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They sat in the “permitted” arrangement, found after much trial and error. Grace sat up right, back supported, and Simon lay sprawled on his side, head resting on Grace's thighs. His long, dark hair splayed across. One of the laptops taken out of the Hail Mary is set on a low table, playing a film quietly. While they watch, Grace is slowly, and with great care, combing his left hand through Simon’s hair, while his right is taken into Simon’s custody.
It has, on previous occasions, been directed to scratch his back, or simply pressed into Simon’s chest, unmoving, but held firmly in place under Simon’s own. There was one day where he spent the evening popping each of Grace’s finger joints in turn, (though was then unwilling to hear any sort of fun fact about what that exact mechanic of human physiology was.)
Everything they did together was solely at Simon’s discretion, and a pace he set. In the months they had come to cohabitate the dome, there had come a slow and hard earned rhythm- Grace would never make the first step, would never push. But whatever was asked of him, he gave freely.
Now getting Simon to ask, well, that was its own challenge. But as days and weeks and months passed, and Simon healed and learned to trust (or at least tolerate) again, they found themselves with routines that kept them both this side of sane.
It is sometimes still too much, and Simon hauls himself away growling and swearing, pacing and scrubbing his hand on his thighs and chest until he can bring himself back from wherever it is he’s gone. Grace is infinitely patient. Years without human touch— and he has been able to survive now through these small moments. He knows Simon, and knows he needs this too, even if his mind and body cannot find themselves in agreement just yet.
The tender animal part of Grace’s brain hums with life in these brief moments of contact, preening and pleased, we are human we are alive we are human we are safe we are warm we are human it sings, satisfied.
It took time, effort, to coax Simon into what he’s hoping could be considered friendship. Promises and reassurances that he needn’t do anything he does not wish to, that he’s free to come and go from Grace’s home to his own as soon as the Eridians have finished building it. That they would make him a home that would be safe and his.
When he had arrived, pulled from some horrid moon by the Eridians, they would regularly find him outside, sleeping fitfully, curled up in the open rockery behind the cottage. Walls were hard, what with their tendency to close in on one in the dark.
Grace understood.
Rocky had watched them constantly at first, on edge. There had only been one real dust up, early on, and what stuck with Grace far more than being pinned to the floor (though that had brought on a whole host of memories he was not prepared for) was the way Simon had begged after— on his knees, in tears, apologizing, promising he ‘could be good’, so utterly terrified, the portrait of a penitent man.
Grace thinks of that moment often, and the way it changed something for him, how in private moments his skin would prick and his blood rush at the recollection of another man in prayer before him, to him. How warm his skin had felt.
He buries that deep in his soul and he smothers it.
But from then on things improved, for both of them. Rocky still surveils, but he allows them space. Most of the time, Simon will sleep inside.
(He will, occasionally, even allow Adrian to watch.)
Grace is rewarded now, months of this gentle care later, years of isolation later, with evenings like this; where he watches documentaries and period dramas and a surprisingly large number of children’s films and he enjoys the soft, miraculous, warmth of another human pressed into him. He continues to softly pass his fingers through dark tresses and allows his right hand to be turned over and inspected. It has become a norm he cherishes profoundly.
It does, therefore, take him a long moment to register what is happening to his own hand.
Softly, so softly, Simon presses Grace's palm to his lips. It is gentle and scratchy and a little ticklish. He doesn’t stop, but moves slowly; carefully moving each finger pad in turn to his lips and brushing them across. It is exploratory, a small push beyond the bounds they’ve been accustomed to, and so tentative.
Grace uses strength he did not know he possessed to remain still and pliant under this new phenomenon. His left hand stuttering only briefly in its work. He will not ruin this gift. His eyes are glued on the small screen. Simon continues to mouth softly over knuckles and wrist, exploring.
His mouth opens slightly, wetting his lips with a pink tongue, and he slowly, salaciously, licks the length of Grace's hand. He takes two of Grace’s fingers into his mouth and sucks.
