he knows is that he's safe, he's comfortable, and his face is still wonderfully warm where Ryland cradles him. What else can he do but fall gently into sleep?

When Ryland hugs Simon before sending him off to a doctor's appointment that hasn't actually been scheduled, Simon holds him tight. Lying is a sin, but it can be forgiven when done for the right reasons, can't it?

I love him. 

That has to mean something. 

"Say hi to Sunny for me, okay?"

"Yeah, course."

Ryland once told Simon that he trusted Rocky enough to let him do open-heart surgery. The idea had been horrifying to Simon at the time; the idea of an alien cracking open your ribs and poking around inside not quite sitting right with him. Now, he's just glad that Ryland sees it as the pinnacle of affection. 

"Sounds interesting!" Rocky coos when Simon asks if Ryland has actually told Rocky this (of course he did; they're a pair of freaks, the two of them). "Very, very fun. Get close up and personal with human anatomy, learn a lot! But very dangerous, too. Hope I don't have to. Kind of. Why Simon curious, question?"

"What if I told you I had something even more interesting you could do?"

Rocky's carapace tilts upwards in eager curiosity.

"It's just a cold," Simon lies to Ryland when he returns home. He keeps his posture open and a soft smile on his face to really sell it. "Something to do with the mutations fucking up my immune system. 'S just taking me forever to get over." 

"Oh! Really?" Ryland asks, looking up from a soup pot that wasn't out when Simon left. (Sick people are supposed to have soup, Simon; I remember that much at least, Ryland had insisted.) "That's good news. Do they have any medications you need to take?"

"They're working on synthesizing something. Sunny doesn't think we should worry unless it lasts a few more weeks."

Ryland smiles, relieved, and Simon only feels incredibly horrible about it. 

I love him, I love him, I love him, Simon thinks while he still can. 

None of his effort really matters in the end. Story of Simon's life. 

"Surgery!" Ryland shouts as he flings open the front door, startling Simon's mug out of his hand and into broken pieces on the floor. 

"Fuck, I just cleaned up." 

"You're having surgery! And you didn't even tell me?"

Ryland doesn't bother to close the door behind him (like always), marching into their house, his expression angrier than Simon has ever seen him. His hair is wind-swept, and his glasses are perched precariously on his nose. Simon can't help but notice the way his chest is heaving in quick breaths; even his clothes are ruffled. Did he run here?

Yes, Simon realizes, yes, he did. Ryland cut his class early to run across the bidome specifically to yell at Simon. Which means he knows. He knows Simon is truly sick. 

A cold dread starts to seep into Simon's veins with the knowledge that he's been found out, that if Ryland hasn't figured it all out yet, he certainly will, because he can't ever let a mystery or puzzle go and he's going to find out that Simon is in love with him and Simon's life will be ruined, everything good and wonderful and soft will be taken away-

Wait a minute. 

"How the hell did you find out?"

"How did I find out that you're having secret surgery behind my back?" Ryland's voice climbs higher and higher with each word. 

"Yeah!" Simon kind of wants to know really bad. He worked very hard to keep it a secret, and he'd like to know who snitched on him. He knew Rocky would tell Adrian, most likely immediately to be honest, but he was pretty sure he had sold the whole waiting-to-tell-Ryland thing. 

It was probably Adrian, the gossipy bastard. 

I once called a respected specialist in my field a "waste of carbon", Ryland admitted several months ago, almost sheepish in the way he recalled it. Now, Simon wonders if this is how he did it, if this is how he looked, if Ryland is thinking the same thing about him now. He almost looks like a different person than the Ryland this morning who had gushed about a carving one of the pebbles had gifted him before heading out for the day. It's hard to reconcile the two. 

"I don't see how that's relevant to you keeping secrets from me. Big secrets! Life and death secrets!" Ryland isn't quite yelling yet, but he's clearly working himself up to it. Something about it — the volume or the tone — is putting Simon on edge. The room feels smaller than it ever has; Ryland's two inches of height seem bigger than it did a moment ago. Unconsciously, Simon finds himself widening his stance, setting his shoulders back. He steps over the broken mug, closer to Ryland, trying to resist the urge to turn and run. 

It's always worse when you try to leave.

Wait. No. That isn't right. 

Simon clenches his jaw, then forces it to relax. Tries to stay in the moment. 

"I'm having this surgery, so it's not life or death. It's very life-centric, very keeping me alive. Kind of the whole point here, Ryland."  Simon manages to keep his voice level. 

Ryland waves his hands around — not to hit, Ryland doesn't hit — before settling on pointing at Simon with both index fingers in accusation. Between this, the wild hair, and his wide eyes, he looks absolutely manic. Any other time, Simon would think it's funny. "Aha! So, it's a serious surgery you decided to hide from me!" 

"You're the one who said 'life and death'!"

"I was trying to make a point! Oh my god, are you actually dying? Is this- is this about the coughing? I thought you said it was a cold." 

Simon looks anywhere but at Ryland, who lets out a frustrated groan at whatever guilty expression has settled on Simon's face. 

"Did you even go and actually see a doctor?"

"... I saw Rocky." 

"Rocky is not a doctor!"

The vines in his chest twist and squeeze, a punishment. His lungs burn, and his esophagus bleeds, pain throbbing and loud, demanding to be felt. Tell him, tell him, tell him; his whole body seems to scream. 

"Oh, okay, so Rocky can do open-heart surgery on you, but not me?" It's a low blow, but Simon is keenly aware he doesn't have much to work with. 

Ryland steps back, and Simon does a very good job of not flinching or taking the opportunity to make a break for it — go and hide until Ryland calms down or find Rocky and demand that he removes the flowers now, he can present them as an apology gift to Ryland after. Instead, he stands completely still and watches Ryland shove both hands into his own hair, raking through already messy spikes, and tugging a bit. Simon wants to reach out and loosen Ryland's hold, smooth down his hair, press kisses where it stings. He doesn't. 

Ryland walks halfway across the kitchen and back, pulling at his hair the entire time, three times before facing Simon again. The tips of his ears are flushed; Simon can't tell if he looks angry or sad. 

Simon can fix this. He has to. 

