eels, moderately subpar

Grace having certain unsolicited thoughts about the Convict….

“No more hospital robes. I tried to alter the pants as best I could, though the stripe is a little sloppy,” Grace apologized, noting a strip of fabric where the pants had been let out—because they would be too small for Simon otherwise—because they were Grace’s pants first.

“The T-shirt might be ok?”

Simon smiled a bit at the white lettering: I had potential.

Fitting, he thought wryly. He didn’t get the slope and the dot, but he imagined, like the checkered flags on the white “auto club” shirt, it was a pun or something. All of Grace’s shirts had puns. It was such a strange, casual luxury to use ink and color for a joke, of all things.

“And um…”

Grace hesitated, holding a third item. A sweater. For a moment, Simon thought it was his sweater, the one he’d torn and mended over ten years and shredded in one day, but no. The knit was thicker on this one. The rows were neat and unblemished. The collar and hem were cast-off without so much as a frayed edge, as if it were crafted from freshly spun wool, not the salvaged stuff that lived a thousand lives unwound and rewound. But it was the same deep green he loved.

“The Eridians are getting pretty good at replicating textiles. I thought it was nice, but if it feels weird or is too hot or fits weird or … you don’t have to take it.”

The hand that had been twitching at Simon’s side to run along the pattern and indulge in something so beautiful tensed. He didn’t have to? Why? What did it cost?

He was already drowning in debt. Might as well sink a little deeper to have the best thing on offer.

The new sweater was thicker than his old one, softer. To his surprise, it was easy to get on with one arm. He had some practice tying on his oversized “hospital” robe and loose pants, but both were baggy and clinical. This felt natural, normal. Something about the tension and shape made it easy to slip his arm through the sleeve and bring the rest over his head. When he got it all straightened out, he noticed the left sleeve was shorter, just long enough to cover his shoulder stump.

Fuck. Fuck, it hit him again that he’d be wearing modified clothes from now on. The rest of his life he’d live with one arm, which —considering the blood ocean, the root veins, and the teeth thing—was fine by him. But also, fuck, this sweater was made for him. Not altered. Not passed down. Made new for him. Who the fuck did that?