#ze.writing

Simon's curled up in the corner, back to the wall, legs pulled close and arm loosely curved around them; Grace's started to accept that he simply finds this comfortable, that while it isn't not linked to insecurity and fear, it is, also, just how he likes to sit. It's deeply baffling. Grace's back hurts just from looking at him.

"... me," Simon admits, picking at a loose thread on his- Grace's- pants, eyebrows furrowed and expression thunderous. "How do you-"

He huffs. Makes a wild gesture with his hand, and Grace watches him do it, cocking his head, trying to match the shapes to concepts.

Simon growls. Drops his hand, glowers down at his knees, and Grace closes the book, puts it aside- thinks about it for a moment, and then inches a little closer, lying his hand down between them, palm up.

Simon locks onto it instantly.

"You're really not a bother," Grace says, reminds him, and Simon flickers his eyes up to him- just briefly- and then back down to his hand, an open invitation.

"You can't mean that," Simon says. Doesn't look away.

Grace wriggles his fingers.

Simon snorts. Lips twitching.

"I do," Grace says, and Simon sighs- reaches down, takes his hand in his, twines their fingers together. He's uncurling from his position, legs folding down beneath him, body leaning towards him. Grace inches a little closer, squeezes his hand.

Simon's head thunks down on his shoulder.

"Isn't it exhausting?" Simon murmurs, and Grace hums, lets himself genuinely think about it.

"Not really," he says. "I don't mind it, you know? And when I do-" he leans his head against Simon's, breathes out. "-you always listen."

"Well," Grace doesn't have to look at him, to see the way he furrows his brows. "yeah. It's the least I can do."

Grace huffs. "You still don't owe me anything."

Simon hums. Doesn't answer, and Grace rolls his eyes, but it's too late to have this argument, to pick at those scabs. Also, he's comfortable.

"You aren't too much," he says, instead, and Simon sighs against him. "And try actually believing me, this time."

Simon snorts. Grace smiles, closes his eyes. "It's the least you can do," he echoes, and Simon laughs, this rough sound that still makes Grace's heart warm in his chest, that still makes all of this, everything, so very worth it.

“I am going to Hawkins.” he finally let it out and a soft, spring breeze messed with his hair. He didn’t even try to fix it back. “I don’t think I can ignore it anymore.” he softly admitted and decided to look at the sky for the rest of his monologue. “I am not asking for your blessing. I will see this through, even if it kills me. I’m doing this for me. Not for you. And I know it’s selfish. It’s your birthday, too… So if you don’t want to see me once I’m there, I get it. I won’t back down, either, however. I hope you can understand that.” he finished speaking and he looked at the gravestone once again, a sigh escaping through his lips. “Happy birthday and I’m sorry.” it was what he told her a few months ago.

"Yeah," Grace says, because he did. And it's not a big hurt, it's nothing that could ever change Grace's opinion on him, but-

"You still deserve this," he says, and gently rubs his thumb along Simon's cheekbone, and he shudders. Grace feels the tremor of it in his bones.

"That's not-" Simon sniffs. "That's not true."

"It is," Grace says, the words pleading. "It is, Simon, please- believe that I mean that."

Simon shakes his head. But he isn't pulling away, and he isn't disagreeing, and Grace knows, how hard this can be. Believing you are worth kindness.

"I'm serious," he says, still. "You are- you deserve so much better."

Simon laughs. It's a broken, ugly, sound, and Grace whines, presses the flat of his palm along Simon's cheek, leans into him.

"I mean it!'

Simon looks at him. Meets his eyes. A brief, shared glance, and his eyes are wet, too.

Then he looks away. Hides.

"I don't know how to believe that," he says. "I don't- I'm not worth this. I'm really not."

And Grace knows he can't change his mind. Knows there's nothing he can say, here, now, that'll patch over this hurt. That will make this easy.

"I'm not going to change my mind," he says instead, because that's all he can say. "And you're not going to change it, either."

Simon looks back at him, at that. Looks almost startled, like he truly thought he could just tell Grace he was wrong, and then that was that. Like he thought, genuinely, that Grace would take him at his word, and take all of this away.

