#but its grimmons kissing so i love it anyway

[driftagemixer]

grimmons post for da month 😁😁😁

@skipitty-bop thank u for actually convincing me to finish it

[scintillating-galaxias]

Light

A Grimmons marriage proposal thing I decided to upload to tumblr because I need validation for everything I do. :^)

(Read it here on Ao3)

Summary:

If he were to actually put in the effort into getting up, he’d see dewy grass that glimmers in the sunlight like diamonds. He could breathe in the clean air and let it sit as a chill in his lungs, then start coughing because they’d still be too sensitive from years of bad habits. He could sit for hours and watch the wisps of dawn slowly melt away into a clear blue sky, then carry on with the rest of his day.

He could.

But the comforters were so heavy and warm, he didn't really have any pulling need to go and see what the world had to offer. Besides. He thinks the sight next to him is better than any view the entire universe could give him.

Grif slowly blinks awake to light filtering red through his eyelids. With a groan, he yanks the covers over his head and rolls over. But no matter which way he turns his head, the light always finds a way to shine on his face. So with a scowl, he yawns a jaw-creaking yawn and pushes himself upright, only to shrink back when the cold air grazes his bare skin. He goes for settling against the pillows and just blinking blearily about the room.

His eyes wander and eventually fixate the golden light filtering through the frosted window panes. It catches every bit of dust caught in its beams. Grif spends a few moments watching the particles drift silently around the room before disappearing into unlit spots. He gets bored of that quickly and glances over to the right wall. There stands the cherrywood bookshelf, pristine and organized as always. Several books of all sorts take up a majority of the shelves. The rest is claimed by countless tidbits and photos collected from day-to-day life.

Grif looks outside the window. A cloudless morning sky greets him, dyed with pale pinks and purples like watercolors. Black bare branches of oak trees cut dark stripes into the scene. A crow flies by, cawing loudly. A car slowly passes, gravel crackling loudly under the tires. From somewhere down the street, he hears a baby wail, but it's quieted blessedly quick.

If he were to actually put in the effort into getting up, he’d see dewy grass that glimmers in the sunlight like diamonds. He could breathe in the clean air and let it sit as a chill in his lungs, then start coughing because they’d still be too sensitive from years of bad habits. He could sit for hours and watch the wisps of dawn slowly melt away into a clear blue sky, then carry on with the rest of his day.

He could.

But the comforters were so heavy and warm, he didn't really have any pulling need to go and see what the world had to offer. Besides. He thinks the sight next to him is better than any view the entire universe could give him.

The sight is Simmons, still peacefully sleeping. His brows are furrowed and his lips are turned into a tiny pout like he was solving a complicated equation in his sleep. It was incredibly infuriating; the guy was a ridiculously light sleeper. So if Grif were to kiss those pouty lips or try to use his thumb to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows, he’d wake up, and then get mad at him. So he resists. For now.

Well, an evil little part of him reasons, he wakes up around this time anyway. What's a half hour to lose?

But then Simmons rolls over to face Grif, and Grif swears he can physically feel the little devil floating over his shoulder disappear in a tiny black cloud.

The sunlight pouring in through the window gets caught in Simmons’ mussed up curls. The red highlights turn into a blinding white, forming a little half halo around his head. The light throws the rest of his hair and face into contrast, and for one brief moment, Grif thinks he just like something out of a Renaissance painting. An angel, maybe.

"Goddammit," Grif whispers as quietly as he can. “Look what you did. Makin’ me all sappy 'n shit. Fuck you, man.”

Simmons does not respond.

An angel. Grif snorts derisively. If angels were nerdy, brown-nosed, and capable of out-bitching anyone on the planet, then sure, Simmons was an angel. Or maybe one of those baby Cupid things. Simmons certainly whined as much as a baby and was equally, if not more, annoying.

Well. A baby wouldn't know the script to every Star Wars movie by heart, or the know exact hex code for Grif’s favorite color, nor did they spend hours trying to learn how to make one Hawaiian dish after a passing nostalgic comment, or call him to remind him to take his medications in the afternoon at work.

What a fucking dork.

Simmons mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep. Whatever it was caused his hand to emerge from deep within the soft covers and start patting softly in Grif’s general direction. Grif smiles softly— God, it’s so soft and domestic, he’s almost glad Simmons is still asleep— and puts his own hand in front of Simmons’ wandering fingers. They find it and wrap themselves nimbly around his palm. The corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly and the crease in his brow fades.