"It's really not that important. It's just a-"

"Stop lying to me!" Ryland shouts. "I swear, Simon, if you say it's only a cold or- or not to worry or whatever stupid lie you've come with now I- I'll-"

"You'll what?"

"I'll leave! Split the biodome or move out, or whatever it takes." Ryland threatens, and Simon feels very, very cold. "I'm not going to live with someone who keeps secrets from me. I can't live like that." 

Maybe Simon can't fix this. 

It's less calling his bluff and more being stunned into silence — trying to get words out that refuse to budge, completely blank on what to say next — that leads to the very long pause between them. Simon is practically a statue. It feels like he's dreaming. Or having a nightmare. 

Ryland's expression crumples. "Fine, you got me. I'm not going to do that." 

Relief floods Simon so quickly he almost chokes on it. 

"But that doesn't make this okay! Why won't you talk to me about this, Simon? Especially something this important?" 

He's not going to let this go. Ryland Grace is maybe the most stubborn man in the universe, and he's not going to let this go, even if they go around and around in circles for the rest of time. Simon knows this, both loves and hates this about Ryland in equal measure. 

"Because- because this isn't a movie!"

"What?" Ryland looks completely lost. 

"It's not a- a movie or a story; it's real life, and if it goes bad, I can't do it over or reverse it; I'm just fucked. There is just you and me on this planet, okay? Sure, we have Rocky and Adrian and everyone else, but you are the only human I am going to see for the rest of my life, and if I fuck it up even a little bit, it'll be like that forever. There isn't anyone else. I can't start over and try again. It's just you and me. Forever. And if- if I do or say something that makes you hate me, I think it might actually kill me." Simon dredges up the words from the deepest part of himself, flaying himself open and presenting it to Ryland for judgement. Somehow, it's still easier than just the bare-bones truth. "If I tell you what this is, it changes us forever, and I don't think I can handle that. Okay? So, can we please just fucking drop it? Please?" 

He'll beg. He'll get on his hands and knees and beg for Ryland to just let this go, and then Simon can have the surgery, and things will go back to how they should be, and Simon will swear he'll never lie again. Then, if Simon doesn't go crazy from it, everything will be okay again. 

Ryland steps back, staggering like he's had the air punched out of him; the distance between them could be a cavern. Simon can feel the iciness in his veins start to settle over him like a blanket as Ryland's body language tenses, then closes off. He's pissed Ryland off, annoyed him, even made him cry once; but a tiny voice in the back of his head says that is worse than all of that. 

Ryland's voice is horrifically small as he asks, "Is that the only reason you like me?"

"Fuck off," Simon says immediately, unthinking. "Don't pretend to be an idiot." 

Ryland wets his lips, looking Simon up and down, trying to find something. For a brief moment, Simon feels like he's twelve again and getting sized up by his Brothers, waiting to see if they'll jump him for his extra blanket. 

But then Simon sees the way Ryland's lip quivers, and he remembers Ryland would never do that. 

"I'm not pretending anything. Is the fact that we're the only two humans out here why you like me?" Ryland asks, louder this time, but there's an underlying tremble to his words. "I know it's not... ideal. Just you and me. But I thought... Do you feel like you're stuck here?"

Oh. He's hurt Ryland's feelings. 

Somehow, while trying to keep his dignity and their friendship, and while explaining that he's in love without having to actually say it, Simon has managed to hurt Ryland. Fuck, why can't he do anything right?

"No," Simon shakes his head while feeling like the worst person in two universes, "that's not what I'm saying. Don't- don't twist my words like that-"

"I don't think I'm twisting anything; I'm pretty sure that's exactly what you said." 

"It's not what I mean!"

"Then tell me what you mean! Just talk to me, Simon."

Simon ducks his head, retreating into the safety of his hair. 

When did this become a fight? It's been so long since their last argument; Simon had sort of hoped that they'd burnt themselves out into a settled contentment and there would be no need for fighting. But Ryland's teeth are clenched, and Simon can feel his hand shaking, and their voices are much too loud for this to be anything but a fight. The air around them is charged, and the vines in his chest twist unhappily. 

"You're not stuck here!" Ryland continues, back to being just this shy of shouting. "You can go back to Earth! It won't take long to make you a ship; just because the Hail Mary is out of commission doesn't mean there aren't options. You could be on your way back to humanity this time next year if that's what you want so bad." 

"It's not!"

Why can't Ryland hear him?

"Then what do you want, Simon? Why won't you tell me?"

Why can't he understand?

"It's not- it's not that- you're making it too simple. I don't want to go back to Earth." 

"Why?"

Ryland's eyes are wild and desperate as he verbally backs Simon into a corner. 

Tell him, tell him, tell him; the pain pulses. 

"Because you won't be there!" 

It's just like spitting out blood and rose thorns. 

"You aren't going back, and I don't want to go anywhere without you." Simon can't look at him as he says it; his chest is too tight. There's not enough air. His eyes sting with tears; if he looks directly at Ryland, they'll start to fall. He can't stop his voice from cracking. "I just want to be with you, alright? I know that- that I'm ot the easiest to get along with, fuck, especially now, but with you it just feels easier. To be myself, I mean. Which I haven't felt in a long time. Ever, maybe. And you- I'm pretty sure you like me when I'm myself too." 

It's worse than throwing up. He'd rather be bleeding out at Ryland's feet, but the floodgates are open, and there's no turning back now. He doesn't even know how to stop. 

"I don't think I've ever gotten along with anyone as well as I do with you. Not on Eden or Mars or anywhere. All of this," Simon waves his hand around," would be so much easier if you were just an asshole I hated. Or even if I just didn't like you. If you were fucking annoying instead of- instead of being so nice and charming and - ugh! I don't know. But I- I do like you; I can't help it, okay? How could you even- even ask if I- I don't- fuck." 

He's dying. He's dying, this is killing him. God couldn't finish him off, so Ryland Grace has come to do the honors. 

"I like the way you can't stop talking and how you care about everyone. You care so much I can't believe it. i like when you argue with me and how you don't get mad when I tease you, and that you work too hard, but you get pissy when I miss a night of sleep. I like that you're so smart- the smartest person I've ever met, maybe. You know so many things, but you don't treat me like an idiot. I forgot people could do that! I like that you snore way too loud and that your balance is for shit and just about everything about you. So, yeah, it's just us forever. But I want that.