Like if Simon just reminded him of the truth, Grace would become someone cruel.

It hurts. It hurts so very much.

He moves without thinking. Presses their foreheads together, noses brushing, and he breathes in the air Simon's breathed out, holds it in his lungs like a promise. Simon's eyes are wide and tear-rimmed, and Grace can see himself reflected back in them.

"You'll get there," he says, certain. "One day, Simon, I promise- you'll know I'm right about this."

Simon snorts. And then he smiles, this crooked, tired thing, and Grace feels it across his face like a sunrise.

"That might take forever," Simon says.

"Then I'll stick around for forever," Grace responds, and maybe that's a step too far, but it's a promise he means.

Simon laughs.

But his eyes are wet and his hand shakes, where it comes up to clutch at the front of his shirt, and he looks struck, looks hopeful, looks like someone glimpsing the light at the end of a long, dark, tunnel.

"You saying I'm stuck with you?" he asks, and Grace smiles back at him.

"Yup. Never gonna get rid of me."

Simon laughs again. And then he pulls Grace even closer, and their forehead squishes together and their noises bump, and Simon chokes on the sound, and then he sobs, sudden and heart-wrenching, and Grace doesn't hesitate to put his arms around him.

"You're so fucking weird," Simon manages, beneath gasping breath and choking sobs.

Grace squeezes him to his chest. Closes his eyes, and fights back his own sobs.

"Your weirdo now," he says, and Simon laughs, and then he clings and then he cries, big heaving things, and Grace holds him, and tucks that promise close to his heart.

"They're osprey wings," he says, casual, when they're awkwardly having dinner one day. Simon's eyes flickers up to him, slightly wide, and Grace spreads his wings wide, rolling his shoulders. "You can look at them, you know? Ask about them. I'm sure it's weird, seeing somebody with wings."

He laughs slightly.

Simon's face is inscrutable. Impossible to read. But it's been like that since day one, at least if you ignore all the very obvious signs of distress and trauma and slowly dying, which Grace is quite happy to do! Simon's here, now. Everything else can go in a little box and not be looked at, because Simon is fine, and Grace's hands have healed up all good, and the mystery can stay a mystery, actually, Grace is fine not knowing about it at all.

(a blood ocean. Grace does not need to know what that means, curiosity be fricked. Grace has plenty of nightmares of his own, thanks.)

Simon's eyes does flicker to the wings, after a moment of what Grace can only call blank staring. He looks at them, openly, and okay, Grace hadn't expected it to be like that. Like being put under a microscope. Like being studied. He holds himself still, because he doesn't want to interrupt, but the urge to fidget is strong.

He thinks maybe he blushes, a little??

"They're nice," Simon says, a croak. Grace resists the urge to fist pump. Hearing Simon's voice is a treat, a special occasion, something he rarely manages. The guy is quiet.

"Thanks!" he chirps, fluffing up his wings a little, pleased. "I quite like them myself. Did you know ospreys are one of only six birds that exist worldwide-"

He starts rambling. Can't quite stop, and Simon's gaze locks back on him, and then slides off, head tilting down to stare at his dinner, but he's still got his head cocked a little, like a cat paying attention, and Grace doesn't mind talking, doesn't mind filling the silence, doesn't mind talking about ospreys and wing distributions, not that he knows a lot about it, but well, he had been a curious kid, and then it had been a long journey to Erid, and Grace had had time, hadn't he.

Simon picks at his food.

Simon doesn't look back up at him, shoulders kind of curling up to his ears, and Grace catches his words between his teeth, slows to a halt. He wants to ask what's wrong, but Simon's kind of. Private.

He hasn't been here long. Hasn't been well enough for that long, specifically, and Grace can be patient. Grace can be understanding. Grace can still smell the blood and the wind and the way Simon had laid there, still and cold and Grace gets it, he does, but-

The silence hangs between them, awkward. Grace takes another bite of his food- an attempt of something like fried rice, except the eridians are still struggling with the concept of grains, so it's kind of a weird thing, but Grace likes trying out stuff, likes helping them, so it's all good, and the meat is, well. The meat is him. The meat is normal. Grace has come to accept this about his life.

