Chapter Text
Two whole months after the end of the revolution, and the start of their journey for equal rights, Simon finally managed to convince Markus to step away, just for a little bit, to take a break and remind himself what he could do with this freedom he fought for.
“Alright… but only if you come with me,” Markus had told him.
“Come with you? Where are you going?”
“Home.”
You don’t even have to ask, Simon had thought to himself, I’ll follow you anywhere.
“Alright,” he had said instead.
Now, they approached the home of Carl Manfred, the place Markus too had called ‘home’. Simon took it all in with open wonder, somehow already feeling comfortable within the house, entering without any nerves, so enveloped in the warmth of all that was a part of Markus.
“Is Carl-” Simon began, before stopping himself.
Markus just smiled at him.
“Carl still lives here,” he replied, “He’s at the hospital right now, though not for himself.”
Markus sighed. Simon wanted desperately to know, as he wanted to know everything to do with Markus, but he wouldn’t ask. Regardless, Markus once again read him better than anyone ever had.
“His son,” Markus explained, “He was a Red Ice addict. He had a relapse, but he’ll be okay.” He frowned at the floor, still leading Simon through his home. “For as much hurt as he caused me, I’m oddly proud of him.”
“You tend to appreciate growth in others more than anyone I know,” Simon remarked, “It doesn’t surprise me to hear you say that.”
Markus shrugged, his frown vanishing but brows still knit contemplatively. His eyes danced with something flickering with life as he looked up at Simon.
“Thank you,” he said. “I think growth in anyone is worth noticing.”
Simon nodded.
You’re so good, he thought, watching Markus turn to open a door for him. How are you so good?
Simon stepped through the door, nodding his thanks to Markus who closed it behind them. The room they’d entered was dark, but only for a moment, though Simon could still see within perfectly fine. The walls lit up, revealing sunlight and a view of outside behind what were windows that had just been covered by full length curtains. Simon’s lips ticked up in wonder, as he spun around slowly, taking in everything and scanning what he could. Paint, paint brushes, markers, oil pastels, charcoal, papers, pencils, canvases, chalk; all of these things and more littered the space, and it was characteristic in its chaos, the personality of the room emanating from every cluttered table top or discordant paint splatter.
“This is incredible,” Simon breathed, “What is it?”
“It’s Carl’s art studio,” Markus answered, suddenly standing so close to Simon’s side he was surprised to not have felt Markus’s heat sooner. “He used to paint in here everyday. He hasn’t in over a month now.”
“That’s a shame,” Simon replied, and gestured at several filled canvases, “He’s clearly very talented. I can tell it’s a passion for him.”
“It is,” Markus agreed, nodding, “And it is a shame. I’m just grateful he was able to teach me how.”
“You mean…” Simon glanced at him, a teasing grin on his face, “You weren’t activated with every possible talent that’s ever existed?”
Markus chuckled and shook his head.
“Unfortunately, no,” he said. “I’ve had to learn a lot.”
“You’ve grown, too,” Simon noted.
“We all have,” Markus said.
“Maybe you could teach me how to paint, someday,” Simon added.
Then he walked away, only half-pretending to observe some more materials that cluttered the room, his heart that matched Markus’s perfectly now beating wildly as he tried not to overthink what he’d offered.
“...I’d like that,” Markus said.
Simon turned to look at him, and found a sweet smile greeting him, Markus’s eyes dancing with merriment. Simon couldn’t help but smile back.
“What about now?” Markus added.
“Today is about you, Markus,” Simon reminded him with a raised brow, “Do something you want that doesn’t involve me, or anyone else.”
“I wanted to involve you,” Markus said, raising a brow back at Simon, “Why do you think I asked you to come with me?”
Simon didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing, simply turning to stare absentmindedly at some dried paint on the table closest to him.
“What do you say?” Markus prodded.
Simon closed his eyes, resigning himself to his fate.
“Okay,” he replied, grinning at Markus, “If you’d like.”
“I would,” Markus nodded, features softening. “Sit here, I’ll grab some supplies.”
Simon sat where Markus had pointed, a foldable chair tucked underneath one of the only clear surfaces in the room, and waited. A minute later, Markus brought over a brush, a small canvas, some paint on a palette, and a rag towel.