"We're growing a garden together, Ryland. Why would I want to go anywhere else?"

It's terrible now, this love that has been growing inside him. No wonder it cuts and bleeds on its way up his throat, tears into his flesh to take root in him. For the first time, he truly understands his mother's choice to rid herself of it. It's been growing and growing, pushing Simon's lungs down to make a home in Simon's chest, and now it's too big for Simon to hold. There aren't enough words, not enough flowers in the entirety of the universe to express a fraction of it. 

"Well?" Simon gasps, chest heaving with effort as if he were the one who ran here, finally managing to meet Ryland's gaze. "Convinced yet? I can keep going."

Simon survived life after the Quiet Rapture mainly by learning to read other people: their emotions, when they were lying, if they were thinking about backstabbing him. It's how he figured out the true plan at Filament (too late to stop it, sure, but he had still done it) and how he managed to keep his head down enough in prison to avoid getting beaten to death. All those years keeping quiet, observing, learning to read people as easily as the back of his hand, and he has no idea what the way Ryland is staring at him means. 

And he sure is staring. Slightly slack-jawed, eyes wide, silent. 

Fuck, Simon hates this so much. Almost as much as he loves Ryland. 

Something blazes in Ryland's eyes; it hurts to look at. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and for half a moment Simon is certain Ryland is going to hit him or tell him to get out and never come back. 

"I'm in love with you," Ryland declares, instead. 

Simon throws up a bouquet onto their feet. 

He comes to in Ryland's bed.

For half a second he thinks it's his own, what with the mountain of pillows surrounding him and the heavy quilt spread over top of him — Ryland never seems to mind Simon's tendency to hoard pillows and curl blankets around himself, basking in the subtle warmth that was always absent in space — but the light is coming in wrong and when Simon turns his head he catches the lingering smell of Ryland's shampoo. Did they have another sleepover? No, it's still light out. But why else would Ryland go and grab what feels like all of Simon's pillows?

Simon doesn't remember falling asleep, and he can't tell exactly how long he's been out; memories hazy in the distance. The day has faded, so the soft oranges and pinks of sunset illuminate the room. Tiny rainbows dance across the gold-tinted walls, refractions from the Eridian jewelry Ryland has strung up in the window. They sway slightly, filling the room with a soft melody that nearly lulls Simon back into unconsciousness. Somewhere, hidden away in his memories, his mother hums a matching tune. 

His gaze follows the twists and turns of the rainbows, tracing their path until his gaze catches on Ryland, curled up in a chair at the end of the bed. They splay across his chest, shifting with the soft rise and fall of his breathing, swaying along the stitches of his sweater. 

Even he glows in the sunset. 

However long Simon has been out of it, it's been enough for Ryland to doze off, but not so much for him to be sleeping deeply (there's a distinct lack of snoring). He's probably only just fallen asleep, by the looks of it. Simon knows he's going to wake with a killer ache in his neck, sleeping with his head tilted forward like that. No matter how many times Simon scolds him, he keeps finding Ryland in this exact position. 

"Gonna fuck up your neck like that." Simon rasps, voice surprisingly weak. "No wonder you bitch like an old man."

Ryland's head snaps up so quickly it looks like it hurts. 

"Simon!" Ryland gasps his name. Happy, sad, angry, relieved; no matter how Ryland says it, Simon loves hearing it. 

Suddenly, Simon has an armful of Ryland Grace, crushed into the bed by a hug just this side of too tight. It takes him half a second to remember he should be hugging back. Simon wraps his good arm around Ryland's shoulders, enjoying the warmth of Ryland burying his face into Simon's neck, solid and real. Almost unconsciously, Simon grips the back of Ryland's sweater when his shoulders start to shake, and Simon can feel a damp spot forming where Ryland's face is pressed into him. Simon grabs hold and presses them together until Ryland's shoulders stop heaving, and he sags fully into Simon. 

He would have them stay like this forever, if he could. 

When Ryland pulls away and sits up rubs away a few spare tears, smile wobbly. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just- really glad you're awake. How do you feel?"

Simon takes a minute to assess himself, past the ache in his chest and burn in his throat. "Okay, I think. Been worse."

Blood and gore, crawling out of an ocean. 

"Don't remind me, please."

"Right, sorry." 

"No, no, it's okay," Ryland reassures as he fully pulls himself off Simon. He grabs the chair and drags it over to the head of the bed, sitting as close as possible. It isn't until Ryland grabs it that Simon notices a box resting on the bedside table, xenonite and intricately carved, small enough to hold with one hand and closed with a latch. Ryland settles it on his lap as he sits back down. "Honestly, with a fall like that, I'm surprised you aren't worse off."

"I fell?" Simon frowns, trying to recall.

Ryland's expression tightens, his fingers drumming against the box. "Yeah, you did. You don't remember?"

"I remember being in the kitchen. And- and- noooooo," Simon shuts his eyes tight and lets his head fall back against the pillow, despair flaring up in his memories. 

"What?! What's wrong?"

"I really liked that mug."

"Simon!"

"It was my favorite..."

"Simon."

"Sorry! Uh, I remember the kitchen. And you coming home and... Oh." 

The fight.

"That doesn't really tell me a lot, Si." Ryland's voice is strained, hands clasped tight on the box. He rocks a little, back and forth. If Simon were more selfish, he'd reach out, take Ryland's hand, and interlock their fingers. Sooth away every anxiety. 

Instead, he looks away. "Maybe I don't want to talk about it." 

Ryland hums, followed by the click of a small latch. "Probably not. But I think we should." 

Simon lets himself sneak a quick peek over, curiosity getting the better of him; just a quick glance, he promises himself. But the flowers sticking out from the box grab his attention entirely. Daffodils and hemlock and phlox and roses; just the ones he can see. Like he's hypnotized by it, Simon tilts forward, trying to get a better look at his flowers that, at some point, Ryland had carefully packed away. 

"I don't know them all," Ryland confesses, picking through the now-dried petals and leaves. "I mean, I can recognize roses, sure, but a lot of these I have no clue. I think this is a peony? Maybe?"

He squints at the pink petal, turning it around several times before letting go and watching it drift back down into the box. 