Grace freezes. When did it get so hot in here? He’s boiling. He’s dying. This is it. This is how he dies actually, after all. This is the hottest thing that has ever happened to him and he does not know how to react. His mind is moving at light speed and his body is stuck behind.
His breathing quickens, and he’s sure that Simon can hear his heart threatening to pound out his chest. If he had a mirror he’s certain he’d see that he’s turned horrifically pink.
“Fuck. M’sorry. You hate this. Fuck-“ and Simon is up, moving away from the moment faster than Grace’s brain can catch up.
“Simon, I-“ Grace reaches out but stops himself, no one grabs Simon. Not ever, not again.
Simon spins on his heel back to face him, watching carefully.
“What do you need? What do you want? How can I help? ” Grace asks, breathless and feeling useless suddenly, bereft and left empty handed. He knows what he wants (that mouth that weight that warmth) but refuses to push, to break, to risk- “just tell me, please—“
He is reminded of a caged tiger as Simon paces fretfully before him. “What do I - what do I want? Fuck, what do you want?!“ Simon’s voice is rising, verging on shouting.
Grace fights not to cry, not from fear of Simon, but from fear of failing him in this moment, of losing this connection they’ve so tenuously made.
“I want- FUCK! I want you Ryland, Jesus Christ, I -“ tears are rolling down the younger man’s cheeks, his face burning. Quieter now, resigned- “I want you.”
“Oh Simon, I—“ his breath hitches as he finds the words.
“Don’t you fucking lie to me Ryland. Don’t you fucking treat me like some idiot child-“ Simon heaves a ragged breath, pointing accusitorily. “-I know I fucked this up, Jesus, fuck.” He’s turning to leave, falling inward on himself, shrinking.
If Ryland was bigger, braver, more confident in how it would be met, he would sweep Simon into his heart directly and swallow him in his arms. Instead, Grace stays seated and holds out his palms, outstretched hands before him as Simon wavers above him, a quiet invitation, a question. “Simon-“ the name a hushed prayer, heavy on his tongue.
”Fuck off,“
but he turns back.
Cautiously, incredulously, his face twisted in some unreadable expression, Simon turns and places his lone hand in Ryland’s grasp. His eyes still darting frantically across his face, searching for something, some sign Ryland cannot possibly know. He turns his head away and he shakes, trembling like Ryland has not seen in an age,
but his hand stays.
Eyes closed, Ryland lifts the scarred hand to his lips. Pressing soft kisses to each knuckle, each band of scar tissue. He gently turns the palm upward, and presses kisses there, he touches Simon’s fingertips to his lips, to his cheeks, rubs himself like a cat across his hand. It is the most glorious feeling this body of his has felt in a decade.
Truths start pouring out, unbidden.
“I’m so lucky to have you,” Ryland murmurs into Simon’s palm, just loud enough to be heard, “so grateful you’re here.”
Simon’s trembling has not subsided, but he has not yet pulled away. Ryland looks up at him as he cradles himself in the other man’s hand, and while he’s still turned away, his eyes are following Ryland’s every move.
“What did I do to deserve this? The universe dropping her most beautiful creation into my lap.” More kisses, pressed reverently to Simon’s wrist. “The most perfect thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He looks up through heavy lids, seeking eye contact. “Never in my life have I-” his throat is closing— “please believe that I want this too. That I want you.”
He gently gives the hand the lightest tug, hoping his trapped tiger won’t chew off its remaining paw.
Simon takes half a step forward, distrust and hope weighing on him in equal measure.
“ ‘Most beautiful creation’ huh?” And a wry smirk crosses his face, cracking that fear into something more than Ryland could have ever hoped. He closes the final half step to stand over him, knee to knee. “Are you fucking blushin’?”
All of the smooth talking, poetic, bravado dies now, swiftly and violently, in Ryland’s throat as he stares upward, feeling suddenly very small, very observed, and very, very, pink. He buries his face in his hands, whining with embarrassment as the glorious, barking, cacophony of Simon’s laughter fills his home.
His hands are gently pried off, and his chin turned upward as Simon drags his thumb across his lips.