Markus was speaking, trying to tell Simon how to begin, giving an example, but Simon wasn’t listening; he could only watch Markus’s hands as they moved through the colours, mixing and wiping and smearing them on the rag, he could only watch Markus’s eyes, alight with mirth and warmth.
“Now you try,” Markus said, cutting through Simon’s thoughts, “Paint whatever you like.”
Simon stared down at where Markus was presenting him the paintbrush, encouraging him to grab it. He stared a bit more. Markus’s bright and excited expression faltered.
“Simon?” he asked, concerned.
Simon shook himself out of it, and grabbed the paintbrush almost frantically. He turned to the canvas and suddenly had never felt both incredibly motivated - Markus’s smile returning full force the only incentive he’d need - and so utterly uninspired at the same time as he did then.
“What should I paint?” Simon asked in their heads, knowing his voice would waver if he dared speak aloud.
Markus laughed, and it was soft and low and everything Simon ever wanted to hear.
“Paint anything,” Markus replied verbally, “Paint the sky, an animal, a person, a place, a feeling, anything.”
“I…” Simon paused. “I have no ideas.”
He did. He very much did, except that the subject he wished to paint was currently standing over his shoulder, one side of his mouth raised in a grin and mix-matched eyes twinkling with amusement.
Markus shrugged, as if it was no big deal.
“Paint me?” he suggested, and if it hadn’t been spoken like a question Simon would have worried he’d contemplated making Markus his muse out loud.
Simon blinked at him. Markus’s grin didn’t fade with Simon’s hesitance this time, though the light of his eyes flickered. Was it tentativeness, wariness, or regret? Or rather, was it nervousness, humility, or perhaps embarrassment? Simon had always wanted to know what went on his Markus’s head at all times; now more than ever before.
“Alright,” Simon nodded, offering Markus a weak smile, “I’ll try.”
Markus’s confident fire swelled in his eyes once more, and Simon’s smile grew against his will.
“Just… don’t be upset if it looks terrible,” he warned, pointing at Markus. “Know that it’s entirely a reflection of my lack of talent in the arts, and not any contempt for you.”
Markus chuckled, and it was so full and so sudden he leaned back to keep from intruding Simon’s space, a hand resting just above his belt buckle, and Simon watched him, completely enraptured, his own lips twitching into a tentative grin without his notice.
“I would never have thought that,” Markus said. He had calmed himself down enough, so rather than laughing, Markus was simply beaming at Simon so intensely he felt scorched from within. “And you can’t lack talent for something you’ve never tried,” Markus added.
“You say that now…” Simon teased with a lopsided grin.
Markus shook his head fondly.
“Go on then,” Markus gestured to the canvas, “I promise I won’t judge you too harshly.”
Simon rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help getting caught in Markus’s infectious joy. He stared down at the paint palette, full of beautiful acrylic colours, and raised his paintbrush, hovering. He glanced back up at Markus, who nodded encouragingly, and got an idea of where to start.
Simon didn’t say a single thing as he picked the first colour, blending it with another and getting way more than he needed on the brush, before putting it to the canvas, all to aware that he hadn’t heard a single instruction Markus had given him whatsoever, but he’d be damned if he didn’t pretend like he had. Markus said nothing as he swept the brush around and around, up and down and sideways, collecting more paint, gathering different colours, never once using the rag to clean the brush even though he figured he should; not that he wished to disrespect Markus’s paint supplies, but that he quickly became fascinated with how the colours mixed as the paint remained wet and pliant. He could create colours that hadn’t existed on the palette initially and shape them however he liked. He was in control. Over this portrait, of this painting, he was the creator, the leader, the god. It was nothing like he’d ever experienced, and he became so wrapped up in the feeling of it he stopped seeing the canvas, or caring where his hand moved, but only took in the movements - of the paint, the brush, his hands - eventually closing his eyes to just feel it.
It could have been five minutes, or five hours later, when he stilled his hand, and opened his eyes, taking in what he’d made.
It was a portrait of Markus, and obviously so. But it was also an explosion of colour, colours that weren’t even present on Markus’s face or in his hair or eyes, but that Simon felt should be there, colours that Markus held within him that weren’t visible but were so vivid to Simon. And then, Markus’s eyes, one light green and one sky blue, were staring straight ahead, and Simon hadn’t given Markus a smile but he might as well have, with the light and cheer he’d managed to capture in Markus’s eyes alone.