"I was never any good with botany." There's a twinge of regret to Ryland's words. 

A part of Simon wants to take the box from Ryland's hands, collect all the flowers, bury them away. Add his bracelet to the box and dig a hole deep enough that not even the Eridians will find it. Another wants to weave them all together into a necklace for Ryland to wear, watch the way Ryland's hands cup the evidence of Simon's love, recount each meaning to Ryland. So what if he wasn't good at botany? Simon can be knowledgeable enough for both of them. 

"'S okay," Simon says. "I can teach you."

Ryland smiles at that. "I'd like that. But later. Right now, I think I'd rather you teach me about why this is happening." 

Dread clamps down on Simon's throat, digging its teeth in. 

"How much do you know?" It would be foolish to assume Ryland hasn't spent the last however many hours gathering as much knowledge as possible. 

"Rocky explained a bit... Armando filled in some more, but not a lot." Ryland's voice is soft, but his brow is furrowed as he pinches an orchid leaf between his index finger and thumb. Simon wonders if he's still mad at him. "I know that there's - cheese and rice - there's flowers or- or plants growing in your chest. Obstructing your airway pretty heavily. Which would explain all the coughing fits." 

"Hard to breathe when you've got daffodils coming up your throat," Simon agrees. 

Ryland blanches at that, making eye contact briefly before looking away again. Almost as if he can't stand to look at Simon for too long. "What it doesn't explain is why you have them growing in you, or gosh, even how... Why you didn't tell me." 

There's a pause. Simon waits for Ryland to continue, maybe start yelling at him, or jump into his own hypothesis he's been turning around in his head, but instead they just sit there. Ryland ducks his head, glasses sliding down his nose, and waits. No rambling to fill the air. 

Simon aches. 

"It's normal. Where I'm from." Simon owes him all the truth now. More truth than he can stand to give. "It actually kind of freaked me out, figuring out that it doesn't exist here." 

"How long have you had it?"

Simon takes a minute to think, count back the days. He doesn't have to; he knows down to the hour how long he's been afflicted, but he likes to. "Almost four months."

Ryland looks up, frowning that same frown Simon has seen a dozen times when the equations aren't working out quite right, or he's missing a step in his work. His tone shifts; Simon can hear the researcher in him surface. "Four months? You've been here much longer than that. Is it a disease that can lie dormant? Or is it a genetic event? How does it pass along? Does the type of flowers that grow determine incubation period? Or is there a set standard?" 

He looks around like he's trying to find a pen and paper. Simon can't help but smile. 

"Yep, four months. Um, no, it can't, really. I don't think it's genetic? Or, if it is, it's something everyone has? But you don't 'catch it'. I don't know about incubation and, ah, all sorts of flowers grow. There's usually a bunch growing at once. I think I've coughed up a dozen different types? And it's not always flower petals; sometimes it's the leaves or stems. Sometimes the whole thing." 

With that mental image, Ryland goes very, very pale. His eyes widen; he reaches up to press his fingers to his own throat; it looks like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Simon wonders if Ryland touched Simon's throat like that while he slept, if he felt for his heartbeat, for if Simon could swallow. If Simon thinks about it hard enough, he can imagine the ghost of touch, gliding from his pulse point over his Adam's apple. 

"Christmas Eve," Ryland mutters under his breath before he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. Doctor Grace is back. "If you can't catch it like a traditional illness, then do you know why you've suddenly started showing symptoms? I'd like to rule out any environmental factors, see if we have to get rid of anything so it doesn't come back." 

Environmental factors. Yeah, that'll be easy ot get rid of. 

"It won't come back," Simon says, trying to sound reassuring, but probably coming off as weak as he feels. Even after Rocky prunes the plants in his chest, there will be no further opportunity for new ones to seed. Ryland Grace will be the last person Simon ever loves. "Once we get 'em out, that'll be the end of it." 

"How can you be so sure?"

"I just am." 

"... You know, you're not telling me how they started growing," Ryland observes. There's a simmering of anger back in his eyes. 

Simon doesn't want to fight again. He kind of just wants to go to sleep and wake up a year later, see how the garden has grown in his absence. Maybe Ryland will have missed him so much he'll forget to be upset with Simon. But comas are hard to come by now. 

Ryland wants the full truth? Fine. 

Too bad for Rocky, though; he seemed really excited to get a good look into Simon's esophagus. 

"It's called lovesickness. You only get it when you fall in love with someone so hard, so- so much that if you don't tell them it makes you sick." Simon's voice is small and threatens to tremble at the edges. He feels like he's eight years old all over again; he wants to hide behind his hair. He doesn't want to be left alone. "My... My mom used to say it was like your body was trying to cough out all your love, but it can't get it quite right." 

Her image flashes behind his eyes, happy and sad and here and gone, just for a moment. 

"So you, ah, you fall... in love, and I guess after some amount of time it starts to take root. Not sure how long. It starts with the petals, and then as it grows more and more, you get, well, more plants. Until it suffocates you. Unless you confess. Or get them removed." 

"The surgery," Ryland mutters to himself. 

"Yeah. Seemed easier." 

Ryland looks up, hurt flashing in his gaze. "Easier?"

No, that's not what he meant. Why is he so bad at this? "Safer." 

"Safer." The word comes out flat. 

Simon huffs, frustrated with himself, Ryland, and the very limited nature of communication. Just let him beam thoughts and feelings into others' heads and let him be done with it. "There's danger in change. I wasn't sure how you'd react if I told you, so the obvious answer is to remove the flowers and the feelings altogether." 

"The feelings?"

Right. He has to explain that, too.

"If you get rid of the flowers, it gets rid of the love you feel for that person. I mean, you can still like them and be around them, but it's, you know, different." Simon shrugs. He had wondered what that was going to be like, if it would be harder to be friends with Ryland even with these feelings gone. How much of love bleeds from romance over into friendship? How can you be so sure that you aren't only getting rid of the love that will kill you? It's not like Simon had a lot of opportunity to see relationships like that up close and personal. "Guess I won't have to worry about that now." 

No need for surgery anymore. The flowers will wither and reabsorb into Simon's chest; they have fulfilled their duty, and his body will recycle them as nutrients. He won't die. From them, anyway. Now, Simon will be in love with Ryland for the rest of his life, and he'll get to find out if unreciprocated love is lethal. 