I’m gonna marry this man.

Grif takes a deep breath, eyes flickering over to the sock drawer. Deep in its messy depths sits a golden band with a strip of ruby darting through the middle. It’s been a year since he’d bought it. The gold is slightly duller in some spots with how many times he sat each day thumbing it and contemplating whether he should put it to use.

But he never could.

Sixteen years ago, he met Richard Simmons as a fifteen-year-old freshman in a high school science class. He had accidentally set his eyebrows on fire in their first lab. They hadn't even been partners at the time, but a spark had just so happened to fly through the air and land in that spot. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Time passed, rolling on in its ruthless waves and loops.

They caught each other under the night sky with a billion twinkling stars and a huge silver moon in the middle of no-where with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a guitar in the other. It was then that Grif admitted to himself that he not only loved Simmons, but he was in love with Simmons. He wasn't sure what the difference was. He just knew there was a difference.

Then they moved out of college together and found an apartment for a while. Then, when they could afford it, they bought a little house on the edge of a woods. It was perfect; the place itself was a close drive into town, and the only common sounds were the birds chirping and car tires crunching down gravel roads. It wasn't close to any body of water, and it certainly wasn't the beaches in Hawaii, but he was okay with that. For the most part.

Four years ago, Grif realized he really, really wanted to stay forever.

Time stopped.

He wanted to stay with this mess of a man who once banned Grif from using the washing machine after dying his underwear pink one too many times, but still stayed up late when he had work talking to Grif in soft tones, no specific subject being discussed, who couldn't tell directions for shit but still made the effort into trying to get them to a beach every once in a while to swim in the freezing Northwestern ocean, who cried if a dog died in a movie, but still snapped at anyone who dared to snicker at Grif in public.

They argued a lot. They argued and snapped and did petty things to each other, far, far more than the average couple. Sure. It was weird. They both knew that. But it worked for them both, and Grif couldn't imagine a world where his best friend and the love of his life was named someone other than Richard Simmons.

Time resumed.

He trusts Simmons. He’s given him every vulnerability he has and he trusts him to not suddenly drop it like a vase slipping through fingers, splintering into millions of pieces and bits of dust, unable to ever be fully restored again. So he trusts him to not say no.

So what was he waiting for?

What if he does say no? whispers the doubt in his heart. What difference would it make anyway? All it would be is one bit of metal and some words. It’s easier to shut up and let things run its course.

"It’s a different different," Grif murmurs.

"Wha’s differen’?"

Grif stiffens and looks down as Simmons’ eyes flutter open. They focus blearily on Grif for a second before they fall shut again.

"Uh. S’nothin’," Grif says quickly. Nothing my fat ass.

"Mm." Simmons finally notices the light grip he has on Grif’s hand. He considers it for a brief moment before he navigates Grif’s palm to cup his cheek. "So why’re you al—al—" He fails to stifle a huge yawn. Grif smiles. Why was sleepy Simmons so sappy and sweet? This was unfair. "Why’re you already up?"

Shit. "Those, um." A crow caws loudly, setting off a cacophonous orchestra of its friends for a few seconds before they stop. "That. Those— Those dumbass birds. They, uh, wouldn't shut up this morning. Yeah."

Simmons hums, brows furrowing faintly. "You sleep like a fuckin’ log. Since when did birds ever bother you?"

"Um, well, it’s almost spring, right?" He’s grasping at straws at this point. "I bet every single one of ‘em trying to get laid. Gotta be all loud and shit to get some. Early bird gets the worm and all."

"Ugh, stop," Simmons groans, but he doesn't press it. He tries to sit up, but he ends up making this disgusted noise and shrinking back into the covers.

“What the hell was that?" Grif laughs.

"‘S cold,” Simmons says defensively.

"How can you wake up, not even leave the bed, and still get cold?"

"Shut up."

Grif rolls his eyes and lifts up his arm. Simmons smiles gratefully and he scoots himself closer, tucking himself easily up against Grif’s side. "Almost twenty years," he murmurs into Grif’s chest. "And I still don't know how you manage to never be cold."

"Having a hot bod has its perks. I guess you wouldn't know."