Simon thought it really didn’t look that good. The proportions were slightly off, the shapes a bit weak and lacking physical detail. But it felt good; it felt right. It felt like Markus.
Simon turned to his friend, expecting a teasing grin, but was instead faced with a gaping stare, all of Markus’s attention given solely to Simon’s painting. His eyes wide, his mouth open just slightly, his brows raised but relaxed, taking in everything he could.
“Is it that bad?” Simon asked quietly, meaning only to break the silence, and mostly joking.
Markus shook his head rapidly, and turned his awestruck gaze to Simon, his lips ticking up into his signature ghost of a grin.
“Simon…” he trailed off, looking back at the canvas once more, and then at Simon again, “It’s incredible. You- you’re incredible.”
Simon ducked his head a bit, suddenly seared by Markus’s real eyes.
“I bet you tell every novice painter that,” he teased, his voice shaking but just barely.
“No, I really don’t,” Markus insisted, tilting his head to catch Simon’s gaze. “And I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this.”
“But you would lie to me?” Simon asked, feigning a miffed frown.
“Well…” Markus grinned with one side of his mouth again, the fire in his eyes dancing like starlight.
Simon huffed an insecure laugh, glancing back at the canvas distractedly.
“Maybe you’re just a great teacher,” Simon reasoned.
“Or maybe you’re just talented,” Markus argued with a raised brow, “And also a bit oblivious if you think I didn’t notice you not paying attention to my attempt at teaching at all , and doing something entirely different than I’d even thought to describe.”
Simon’s eyes widened a bit, and he at least had the decency to look slightly chagrined.
“I didn’t-” he frowned, “I wasn’t trying to not-”
“I know,” Markus interrupted, his smirk - one of Simon’s many weaknesses - making another appearance. “I just worried I was overwhelming you. But it seems you’ve done that to me instead.”
Simon looked up at him from the corner of his eyes.
How have I overwhelmed you?
He almost failed to notice how much closer Markus was now, that if they were human they would feel each other’s breath on their faces. Simon gazed into each of Markus’s eyes, amazed by how Markus had made the blue one his eye, even though it was borrowed, by stoking within it the same flame that he nursed in his soul, the same flame that had won them the revolution and had won Simon over within seconds of first witnessing it roar to life.
He almost failed to notice the still decreasing distance between them. Perhaps he would have missed it, if he wasn’t so desperate for it.
Then something hit his shirt, just below his sternum, and they both glanced down to find the source. A large blob of paint had slid from the palette Simon had accidentally tilted vertically, and decorated most of the front of his shirt the same way he had the canvas.
“Oh,” he remarked most eloquently.
Markus sighed, but when Simon looked up at him again, he was grinning beautifully.
“You just had to make a mess,” Markus said, shaking his head in mock reprimand.
Simon grinned back, and raised a brow.
“Maybe if you hadn’t distracted me, this wouldn’t have happened,” he said, his voice quiet and deep.
Markus leaned back a bit, but Simon could only miss it for a moment before Markus had dropped to his knees beside Simon and rested his elbows on Simon’s leg, crossing his arms.
“Is that what happened?” Markus asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You found me distracting?”
Simon nodded weakly. He couldn’t speak. They were wandering into dangerous territory, of that he was sure; but all of a sudden, he couldn’t quite remember whom it might be dangerous for . And he realised with a twist in his chest that he no longer cared if it was, or why it could be.
“You always have been,” Simon admitted, and now he was whispering, as if confessing the constant topic of his wandering mind too loudly would make it disappear. Would make Markus disappear.
Markus stared up at him, the hearth of his eyes settling into something calmer, something steady, and so inviting it made Simon’s hands begin to shake with the want to reach out, to grab and hold and never let go. To never let go.
I love you , he thought, I was made to love you, I know it.
“Do you have a spare shirt?” he asked instead, instantly feeling that fire withdraw so sharply he shivered, so devoid now of the welcoming warmth Markus had, all for him.
“...Yeah,” Markus said after a while, nodding slowly and looking away, looking anywhere but at Simon as he stood. “Yes. You can borrow one of mine, for now.”
Simon followed him up, but when he straightened Markus took a step back, his hands fidgeting at his sides as if scared, as if being so close to Simon burned him rather than the other way around.
“This way,” Markus added, walking out of the studio, only pausing for a second to make sure Simon was indeed following.