"Will this change things?" Simon can't help but ask. He'd rather see the blow coming than have it sneak up on him. "I mean it- it doesn't have to! From my side. We can go back to how things were before." 

Ryland frowns, confused now. "What do you mean?"

"Now you know," Simon says simply. "How I feel. That, ah, that usually makes things weird. At least, it does on those TV shows you like us to watch. I'm assuming it's like that for most people?"

"Why would it be- why would we go back to the way things were?"

Oh.

"We- we don't have to." Simon is quick to reassure. Sure, it'll kill him, but if Ryland needs change, then what other option is there? "We can make changes, whatever you need to be comfortable. I don't mind."

Ryland is looking at him like he's lost his mind. 

"Simon. I told you I was in love with you." 

What. 

The haze clears. Ryland yelling, Simon hurting his feelings, the confession. I'm in love with you tumbling from Ryland's lips. Puking his guts and love out before collapsing to the floor. 

Simon is loved back. 

"Oh fuck me, that's right." 

"Oh my god!" Ryland pitches forward, head in his hands. "You forgot?"

"I'm concussed or something!" Simon can feel his face heating up as he defends himself. Who forgets a love confession? Even with a suspected head injury? "I passed out! You can't be mad at me!"

"You're trying to kill me." Ryland groans, the tips of his ears bright red. When he peeks up from his hands, his face is glowing a soft pink. "Did you really forget? My big act of bravery, telling you how I feel, and you forget?"

Simon's own face is hot with embarrassment. "Maybe. For a second. Fuck, shut up, I'm sorry!"

They make eye contact; both blushing like two lovestruck, bashful teens, and it breaks. 

Giggles bubble up from Ryland's chest, a short burst, then two, and then dissolve into a full fit. They're infectious; Simon catches them easily, shoulders shaking and snickering at how ridiculous the pair of them are. It's much nicer than flowers, their laughter harmonizing with the melody flowing in the background. Simon has tears in his eyes, not unhappy ones for the first time in a long time, as they finally start to settle down. 

"Oh, jeez, we're a mess, aren't we?" Ryland asks, shoving his glasses up his face to rub at his eyes. 

"Probably. Definitely." 

Ryland settles back into his chair, not quite staring at Simon. More like gazing. Letting himself just stop and look. Simon lets himself look back, freely, for once not having to hide. Let his own gaze trace the set of Ryland's jaw, catch on the beauty mark just under his eye, trace the planes and curves of his face. There's a faint brush of freckles just next to a small scar across his nose. 

Gosh, Ryland really is terribly handsome. 

"So, just to be clear, you've been in love with me for months? And just... didn't say anything? Even though I've obviously been a mess from how much I'm in love with you?" Ryland raises an eyebrow, almost doubtful. 

"I think you're exaggerating how obvious you've been." 

"I think not. Rocky will not stop making fun of me." 

Rocky knows? Like a hypocrite, Simon feels a stab of jealousy that Rocky got to find out before him. 

"Yeah, well, you're the one who said we're not mates." It feels childish to say, even after clinging to it as a reminder for so long. Like he's trying to blame Ryland, or pass off responsibility. "Thought that was pretty clear." 

Ryland frowns, trying to trace Simon's thinking. "When did... You mean that movie night?!"

"Yeah! The musical romance one. With the- the crying rainstorm, or whatever." Simon doesn't recall much of the plot, especially the second half, with how he spent the time stewing in self-pity. He thinks it ended happily?

"That's not fair! Technically, I was right! Besides, I only said that because you looked like the idea of us together freaked you out! Like it was gross or something, and you were going to throw up. Not exactly a confidence booster."

"I did throw up. Jasmine, I think?"

"You think?"

"I've thrown up a lot of different flowers; it's hard to keep track of which ones, when."

Ryland smiles, tight and unhappy and poorly hiding it. "I don't think you realize how distressing that is to hear."

He's right. Where Simon is from, what he's said is romantic, downright swoon-worthy. It's weird to think of it as anything but, really. Sure, on Eden it was terrifying, but so was anything related to warmth or softness or goodness when Simon looks back on it. Just another thing to lose, another thing to be taken. But the books he grew up with, the stories imprinted on his psyche that have helped shape his view of the world, and relationships painted the flowers and blood and sickness as core to romance. It's what pining authors pour into their poetry, what drives artists to paint; love confessions without petals stuck between your teeth just seem incomplete. 

To love is to suffer. 

Simon would write poetry for Ryland just as easily as he coughed up rose thorns, if he thought he could be any good at it. 

"So, what was the plan exactly?" Ryland leaned forward, curious now. "I mean, what did you think would happen if you found out I loved you after the surgery?

Oh.

Uh. 

Hm. 

The possibility hadn't exactly occurred to Simon. 

Simon's eyes widen at the realization that he had not once entertained the idea that Ryland could love him back — now, or ever. In all of those late-night dreams and fantasies filled with blood, death, and heartbreak, there had been no inkling of a happy ending. It was just sort of a given. Like a law of the universe. Unquestionable. 

"Well, why would you?" Simon snorts because an idea that ridiculous deserves to be laughed at. Even if it's Ryland's idea. 

Ryland's mouth drops open into a small O of surprise. He raises both eyebrows, disbelief taking over his face. "Why would I fall in love with you?"

"Yeah. Doesn't make much sense, to be honest. I thought you were supposed to be smart or something." It's not a good joke by any measure; no matter how true, it falls flat and hard between them. 

"Oh."

"What?" Simon asks, hating how he can't read Ryland's tone. 

And then Ryland is out of his chair and next to Simon, bed dipping as Ryland climbs on, his knees a slight pressure against Simon's side. Close, close, close; he's so close that it makes Simon's heart stutter loudly in his chest and his face warm. The last few months, Simon has tried to keep his distance, physically and emotionally, so this is as close as they've gotten in as long as Simon can remember. Ryland radiates heat, and Simon so badly wants to touch, to grab, to pull- No! Focus.

Like he has to so often, Simon has to look up at Ryland, who now hovers over him. His expression is serious, maybe as serious as Simon has ever seen him. You-need-to-tell-me-why-you're-having-surgery serious. Only, Simon has already done that, so isn't it time to pack this look away?

