#grif;

For the past 20 minutes, all Grif had heard were grunts and sighs from the cyborg across the room, mixed in with the soft whirring of his body parts.

He looked up, an eyebrow quirked, glancing to watch Simmons.

His position didn't look too comfortable, an arm bent to reach around to his back, his other arm over his shoulder, grasping at the mechanical panels splayed across where flesh should be.

For the past 20 minutes, Simmons had been attempting to push a panel into place, where one of the latches had come loose. Why Sarge chose latches of all things to place on his back, they will never know.

Of course, Grif could help him- but that wasn't his style. He knew he could juice something out of this, and spent a majority of the 20 minutes thinking about the ways he could tease Simmons over this.

Another sigh, the exhale shuddering over Simmons' body as he raised his arms above his head, stretching. There were small mumbles coming from his lips, probably complaints about his flesh arm feeling stiff. Grif never caught what he had to say.

Carefully setting down his food, Grif cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat, catching Simmons' attention.

"You seem to be struggling there," He started, but was quickly cut off by Simmons' snapping at him.

"Yeah--no shit. You try reach around your back! It's hard as hell--god dammit," Simmons raked his flesh hand down his face, arching his back with an audible -pop-.

Grif rolled his eyes, his lip raising, "Ever thought of asking for some help? Cus- y'know, shit's hard."

All he got in return from the cyborg was a grunt, leaving some space between what he had to say next, "Yeah, because you'd be so enthusiastic to get off your fat ass and help someone."

"Hey--!" Grif laughed, attempting to stiffle it, "I might just- depending on how I'm asked..."

Simmons turned where he sat, repositioning himself to glare at Grif with a look of disbelief, "If you're--insinuating what I think you are, then fuck off."

Letting out an overdramatic sound of forced shock, Grif scooted forward in his seat, "What? Me? Never! I'm doing this aaaaall in the good of my heart, of course."

Simmons could only scoff, the sarcasm dripping off of Grif's words like honey on a stick, "Just--shut up and give me a hand, would you?"

Slowly standing up from his seat to shuffle over to where Simmons was sat, Grif quirked an eyebrow again, looking down to where Simmons was sat, "Only if you promise not to bother me about my eating habits for a week-"

"Whoa-whoa-whoa--hey, no promises."

     Summer vacations for Simmons were always uneventful, the family he came from weren't one for vacations, so usually Simmons spent his summers studying.

     Which is why Richard Simmons, age 18- fresh out of high school, found himself very out of place, currently seated beside his classmate Donut in their 'friend's' van, preparing for a camping trip.

     He wasn't quite sure when the last time Donut shut his mouth was, he had been blabbering on for hours end about how much fun they're going to have! Or something like that, Simmons had just resigned to burying his nose in his book, only looking up occasionally when a door was shut.

     There was a loud grumbling behind him, from the back of the van, as someone's arm reached over the seats, a tired voice requesting the snack bag- Ah. Grif, of course. How could Simmons forget?- Grif was coming along. Obnoxious, disgusting, gross Grif, who could probably eat their entire food supply in under 5 minutes.

     Simmons simply slid back in his seat, bringing his feet up and laying his book out across his thighs, but it wasn't long until he was bothered- the snack bag hitting his head as Grif tried to pull it into the back quickly broke Simmons' concentration, causing him to yell and swat at the bag.

     “Jesus—fucking, christ, calm down, kiss-ass!” Grif started, his head popping up from behind the seats as he motioned to the bag with his free hand, “Do you even know what's in this bag? Like, the most valuable shit on this trip- probably more valuable than your life.”

     Simmons sighed, murmuring a small “Shut it, fatass.” as he returned to reading, relaxing in his seat as Sarge and Lopez finally rested in their seats in the front. Lopez was another guy from his class- only ever spoke Spanish, no one really understands what he's saying. And Sarge...well, that was a thought for another day.

     As Sarge called out to buckle up, Simmons saw Donut quickly adjust how he was sitting before buckling his seat belt. A sigh could be heard behind him as Grif lay on the hard casing of the van, munching away quite happily at the snacks. Simmons scooted up on his seat, stretching before buckling his own seatbelt.

    There were moments that the King and Overlord never talked about, moments in which the two of them would be stripped bare, sitting across from each other, their flaws out for the other to see.

    It was moments like these that the two of them quite treasured, the times Simmons would allow his guard to drop for an hour, the times Grif's grin was something more genuine than sarcastic. These were the times that they could get to know each other.

    Swapping the smallest of lingering touches, quiet whispers and bickers filling the room that they sat in. The Overlord's usual stern look softening, the half-lidded look raising with a slight part of the lips.

    Even still, Grif had the hardest time reading Simmons. There was always a wall. A wall splitting them from truly opening to each other. A wall hand built, precise to the tiniest pebble, by the Overlord himself. It never sat well with Grif.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Grif! Take this seriously!"

The annoying sounds of a mechanical pencil filled the room- the clicking seeming to never end. Those things were supposed to run out of lead, right? This particular one seemed to have an unlimited supply- but of course, Simmons knew that wasn’t possible. If it was, he’d be set for life.

But at the current moment, there was nothing that he hated more than the mechanical pencil that was in Grif’s hand, the end being clicked to all hell.

The sound shot through Simmons’ ears, causing him to grunt dis-pleasingly every few moments, hoping Grif would get the hint to fucking stop. He never seemed to, however, and Simmons pulled his gaze up from his homework to glare at the male that sat on the bed just across the room from him.

"Can you stop that?!" He hissed through his teeth, squinting at Grif, which only caused the boy to scoff in return.

With getting no proper response, Simmons’ anger only heightened, balling his hands into fists and creasing the paper under his hands. “Look- either stop, or do your fucking homework! I won’t do it for you if you keep at this!”

Grif mulled over the thought for a moment, if anything just to humour Simmons, “Mmh, nah.” he yawned, lazy eyes looking over to the red head.

And still with that fucking clicking—-

Simmons scrunched his face up, grabbing a sheet of tossed away paper, then scrunched it up into a ball and threw it at Grif. “Don’t ‘nah’ me!” He huffed out, clearly offended, “I’m the one that’s getting you through this school. At least do something in return!”

Grif, in response, propped himself to sit up, wiping crumbs off of himself and placing the mechanical pencil he had been holding down to the side. He slid off the bed to sit on the floor, slowly scooting over to where Simmons was situated.

"Dude, ‘s eleven at night, stay up any longer doing this ‘n’ we’ll be late in the morning."

Grif had lazily started putting together excuses, using the time explaining to put a hand on Simmons arm and try to tug him towards the bed.

Simmons only tried to pull away from Grif, clutching the books and paper closer to his body. “It’s your fault for not doing it yourself! I would’ve been able to finish hours ago if you did your own god damn work!”

Grif was very close to leaning against Simmons and just falling asleep right there and then, but he knew if he did, Simmons would overwork himself and be tired in the morning- which caused for a cranky Simmons.

A cranky Simmons usually meant Grif suffered for it.

He reached a hand out, placing his pudgy fingers on the cover of one of the books and closing it over. He then reached to the book that Simmons was clutching to his chest, pulling it away from him, ignoring the little fight that Simmons put up against it.

Closing the second book, he leaned towards Simmons, nuzzling against his side and pulling him closer to the bed again.

With a sigh of defeat, Simmons placed the work he had been working on down on the floor.