Pausing as if that confirmation was needed. As if there could possibly exist a place Simon wouldn’t follow him to.
Markus led him to a room towards the back of the house, just outside the living room, and he pulled the door open, stepping aside to allow Simon to enter before him. Something in Markus’s posture had faltered. Something in his confidence had withered, and Simon couldn’t help but feel like it was because of him.
But what else was he supposed to do? Let Markus believe there was any chance he deserved such an insignificant fate as to settle for an outdated, overproduced, and completely unoriginal domestic assistant such as Simon, when Markus himself had such a powerful and meaningful existence? He refused to be what held Markus back. Simon would follow him, anywhere, and through anything; but he would never become the weight that Markus dragged along behind him.
Markus stepped around him and towards a dresser on the far side wall of the room. In the centre of the room sat a bed, and next to it a plain brown bedside drawer. Simon observed the simplicity of it and wondered how anything so ordinary could ever have housed someone as extraordinary as Markus.
Markus, who was standing before him and holding out a faded green t-shirt. Simon took it gingerly from him, and opened it, letting the minute folds fall away. It was a plain shirt with a brand logo on the inside of the collar. Its colour was faded from use rather than as a style, and something sparked in Simon’s bloodstream at the thought of wearing an item that had been so well-loved by Markus.
“When were you able to wear this?” Simon asked, glancing up at Markus curiously. Cautiously.
“Whenever I was home,” Markus replied. “It wasn’t legal to wear outside at the time, but Carl got it for me. He always treated me like a person.”
Simon smiled gently. His owners had been the same. He missed them terribly.
“Thank you,” he said, lifting the shirt.
“Of course,” Markus replied.
Simon turned and set the shirt onto the bed, and began to undress.
He was more than aware of a human’s idea of nakedness; the simple removal of clothes to reveal skin was intimate and personal, private for humans, and it was to be respected. But androids didn’t have the same sense of nakedness, not to themselves at least. Their artificial skin was just another layer, a veil over their true forms, lacking any skin to reveal that wasn’t a facade. So he felt no shame in pulling his paint-soiled shirt over his head, revealing the fake, pale skin of his back that mimicked a human’s, and folded the dirty shirt so the paint was kept on the inside, and wouldn’t mark the bed on which he set it.
He felt Markus’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care. Markus had never seen his real skin, but he had seen Markus’s that day in Stratford tower. He figured Markus deserved to see at least some of him. Though still not as much as he’d like Markus to see.
Simon took his time. He refused to look back.
Before he pulled the new shirt over his head, Markus spoke.
"Can I... Can I paint you?"
Simon might have been startled, if Markus hadn’t been so quiet.
“What?” he asked, turning to look at his friend.
Markus was staring at him, his hands resting almost awkwardly at his sides as his eyes darted from Simon’s abdomen to his face.
Markus blinked.
“Can I paint you?” he repeated.
His nervousness was endearing. Simon grinned wryly.
"You sure you'd want to waste another canvas?"
"Don't say that," Markus frowned at him, "Nothing to do with you is a waste."
Simon didn’t respond. He didn't trust himself not to fall apart; opening his mouth tearing the first seam in his resilience.
'Resistance', they had championed. Maybe that's what this was, what he was attempting to maintain, even still. But maybe, this time, it wasn’t needed.
"But," Markus continued, a slight smile, soft as ever, brightening his features, "I wasn't talking about on a canvas."
Simon raised a brow.
“Keep the shirt, but don’t put it on yet,” Markus ordered, “Follow me.”
Simon frowned as Markus turned away.
Anywhere. Anywhere, and you know it.
Markus led them back to the studio, the canvas with Simon’s rendition of Markus surrounded by the paint and palette and brush they’d left, as if exhibited by all the parts of its creation. There was symbolism there, but Simon was too distracted to place it.
“Sit here,” Markus said gently, pulling the chair out from beneath the table.
He dragged it further into the middle of the room, and Simon sat on it. He felt bare now, despite knowing he wasn’t really; Markus’s eyes were removing layers from Simon’s form, until there was nothing between him and that fire within Markus, warmed from the inside out.
Markus grabbed the used paint palette and brush, his eyes never leaving Simon as he approached slowly, methodically. How Markus moved in everything he did.
“What are you up to?” Simon asked, with a shy smile.
“I’m painting you,” Markus replied, and while he didn’t smile back, his eyes did well enough.