"You're serious," Ryland says with the same incredulity he had given Simon about At-5 or the eel, the rapture. "Simon. You're so easy to love I can't believe it sometimes." 

"Bullshit," Simon's mouth responds before his brain has a say. This is a growing problem around Ryland; he used to be so quiet. It used to be so easy to hide his thoughts. Simon should probably be more concerned about this, but he can't quite seem to be. "You don't have to start — lying, or whatever. Trying to get on my good side. You're already there." 

"I'm not lying." If Simon were dumber, he'd believe it, with how earnestly Ryland manages to say it. 

Simon does a broad gesture to, well, everything about himself, fighting off the instinct to hide himself under the blanket, behind his hair. "Ryland, come on. Look at me." 

It sounds much more self-pitying than he means it to. Simon is a dog at an empty bowl, whimpering for scraps, and he hates it. 

"Oh, I do. More than I'm comfortable admitting, if we're getting super personal here, but let's not focus on that." Ryland looks away, flush rising high on his cheeks. He squares his shoulders and locks eyes with Simon, seemingly steeling himself. "Listen, I know a thing or two about self-doubt, and I know how hard it is to ignore stuff like that in your head, but whatever horrible things you like to tell yourself are not true. Eugh, I kind of really hate how I sound like a cliché self-help book, but here we go, I'm going to try my best, okay?" 

Simon shakes his head, understanding where this is going, and no, it's a bad idea; it's a bad idea.

"Well, too bad, I've already started. So, you, Simon, person-whom-I-love-very-much and who is very much not horrible, you are amazing. Honestly. You're strong and resilient, more than anyone I've ever met, not to mention beautiful and sweet and-"

"Sweet?" Simon means to scoff. Instead, the word comes out like a sob. 

"Yes, you're sweet and caring. Empathetic, that's the word! You apologize to tables when you smack them, even on accident, and I don't think anyone has ever held me as gently as you do. You like to listen to me ramble — and yes, I actually do know that I have a hard time shutting up, despite what it seems like — plus you never seem annoyed or off-put by me, so let's add patient to the list. Most people on Earth found me annoying; they weren't shy about letting me know, and I kind of thought that the Eridians were the only living beings in the universe that could tolerate me, but then, bam!" Ryland does a dramatic clap along with the sound effect; Simon's resulting laugh is wet and surprised. "You come along and turn every preconceived notion about myself right on its head." 

Simon's chest tightens. 

"Ryland-"

"So, here. Iam, spending most of my life thinking that I was just built wrong for human connection, missing a critical piece in my brain or something, and then you happen! Now I've got this beautiful guy — seriously, we're going to circle back around to that while 'look at me, I'm so gross' thing you've got going on, because wow I don't think you undertand how absolutely stunning you are — in my house and he's sweet, thoughtful, and makes me laugh, so I'm absolutely sure I'm going to ruin it. Just do the regular stupid things I do; I can't seem to ever help it, but I do them, and you don't seem to mind? What's that about?" 

Simon's throat strains with effort; he can feel his eyes start to sting. 

"Ry-"

"I've spent the last half a year just thinking, oh, it's a matter of time till I ruin it. Especially after I realize I'm in love with you, I have never once been normal with a crush. Or maybe ever." Ryland, somehow, has not actually stopped to take a full breath, and a part of Simon is beginning to worry. "I'm falling over myself all the time; I'm always missing you when you aren't there — quick side note: such a relief to find out you weren't avoiding me due to me smothering you; that is such a huge weight off my shoulders. I was going insane — but when you are there, it's almost not enough? Like I'm always wanting to hold you, and I can't stop thinking about kissing you; it's been driving me absolutely insane. You are completely captivating; I need you to know that."

It's too much. Simon is drowning in it, drowning in Ryland, but he wants the water to drag him down completely for once. 

"And, don't even get me started on-" 

If Simon hears much more, he's going to die. It will actually kill him. He can feel it all the way in his bone marrow. Words aren't breaking through Ryland's declaration ramble; they never really do, so instead Simon decides the best play is to get physical with it. Whatever else Ryland has to say dies on his lips when Simon leans forward, presses their foreheads together, the sudden connection shocking them into quiet. If Simon focuses, he can feel their energy bleed together; he would fuse them into one if he could. 

"I love you." Simon's voice comes out wobbly and thick as he says the words out loud for the first time, not at all like he imagined he would say it. A sob hitches in his chest against his will; the world blurs, so he shuts his eyes against it, relief at finally getting to say it overwhelming. "I love you, Ryland, I love you." 

Simon feels a bit like how he imagines the Eridians do — all hard outer shell protecting a soft inside — and Ryland has honed in on all his weak points before digging in. Splitting and pulling until the shell cracks and he can press inside to observe, to catalog every single bit of Simon that he has tried to bury and hide. Is this how a specimen feels, laid out and bound, as a scientist holds up a light to study it? 

Then Ryland is holding him, cradling his face with both hands, catching the tears that roll hot down Simon's cheeks. It makes him shudder, makes the sobs shake his sternum even harder. He is so small in Ryland's hold, on a razor's edge of shattering. Months and months of buildup, suddenly boiling over. 

He feels everything, all at once, too much. 

Ryland presses his head forward, returning the gesture. The pressure grounds Simon in this moment, in this room, on this planet. 

"I'm sorry." Simon croaks out when the tears finally stop, apologizing for the tears, the past several months, everything even. His eyes are clear when he opens them, Ryland having been diligent in his mission to wipe them all away. "I love you." 

Ryland smiles, that little one that drives Simon a little wild. "You really have to stop apologizing, Si." 

Simon hums in disagreement. It never feels like he apologizes enough. 

"Is this okay?" Ryland asks, shifting his body forward until they're only a breath away.

It would be so easy to lean forward, press their lips together; Simon is dizzy with the closeness. Ryland is still holding his face, and Simon hopes that he'll pull Simon forward, be brave where Simon finds himself stumbling. 

"I dunno. Kinda feels like I'm dreaming." Simon admits in a whisper; anything louder would break whatever is happening between them. His heart is thumping away in his chest, not from fear or anxiety like normal, but anticipation. It has to be loud enough for Ryland to hear, his pulse wild enough for Ryland to feel as he caresses Simon's face. "Is this real?" 

