Chapter Text
This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.
Simon blows a strand of curly hair out of his face in frustration, takes a deep breath, and tries once again to knot the laces of his boot. He does alright this time; he makes it all the way up to crossing the strands over one another and tightening them, grasping the laces in one hand. It’s the actual looping that gives him trouble; his brow furrows in concentration as he twists the laces around his fingers and tries to knot them.
What he’s left with is a loose, limply tied boot lace that sags sadly against the dark leather. Simon grits his teeth and scrubs his hand across his face.
On Eden, all his boots had tightened via straps stitched into the side seams. It was fast, efficient, and easy to repair or replace一all necessary traits for a soldier who could be called into action at any moment. Clothes were made for utility, not aesthetic, and shoes had been no exception. Even with more options at his disposal on Erid (Rocky had enthusiastically provided a whole host of human clothing at Ryland’s request, and the amount of clothes they shared between them was positively overwhelming at this point), Simon prefers to dress simply: dark long sleeved shirts, pants made of a heavy, canvassy material, and of course, boots.
Except these boots, Simon fumes silently, are not like his old boots, and they have laces, which wouldn’t be an issue, except一
The healed skin around his missing arm prickles. He resists the urge to scratch at it and instead hangs his head in his hand, pressing his fingers against his eyes until little spots form behind his eyelids. He waits for the irritation to pass.
It isn’t supposed to be like this.
Simon had wanted to live. God, he’d wanted to live. And why wouldn’t he? Fourteen years of fighting like a rabid dog over resources, another sixteen spent in a COI prison. Abandoned by people he’d called his brothers, abandoned to die in the dark depths of a blood ocean. He’d wanted to eat a meal that didn’t taste like ash. He’d wanted to find something to do that wasn’t fighting or killing. He’d wanted to see a tree again, even if deep down, he knew they were all gone.
And yet, right at the end一when he’d been drowning in thick, coppery blood, when he’d lost his sanity, when he’d felt the creature clamp its horrible human rib teeth into his submarine一he’d known he was going to die. And there had been terror in that, but also a strange relief. What did it matter if he lost a limb? If he lost all his limbs, if he was torn apart? He’d kill the fucking eel, he’d get that damned black box to the surface, and the universe would have two less monsters in it.
Only Simon had lived.
The details were fuzzy, even now, so long after the fact. He remembers killing the eel. He remembers the great eye, the rumbling voice, the world made of blood. He remembers hearing, I see you. He remembers the great eye blinking. He remembers feeling like the entire world was shaking violently. Mostly, he remembers drowning, and then waking up in a sterile white room, where an angel with blue, blue eyes was asking him if he was okay.
Understanding had come slowly. Trust had come even slower. He was not in his world anymore; his angel was named Ryland Grace, and he, too, had been put on a one-way death mission against his will; the stars had been saved, here.
After a month, he has mostly adjusted. His injuries have miraculously healed. He is alive. It is everything he has wanted. And truly, if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t mind the missing arm. If ripping his own limb off is the price he has to pay for this life一a life where he can grow plants and see a night sky full of stars and be around Ryland all the time一he would do it again. He’d do it again without thinking. He’d trade both arms, actually.
But the missing arm also has drawbacks. Drawbacks that wouldn’t be an issue if his boots didn’t have laces.
Simon glares viciously at the poor excuse of a knot. It’s not the boot’s fault, he knows that. He’s glaring because he has no other option than the one currently at his disposal, and it’s an option he despises with every piece of his wretched heart. But the sun is climbing higher and he needs to get outside to check on the garden. He grits his teeth and forces the words out.
“Ryland?” He raises his voice, but not by much; sound carries easily in the house.
“Yeah?”
Ryland’s voice is still a little rough with sleep. Must not have had any coffee yet.
“Can you…help me with something?” Simon hates the way his voice hitches on the word help. It shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t make his chest tighten and his eyes burn, because it’s just Ryland, for God’s sake. He knows Ryland. He trusts Ryland, insofar as he trusts anyone. Why is this so hard?
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He angrily yanks at his shoelaces again, and is so preoccupied with taking his anger out on his poor boots that he doesn’t hear Ryland approaching一scratch that, running, apparently一to the bedroom. The man’s eyes are wide and worried, his brows comically high on his forehead. He’s gripping the doorframe with one hand and panting ever so slightly. Simon bites back a snort when he sees that Ryland’s glasses are askew, as per usual, even this early in the morning. The tightness in his chest eases ever so slightly at the sight of him.
“What is it? Is everything alright?” Ryland breathes. Simon cannot look at those bright eyes, so full of concern, so full of warmth. He glances away.
“Yeah, I just…” He runs his hand through his hair, scratches the back of his neck. He exhales, and gestures down to his shoes and the mangled mess of strings. “Having a little trouble.” God, this is mortifying. He’s an ex-soldier, an Edenite Brother, the Butcher, survivor of a blood moon and witness to the horrifying creatures within it, and he can’t tie his damn shoes.
Ryland sighs with obvious relief. It twists Simon’s stomach. How many more times will he make Ryland worry about him?
“Yeah,” Ryland says. “Yeah, of course. I’ve got it.” In three steps he’s instantly in front of Simon, and okay, for whatever reason Simon had not considered that Ryland helping him tie his shoes would involve Ryland kneeling down in front of him. Okay. This is fine. He can be completely normal about this. He can completely keep his cool even though he’s staring at the top of Ryland’s head, and his hair is a little damp from a morning shower, and it smells like the fancy hair soap Ryland insisted they needed, and the color has gone from light yellow to a darker brown from the water. His hand twitches. He wants to touch it very badly.
Yeah, okay. Simon glances away before he can do or say anything stupid.
“Done! Ta-da.” Ryland announces. He presents Simon’s boots to him. “Double knotted and everything.”
Simon rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”
Ryland looks up at him, and Simon nearly chokes. His eyes are huge and practically sparkling. It’s not the evident care in those eyes, or the admittedly very cute half smile on his lips, or even the off-kilter glasses. It’s the naked vulnerability written all over Ryland’s face, the openness of it. It’s too kind, too warm. It’s an expression that has no expectations, that trusts him easily and openly, and Simon wants to bask in that expression forever and he wants to sprint away and he wants to maybe punch a wall and he really, really wants to touch Ryland’s fucking hair. Heat rushes up Simon’s neck and threatens to spill up to his face.
Ryland frowns. Before Simon can do anything about it, Ryland’s hand is on his forehead. Simon goes absolutely still. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. Ryland’s fingers are cold. His hands are always cold; it’s why he wears those sweaters all the time. It’s why he sticks his hands under Simon’s shirt when they sleep next to each other. You’re practically a furnace, he always laughs.
“You feelin’ okay? You’re a little flushed.” Ryland’s frown deepens. A divot appears between his furrowed brows. Simon, absurdly, wants to press his thumb to it.
Alright, enough.
Simon stands abruptly, nearly knocking Ryland over in the process. Stupid, he admonishes himself. “Sorry.” He offers a hand out; Ryland takes it and hoists himself up.
“No worries! I just一are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
Those eyes again. That expression. Simon cannot do this. He absolutely cannot do this, because if he keeps looking at Ryland’s face, he’s going to want to do a lot more than just touch him. “Yeah. Fine. Gotta一gonna go check on the garden.” He can’t look at Ryland. He will not look at Ryland. He stalks out of the bedroom, avoiding eye contact like it will kill him.
He takes a mental note: ask Rocky for boots with straps.