Just like in Simon’s painting.
“Now hold still,” Markus instructed, “It may feel weird, but it comes off easily, in case you don’t like it.”
How could I not like it? It’s you.
“I wasn’t expecting you to literally paint me ,” Simon remarked as Markus left his field of vision to stand behind him.
“Me neither,” Markus said, “But I enjoy a challenge.”
Simon shook his head.
There was a moment of stillness. A moment where neither of them spoke, nor moved, not sure how to go forward without shattering something unidentifiable. Then Simon felt the soft press of the brush against his back, and the tension broke, and he could breathe again. He relaxed into Markus’s touch; a hand on Simon’s shoulder, holding him steady, and the gentle swipe of the brush, Markus’s pinky finger smoothing over Simon’s back just beneath the brush for balance.
Another five minutes that could have been five hours passed, and then Markus stepped away, and set the brush and palette down off to the side. Simon shifted a bit, not wanting to mess up the paint but needing to fidget just to be sure that he could still move, that he hadn’t frozen over from going without seeing Markus’s eyes for so long.
“What did you paint?” he asked, his voice coarse and quiet like a human’s would be from disuse.
“I’ll show you,” Markus replied, just as quietly, but so smooth that his voice seemed to drape over Simon’s shoulders from where Markus stood behind him.
An image popped up in Simon’s HUD; Markus had sent him his view of Simon’s back, and the artwork that covered his artificial skin.
It was a bird, a canary, pale yellow and taking up most of his back despite the bird’s typically small size. Its wings were spread out, one across each of Simon’s shoulder blades, and held in its talons were flowers, some wilting and gray, and others vibrant and full of life. It also held a thin, blue ribbon in its beak and the blue line of paint went all the way down Simon’s spine, curling and falling in waves, intertwining with the bundle of flowers that ended at his lower back. Two butterflies of the same blue flitted around the bird, painted mid-flight, one over his left rib cage and one on his right side along his waistline, facing outward as if trying to escape to Simon’s front. Markus had also painted small leaves, each a light green, cascading down around the bird, one caught on the top of its head.
When Simon zoomed in, he could see how Markus used different colours to create shadow and light, rather than white or black paint. The brush strokes were visible up close, but all together made up a beautiful image that left Simon speechless.
“What do you think?” Markus asked, as hesitant as he was enthusiastic.
Simon stared at the image in his HUD, his mouth moving slightly but no words coming out. Markus moved to stand in front of him, and only then could Simon focus away from the picture, meeting Markus’s eyes. For the first time, Simon felt like he held the fire within him, and Markus was the one to witness it.
“How could you expect me to have a single coherent thought about something so incredible?” Simon asked through their connection.
Markus beamed at him.
“I think that counts,” he replied.
Simon didn’t even try to hold back his own grin.
“Thank you,” he said aloud, standing carefully so as not to ruin the paint. “It’s beautiful.”
“So are you,” Markus replied, effortlessly, and without reservation.
Simon blinked at him.
“Markus…”
“I mean it,” he insisted, taking a step closer. “I-”
Now Markus paused, and his eyes darted over Simon’s face.
“Thank you ,” Markus said, “For letting me paint you.”
Simon could only nod.
“I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant to…” Markus frowned, “I don’t regret saying it.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Simon reassured, “I just- I’m…”
He gestured to himself, his face and body.
“I’m not the only one of me,” he decided, “I’m not-”
“You are,” Markus insisted, to Simon’s great frustration.
“ Markus ,” Simon held back an eye roll, “Stop.”
Markus tilted his head, stepping even closer. “No.”
“I have the same face-”
“ Enough .”
Simon closed his mouth, startled by the sudden harshness of Markus’s tone.
“They are not you ,” Markus continued, his voice softening as he moved slowly to stand right in front of Simon, mere inches between them. “None of them are you. You look similar, and that’s it.”
Simon sighed, grateful for the ability to do so in order to express his exasperation with Markus.
“I could tell you apart,” Markus added.
Simon grimaced.
“That’s a nice thought, but that wouldn’t be possible,” he shook his head. “Those who look like me were designed exactly like I was. We don’t have different features, not even a defining freckle or mark.”
“It would be possible,” Markus argued, “I’d just look at your eyes.”
Simon stared at him.