"It's real," Ryland whispers the words, a ghost against Simon's lips. "And I really love you." 

Their first kiss isn't desperate or hurried like in Simon's dreams; instead, Ryland kisses him softly and sweetly. At first, a brush of the lips and then a little more, Simon's eyes fluttering closed and Ryland tilting his head to fit their mouths together better. He kisses the same way he holds Simon, like Simon is something precious to hold carefully, like he's something loved. Maybe that's how he's been doing everything with Simon; it's just gone unnoticed. 

Simon didn't even know you could kiss like this. In the movies, it's always dramatic and passionate; in Eden, to avoid getting caught, you kissed quickly or not at all. 

Languid is the word Simon is trying to think of. Ryland kisses him like they have all the time in the world, like he expects them to keep kissing in this spot for the rest of their lives. It's slothful, indolent, completely addicting. How has Simon ever lived without it? 

Eventually — seconds, minutes, hours? All of Simon's faculties that aren't completely focused on how Ryland kisses him have completely gone out the window — Ryland shifts, going from sitting and leaning to sprawled out along the bed, next to Simon. Simon kicks the blankets off, maybe off the bed entirely, to press every inch of himself into Ryland. 

Time goes all syrupy, fading into the background with Ryland's hand now on the nape of his neck, fingers woven into his hair, as Ryland tilts his head to kiss deeper, deeper, deeper-

Ouch. 

Something clicks wrong against Simon's face and, startled by the strange feeling, Simon jerks back. 

Ryland is still wearing his glasses. 

In this whole mess of an evening, they both have forgotten to take them off. Now they sit on Ryland's face, tilted awkwardly and slightly fogged up. Not that Ryland has noticed. His eyes are still closed, and he's leaning forward, trying to chase Simon's lips. 

Simon pulls back with a small snicker at how Ryland's face screws up in distress when Simon gets farther away. Yet, Ryland keeps his eyes closed. Probably hoping that he can keep kissing if he doesn't open them. Adorable little fucker, it makes Simon's heart flutter against his ribs. 

"Why'd you stop?" Ryland asks, unmistakably whiny. 

"Glasses," Simon explains, reaching up to tap Ryland's temple. 

"Oh!" Ryland finally opens his eyes and blinks rapidly, looks around, and takes in that, yes, everything is still clear to look at. "Oops." 

He easily slips off the glasses and tosses them over onto the bed, always so damn careless with them. Before Simon can scold him for it — again — Ryland pulls himself up and swings a knee over Simon's legs, settling easily on Simon's lap like he's always belonged there. He presses forward again, but instead of kissing Simon's lips as expected, he detours to press his face into Simon's neck. 

"Sorry. Out of practice," Ryland apologizes against Simon's pulse point. He tries to tamp down a shiver at the feeling. 

"You mean you haven't spent the last several years kissing the rock aliens?" 

"Thought about it," Ryland jokes. Or maybe admits? Simon will have to poke at that specific thought some more, but later. Simon has other, more pressing matters to attend to. "But then this really smart, beautiful man washed up on shore and swept me off my feet." 

Simon grins, despite himself. "Oh, yeah? Anyone I know?" 

"Nope, haven't introduced you. Want to keep you all to myself." Ryland bites at Simon's earlobe, dragging a needy groan out of Simon. "Oooh. What a pretty sound." 

Call me pretty again, a very small, vulnerable part of Simon whines. Call me pretty and tell me how much you love again and again and again. 

"Shut up," Simon says instead, voice gruff. He'd hide away in Ryland's neck if Ryland weren't already preoccupied with pressing butterfly-soft kisses down Simon's. A kiss to his jaw and his pulse and more all the way down the column of his throat. 

"Did you know," Ryland asks, words broken up between kisses, "that back on Earth, in some places, it's common to kiss injuries to make them feel better?" 

"Oh, yeah?" It's hard to pay attention to what Ryland is saying, especially when he keeps stopping on his journey down Simon's throat to nip and then kiss away the sting. Simon can feel Ryland grin every time he lets out a gasp. 

"Yep!" Ryland presses a final kiss to his collarbone before pulling away, settling back on Simon's lap, sunset blue eyes bright and crinkling at the edges with his smile. "Is it working?"

Must be. The ache left behind by the flowers is the furthest thing from his mind. 

"Dunno. Maybe you should give it another try." Simon tilts his head back in invitation, trying to look alluring without any practice. Others make it look so easy; how is he supposed to know what looks good on him? How does he know it's working? He just wants Ryland to keep kissing him; childishly, he feels like he shouldn't have to ask for it. 

"Careful, pretty boy," Ryland chides, and oh , that name lights up something in Simon's brain, turns it all mushy. "Otherwise we'll be here all night." 

"Won't get any complaints here," Simon says, truthfully. Maybe a pout; maybe that's what he needs to get his kisses. Ryland tries them all the time to get his way. Though, with the way teeth pull at his face, it probably won't have the same effect. Fucking mutations, ruining things. Oh, would they? Stunning — is that the word Ryland used? "Unless you've got somewhere to be?" 

"Nope!" Ryland beams for half a second before it dissolves into a frown. "Well, wait, no," he starts waving his hands around, making Simon momentarily glad for the distance, "I do actually have plans with Rocky tomorrow. Have I told you about that yet? The elevator team is starting prep on another ship, and we're going over to check their progress! They want to try exploring the nearest planet, and since Rocky and I have the most experience — well, except the stations orbiting Erid now, but those aren't built for deeper exploration, and we have- wait, wait, sorry, we were flirting. Right. Um, dang it, give me a minute — where were we?"

"I'm trying to get you to kiss me." 

"Right, right, right!" Ryland's expression brightens considerably. Simon can spot a slight shadow in it, though. A nervousness that wasn't present before. "Ha, sorry about that! You know me. Kind of distractible." 

"'S okay," Simon says and means it. "I like that about you."

It's like the sun rising after a long midnight; how bright Ryland lights up when Simon says that. Has no one told him that before? Sure, Ryland can be a lot, but that's not a bad thing. How many people have tried to convince Ryland it is? What horrible things have people said run on repeat in his mind?