“Do you mean it?”
Graces swallows and nods. “With all of me.” This was not how he expected his evening to go.
The movie is distant and forgotten, talking to itself.
“Fuuccck,” Simon is chewing on the word, stretching it out as it melts into a keen. “FUCK!” He takes his hand back, rubbing it on his chest in circles. Grace watches him pace like this for a beat, finding his resolve.
“Simon,” Grace finds his voice sounds squeaky, “may I— may I please kiss you now?”
“ ‘May you—‘ ?” More laughter, mocking, but fond and full of light, “Fuckin’ hell.” Simon pushes Ryland back into the couch and straddles him, knees bent and arm braced behind Grace’s head, dropping himself into Grace’s lap.
If Grace prayed he would be doing so now. A prayer of thanks? Of strength? He’s not sure.
Grace presses his forehead to Simon’s, feeling the brush of facial hair and scruff. Cheek to cheek, nose to nose, they move experimentally. A tender exploration of what is possible. Grace’s glasses are pushed and bumped, but he doesn’t mind.
“M’glad you’re here too” Simon whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of Ryland's lips before bringing their mouths together and catching Ryland at last. “Lucky a rat bastard like me can be near an angel.”
Ryland is high on sensations, his skin electrified. He opens his mouth and reaches to bury his hands once more in that long, dark hair, he runs his tongue along Simon’s lips and shivers as they are parted for him. Simon groans as their tongues meet, fisting the back of Ryland’s shirt.
He moves to trail kisses from Simon’s mouth down his throat, pulling on his hair to expose more blazing hot skin. Each kiss he imbues with gratitude he hopes can absorb through skin.
“Take this off,” Simon tugs at the hem of Grace's shirt, shoving it up and over his stomach. Grace pulls his hands from their tangle of hair and peels it off, sending some inane pun flying to the floor.
“Oh Angel, look at you,” Simon purrs, nuzzling into the crook of Ryland’s shoulder. “Sight for sore fuckin’ eyes.” He runs his hand over his chest, blond hair and a map of scars under his fingers. Kissing fervently along neck and shoulder, biting and sucking bruises. Evidence for later, when reality falls into question.
He traces fingers across the web of scars covering Grace’s left arm, giving him an inquisitive look.
“On our mission I had to save Rocky,” his voice trails off, “well, this is what the Eridian atmosphere will do to us, just in case you needed reminding,” he gives a small huff of nonchalant laughter, turning his gaze away.
Simon eyes him, deciding if this moment is worth it to press further.
“ ‘s’pretty fucking hot.”
Ryland squeaks, and if he had more blood left unused in him, he’d find a way to blush more. Simon laughs, teeth and predatory gaze making fire course in Ryland Grace’s blood.
It has been a long, long, time since Ryland gave in to want. Allowed it to run its course within him, indulged it. Refusal was how he had survived this long, an asceticism that was forced upon him.
But, now… well.
It feels new again.
He plays with the hem of Simon’s shirt, twisting it in his fingers and running his hand along the line of exposed flesh, an inquisitive hum in his throat. Simon nods.
Distantly, he recognizes that shirt was once his, as it falls behind them to the ground.
Ryland pants, shallow breaths that fail to reach the depths of his chest. Wordless sounds of reassurance and want spill out of both men as they fight to stay in the present. Grace snakes his arms around Simon, caressing, holding, moving slowly and never restraining. Broad chest and corded muscles firm beneath his fingers. He passes his thumb over Simon’s nipple and is met with a moan.
“Damn it Ryland.”
Simon grinds down into his lap, rolling his hips in a slow and steady rhythm. Whatever fire raced through Ryland before is threatening to immolate him, here, on the spot. Simon’s kisses are becoming more frantic, nipping Ryland’s lips until they swell. It’s so much.
Suddenly— Simon is upright, towering over Ryland as he is left dizzy and drunk on endorphins. “Wuh-?” He says, cleverly.
Only to sober instantly as he watches Simon remove his trousers, freeing a heavy, darkened erection.