“My eyes look the same as-”
“Nope,” Markus interrupted, and if Simon didn’t love him so much he’d hate him for sure. “I could tell the difference,” Markus said. “Because I know you. And I know that your eyes hold a wisdom and perception unique solely to your experiences and your personality.”
Simon glanced down. He didn’t feel particularly wise or perceptive. Especially not when he found the same qualities in Markus, who effortlessly outshone everyone else without even realising it; he was just this natural, brilliant light that everyone stopped to witness.
“Look at my eyes,” Markus ordered, “One of them is the one I was given, and the other I took from an android that was like you, designed with a face similar to others.” He pointed to his right eye, the blue one. “If you just looked at this eye, could you tell it was me?”
Simon humoured him, and looked at his right eye.
“I could,” he answered honestly.
“How?” Markus asked.
Simon knew he was losing this one. He mulled over how he’d explain it for a moment.
“There’s a fire in your eyes,” he said finally. “It’s how I knew you’d be the one to lead us.”
“Then why do you think I couldn’t do the same for you?” Markus asked, his voice soft and coaxing rather than insulted.
Simon shook his head meekly. “I don’t know.”
Markus lifted Simon’s chin with a finger. He couldn’t look anywhere but into Markus’s eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” Markus whispered.
The warmth of that fire spread through where Markus touched him, heating his face, his neck, and his shoulders. He simpered under Markus’s gaze, and Markus grinned back at him.
“So are you,” Simon replied, leaning into Markus’s hand.
They began an interface without even trying, both reacting to each other’s touch naturally, falling into the other willingly.
For a moment, Simon couldn’t tell where he ended and Markus began. He was enveloped by everything that was Markus, finally pulled into his flame, and he didn't even try to fight back this time.
Markus's memories flashed before his vision, and Simon felt his own memories leaving him the same way. He saw everything Markus had: Carl, the house, Markus's painting, him playing piano and reading, Leo, the junkyard, arriving at Jericho, and-
Simon gasped, and stepped away suddenly. Markus blinked at him, looking as shocked as Simon was.
I felt his- he- Simon swallowed. Then he must have felt my-
"You…" Markus trailed off, his wide eyes dancing and the tiniest of smiles twitching up his lips. "You."
It was all he said, all he needed to say, before they were reaching for each other again, their hands clasping tight enough to hurt, and they began another interface, letting each other in again, letting themselves go. Feelings, sensations, and emotions rather than memories swarmed Simon this time, warmth flooding his entire body, and he felt both laid bare and untouchable all at once. Surrendered completely to Markus, vulnerable to his every movement, and utterly at peace with it.
Their arms wrapped around each other and their bodies embraced as close as they could get. Waves crashed through them, strong enough to knock them over, but they held each other steady. Unmovable, unstoppable, and together.
After five minutes, or five hours, they slowly disconnected. And while the interface ended, traces of their connection remained, flickering through them.
Love. Love, love repeating over and over again, moving through them, binding them, overwhelming them. Love.
"Markus?" Simon whispered, his smile uncontrollable.
"Yes," Markus stated, feeling the lingering question and understanding Simon's every thought.
They reached for each other once more, this time pulling together in a searing kiss, mouths exploring just as passionately as their hands had. No interface now, just them, moving against each other as if starved, and Simon certainly felt so, having gone so long denying himself this. Any thoughts of his unworthiness, his sameness, they were all banished in the face of Markus's consuming love, burned away in his fire. Markus's hands were in his hair, pulling him closer and deeper, and Simon's hands were clutching the back of Markus's shirt as if trying to tear it away. Maybe later.
Then Markus began to laugh, and he pulled back, very reluctantly.
"What?" Simon asked, breathless and grinning.
"I can still hear your thoughts, you know," Markus said.
If Simon could, he'd be blushing madly. Instead he just stared. Markus laughed harder, his eyes crinkling and teeth shining. Simon wanted to melt into him.
"Maybe later," Markus said aloud, beaming.
Simon laughed and shook his head, the embarrassment giving way to immense relief and intense joy.
Markus grabbed his hands and held them between his own. Simon leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, letting out a sigh of contentment. He still hadn't put that shirt on, not with Markus's paint still decorating his back and he wished he could have it stained there permanently, but in Markus's arms Simon couldn't think about anything but him.
"I love you," Markus said out loud, though he didn't need to.
"I love you, " Simon said back, because he could.