"Do you-"

Simon puts his plate down.

"Thanks," he says, quiet, a little strangled, and then he's on his feet and walking away, and Grace curls his fingers around his own plate and watches him walk out the door, and he doesn't even know what he did.

His wings curl tight. He leans his cheek into the feathers, rubs it against them, and he sighs. It's fine, he tells himself. Simon will adjust. Simon will open up and Grace will have something human here, with him, and he won't be the only one on the entire planet, and maybe he's being greedy, selfish, but man. Grace would love it if somebody could preen his wings.

He huffs. Laughs, a little self-deprecating, and rubs a hand at his face. Catches his fingers on his glasses, and hangs them off his ears, huffing again.

The grass crunches beneath their feet. Dry, because it hasn't rained in weeks. The heat has sat itself upon their world, has pressed the world flat and long, and last he saw, the grass was dying beneath its hand. It had gone yellow. Crackled, when he had touched it.

He'll never see it again.

The thought makes him laugh; something desperate and rough-edged and too wild for his mouth, and he staggers- feels his legs give- and he goes down, felled, and Simon curses as their hands slip apart, as Grace hits the dirt and bows into it, wheezing.

"Ryland," Simon snaps, crowding close, and Grace whines, digs his fingers into his hair and claws at the soft of his scalp, and he can't see.

What does this matter. What does any of this matter.

"Ryland," Simon repeats, voice softened. Grace hears him crouch beside him; grass sighing as it breaks. The shadow of his hand warms above his back, but doesn't make contact. "C'mon. We can't stay here."

They can't.

"Leave me," he croaks. "Leave me behind, Simon, just-" his voice strangles. He chokes on the sob, clutches at the grass below him, soil getting beneath his nails.

"I'm not leaving you," Simon barks, and the hand meets his back, curls itself in the collar of his jacket. "Now get back up."

"I can't!" he screams, and tears up grass, gestures wide. "I can't, so just leave me here."

"You can!" Simon yanks him up, and Grace snarls, flails his arms and bucks his back, and Simon curses, lets go- Grace twists in the grass, claws up soil, and he kicks out, thinks be must hit Simon, and then he tucks himself small, heavy, folds his arm over his head.

"It's pointless!" he wails. "I'm useless! It doesn’t matter how far we get, if we go back home-!"

He digs his nails into his head. "I can't fucking see, Simon!"

He can hear the wind. Feel it on his skin, in his hair. The whip of it against his cheeks, the cold. But he can't see the way the grass bends, or how the trees sway, or the way it tugs at Simon's hair, and he won't ever see any of that.

"So?" Simon says, and Grace wishes he could throw something at him, could glare at him. "Who fucking cares, Ryland! Rocky won't give a shit-!"

"Shut up!"

He's never going to see Rocky again.

Grace yanks at his hair, bites down on a scream, a sob, and he'll never see Rocky again. Not ever. The shape of him- he'll forget that, have it fade with time, and all the little things Grace had clung to, the little mannerisms he had learnt so carefully- that'll all be gone.

Simon jerks him backwards. He slams into his calves, hisses through his teeth, and Simon pulls his hand from his hair, winds their fingers together instead.

"You're just going to abandon him because things got hard?"

Grace squeezes the hand in his. Painfully, hard, cruelly. He digs his nails in and leaves marks, hopes he does, but Simon doesn't let go.

"Come the fuck on, Ryland. Doesn't he deserve better than that?"

Grace hates him, in this moment.

"I hate you," he sobs, and tugs at Simon's hand, turns around- gets his knees beneath him, and when Simon leans back, pulls, Grace follows.

He stumbles into Simon's chest. Catches himself on him, hand clutching at his shirt, and he sniffs, hard, and doesn't let go of Simon's hand, either.

"We'll go home," Simon says. "And maybe you won't get to see Rocky again, but he'll get to see you."

Grace sniffs again

"Okay," he says, and Simon squeezes his hand, gentle, kind, and when he starts moving, slow, patient, Grace follows.