He swallows dryly as Simon kneels once again before him, dark eyes blazing.
”Take ‘em off, Angel.”
“Yup, mhm, yeah-” Jesus Christ- and while he could sit and find his response to that mortifying, he’s still scrambling off the bottom half of his flight suit, shoving it down with his underthings and over his own straining cock. He kicks them uncermoniously off to the side.
Simon continues his onslaught, biting and kissing his way up Ryland’s inner thighs, licking and sucking bruises until his skin feels blazing and swollen.
“Simon, fuck, nnnng-” he’s squirming under the attention, already leaking and sensitive. it’s been so long, so, so, long- he can’t remember the last time he felt this way, or if he ever had. He could run the numbers on the dilation of time-
“Oh so you can swear, I see.” Simon’s devilish smile is going to kill him.
He’s already died a few times tonight, what’s another.
Ryland runs his hands over his face, through his hair, pulling it and groaning. His eyes shut. “You’re going to be the end of me,” he manages.
“I think that’s the idea, isn’t it?”
Simon nuzzles his face closer, and drags a flat, wet, tongue along Ryland’s length, eliciting a full body shiver as his reward. Grace makes a strangled noise, his voice hitches and cracks. “It’s been a long time I’m- sorry-“ this is so much more than he was prepared for when they sat down. It’s embarrassing to be human in a human body.
“S’ok” murmurs Simon, as he continues to take Ryland apart. Sucking and licking, working slowly, methodically. He rests his weight against the couch, his hand working between his own legs- cupping, tugging. “We’ve got all the time in the universe.”
The wet heat of Simon’s mouth is unraveling him, and his hands find long dark hair yet again. They tangle and pull, and Simon growls in his throat. Ryland moans and keens, body over sensitive and on edge.
“I’m- “
Simon hmms in acknowledgment, and then, all too soon—
Stars.
Ryland comes in hot spurts, vision going white. Simon has him, allowing his spend to drip and run, swallowing what he can. Ryland slowly releases his grip on the other man’s hair, allowing his arms to fall slack. He returns, panting, to his own body.
As he wipes his mouth, all grins and a gaze that pierces, Simon stands, hand returning to work. He’s flushed, scars tinted pink.
“God you’re so beautiful—, “ Grace reaches for him, arms wide, “come- come back here, please-“ he licks and spits in his hand, “let me, please let me-“ the words trip over themselves as he tries to get them out. He went to college dammit, he’s been here before.
Simon allows himself to be led, pulled down as Ryland spreads his legs, settling between them. He leans back into Ryland’s chest, and allows his deft hand to replace his own.
It is something like playing an instrument, hands working together to make the other sing. His mouth works plastering kisses along Simon’s neck, sensitive areas behind his ear, the crook of his shoulder. One hand caresses his chest, pinches his nipple, draws his fingernails softly across ribs. The other is under the control of Simon’s own, pulling and twisting his swollen cock. He sets the pace, frantic and fervent, chasing a finish line as if it could be taken away at any moment.
“What do you need, Gorgeous?”
Simon grits his teeth, sucking in a breath and a moan, “I— dammit— don’t need anything Angel, just you.”
Grace preens at this, feeling proud of his work. Maybe he should have played the cello instead of just a recorder—but he has a sneaking suspicion. He presses more kisses, before he bites, hard, into the flesh of Simon’s shoulder, rolling his hips beneath him.
Simon comes, head thrown back, grinding and groaning, hips bucking into Ryland’s hand. It coats his stomach, their hands, hot and viscous.
“That’s it Simon,” Ryland murmurs, “so good, so beautiful,” pressing kisses to Simon’s temple. Simon collapses back, shivering and boneless, panting.
“Mmmm,” he hums and mumbles, “that… thank you,” he manages. Ryland laughs, the shaking of his chest vibrant and warm as he covers Simon in kisses, every exposed inch of his face peppered, while Simon squirms.
“So… Do you want to spend the night?”
“Fucker I live here, what are you fucking talking about?”