A selfish, possessive, ugly part of Simon is glad Ryland never has to deal with people like that ever again. 

The look Ryland gives him can only be described as absolutely smitten — Simon is rapidly starting to become convinced he's an absolute idiot if he's been missing Ryland looking at him like this — eyes bright as he takes in every piece of Simon he can. Simon observes as Ryland looks into his eyes, tracing the scars on his face, down to his chest, and then stopping, attention snagging on something. 

"This still hurts, doesn't it?" Ryland asks, rubbing soothing circles against Simon's chest, where his ribs safely hold his lungs and heart. He briefly wonders how much Ryland actually knows about anatomy; he is a scientist, after all. Can he picture the plants, currently dying, and how they've distorted Simon's insides in the name of affection? Most likely, he wouldn't want to. "I don't love the idea of leaving actual plants inside your chest." 

"They'll wither soon," Simon reassures, reaching up to cup Ryland's face. He matches Ryland's rhythm, stroking his thumb along his cheek and letting it catch every so often on his beauty mark. "It's natural. I can barely feel them now." 

Ryland huffs a disbelieving noise — even though it is true, though how much is due to the pain naturally fading versus it just being drowned out by the euphoria of being loved is up for debate — but leans into Simon's touch anyway, as if unable to help himself. 

Simon grins, unable to help himself as well. "Are you doing that because you feel bad, or have you just been waiting to feel me up?" 

The reaction is immediate, eyes wide and face quickly flushing red. He pulls his hands away, and a complicated series of noises escape his throat, more Eridian than human, before he shuts his eyes and mouth. He sighs, sounding more exasperated or resigned than angry, which is a relief. Silently, he nods to himself. Simon is only just able to stop himself from laughing. Ryland shifts, starts to push himself up onto his knees to climb off Simon's lap. "Actually, I change my mind; I don't love you anymore. I declare take-backsies." 

What the hell is take-backsies? Simon thinks and notes to ask later. He should probably ask Rocky; he'll be able to annoy the answer out of Ryland. 

It is nice to hear Ryland tease back and not feel a stab of fear that it isn't just a joke, that it's really what Ryland is secretly feeling. Simon does laugh now. 

With Ryland's eyes closed, it's easy to reach out — briefly annoyed that he no longer has two arms to hold Ryland with, stuck with just the one — and wraps his arm around Ryland's waist so he can shift their weight and flip them over. With a grunt of surprise, Ryland goes easily to the side. It would be impossible not to take advantage of this, so Simon quickly presses forward and burrows into Ryland's chest, fitting perfectly into all the nooks and crannies. "Nope, sorry, can't get rid of me now. One act of bravery and you're fucked forever." 

"Oh nooooo," Ryland cries out as he relaxes into holding Simon. "Whatever will I do?"

"... I wouldn't do that. Just so you know. Make you keep me around, I mean. If- if you change your mind, it's okay. You can tell me." 

Fucking self-doubt and destructive tendencies, he wears them like a safety blanket he just can't seem to throw away. 

"Oh, you think I'm the only one who's fucked here?" There's just a hint of nerves in Ryland's voice. Simon raises his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic swear. "No, no, you're stuck with me, too. We're mates now. There's no changing my mind. We're going to do all the stuff people in love do and be totally gross while doing it. You have to let me dress you up in fancy crystals and parade you around my lab partners so I can brag about you; you have to let me braid your hair every day, and I get to kiss you whenever I want. And that's just the start of the list." 

"Is that right?" Simon's own grin must look ridiculously sappy, but he can't find it in himself to be ashamed. 

"Yep! For the rest of forever, I think you said." Ryland pulls Simon closer, shifting them until he's curled around Simon completely, protecting him from the outside world. Simon shifts, just a bit to get more comfortable, and enjoys the solid pressure of someone he loves on top of him. It makes him feel all warm and buzzy in a way he's never gotten to experience. 

Sunset fades. Simon watches how the light dims from his spot, hidden away. His eyelids droop, the rainbows fade from the walls, contentment settles in his veins. Nothing could pull him away from this; not an eel or a blood ocean or even God. He has fought and paid for this love with blood; it is woven into his being forever, the way the roots weave into the soil. 

This is how he'll spend the rest of his life falling asleep; warm and cared for. It's almost impossible to think about, to wrap his head around. He almost doesn't want to fall asleep, worried that he'll wake up and find out it's all been a dream like in those fucked up stories. 

But Ryland's warmth around him, the absolute safety that has been absent for so much of his life, lets him believe that it's okay to relax. It's okay to trust it, despite every experience he's had that tells him otherwise. He chooses to leave that behind, to trust Ryland as he loves him. The lingering ache in his chest lessens; the roots let go a little more. 

There is one issue, though, still tickling the back of his mind. 

"Ryland?" Simon asks into the darkness. 

Next to him, Ryland stirs, lifts his head a bit even though he surely can't see a thing. "Whasit?"

 "Who told you that I was having surgery?" 

"... My class wanted to know if they were going to have a day off. Eridians also need emotional support during big medical procedures, so they wanted to know if I was going to help you with yours." 

"Who the hell told them?" 

Ryland settles back down onto the bed, squeezes Simon closer, though there's no room. Maybe they can hug each other tight enough to become one; maybe then they'll settle. 

"Honestly?" Ryland asks with a yawn. "I think Adrian let it slip to the PTA." 

"I fucking knew it." 

Ryland snorts and pulls back. Even as Simon's eyes adjust to the darkness, it's hard to see Ryland; he strains to get a clearer picture. He can imagine Ryland grinning, goofy, love shining in his eyes. 

In the morning, Simon will wake up first, but won't get up until Ryland stirs; he will take the time to admire how handsome Ryland is in the early morning light. And then they will get up and have breakfast; Rocky will come to take Ryland away to the space elevator, and Simon will tend to the garden. When Ryland gets home, Simon will show him the bracelet that still holds that mallow petal; they will spend the night going through the box of flowers, and Simon will teach him every name and meaning. By evening, the pain in his chest will be gone completely. But this is now. 

"You're ridiculous," Ryland doesn't say it like it's a bad thing. "I love you. I love you. I love you." He punctuates each declaration with a kiss to Simon's cheek, his forehead, the scar on his throat.  

And Simon believes him.