He feels Simmons scowl. "I’ve already told you why it happens."

"Please don't start."

"You aren't hotter than me—"

"Even though I totally am."

"Shut up, thanks. Ugh. Where was I?"

"You were talking about how I was hotter than you."

"Oh my god!" Simmons struggles to push himself up so he's leaning against the headboard. "It's because you have..." Within a few seconds, Grif tunes the rest out, more interested in the way Simmons' lips move rather than the words that fly from them at breakneck speeds. The way his hands gesture wildly, up and down, side to side, as if he could create his thoughts into something tangible. The way the little glint in his green eyes gets brighter as he gets into the more science-y bits, shining like a gold coin in an emerald meadow. The way he pauses in his tangent just long enough to let Grif get in his sarcastic quips, how he's grown to let that be a normal thing in their conversations.

God, I love this guy.

Simmons suddenly laughs, breaking him out of his thoughts. "What's with your face?"

"What's what with my face?"

"You're like... Being all smiley," Simmons muses, poking Grif in the ribs. Grif swats at him.

"What, so I can't have a good morning without it being suspicious?"

Simmons ignores him. "Seriously. You're up early, which is a sign of the apocalypse, and you’re acting really weird. What's going on?"

"Nnnope, dunno what you're talking about, I’m gonna go start breakfast, are you in a coffee mood?"

"Uh—"

"Sounds good!" Grif practically falls out of the bed in an attempt to pick up his sweatshirt while also kicking back the covers. Simmons watches with a bemused expression, but he doesn't say anything.

"One more week," he mutters to himself as he speed-walks away to the kitchen, face aflame. "One more week," he says again while slamming a few pieces of bread into the toaster. It was supposed to be their anniversary by then. That was romantic, right? Proposing on their anniversary? Wait, did people have dating anniversaries? Of course they did, how did he forget that? Okay, was it even romantic to do that? To propose on their anniversary? Oh, God, he doesn't even actually have a plan besides getting down on one knee and saying his thing! He didn't even have a backup plan!He could just wing it, it's worked for everything in the past. There was no reason for it to fail now.

"Calm down," he mutters. He could just wing it, it's worked for everything in the past. There was no reason for it to fail now. Except for like, every reason ever.

The eggs hiss as he cracks them open into the frying pan. "One week," he repeats one last time. "Gonna romance the shit out of him. I'm gonna do it."

…But one week was an awfully long ways away.

Grif shakes his head and throws open the fridge, glancing around with his lips pursed. "Simmons!" he yells into the fridge. "Whaddya want to eat?"

Silence. Then Simmons calls back in a distracted tone, "What?"

"What. Do. You. Want. To. Eat!"

"What?"

"God fucking dammit." Grif throws his head back and makes a frustrated noise. He closes the door, turns off the toaster and the stove, then marches back to their room.

"Wait!" Simmons yelps as Grif slams the door open. Simmons yelps and shoves his hand into the covers. Grif raises his brow.

"What was that?" he asks, suspicious.

"Nothing!" he squeaks. He reaches up to adjust his crooked glasses and pulls the covers a little closer around his hand. Grif smirks. Simmons seems to read his mind because huffs and says, "I wasn't doing that." Grif gives him a look. “I wasn’t!”

"That sounds exactly like what someone who was totally jerking it would say."

Simmons throws his hands up. "Oh, my God, I wasn’t fucking doing that! Why…"

What should happen next was that Simmons would work himself up, get all red and the face and be "angry", but Grif would laugh and bypass all of his reasoning, derail the conversation, then start another argument about something else that’s completely unrelated to the original topic.

Instead, his eyes lock onto the small, velvety box Simmons has clenched tightly in his hand.

He feels his heart speed up and every other sound drown under the roar of his blood rushing to his head. Everything seems to zoom out to a tiny speck, Simmons as the center point. Simmons finally sees where he’s looking and slowly trails off. He glances at his hand. Then at Grif. Then back again. "Fuck."

"Simmons," Grif says back, but it’s all he can say, because holy shit. Silence was supposed to mean a lack of any noise whatsoever, wasn't it? So why did it sound like the roar of the ocean, the crackling of a thousand fireworks, bright moments of laughter playing like a slideshow?

"Grif," Simmons says carefully. He bites his lip, slowly letting his hand drop. "Um."

Reality snaps from being a tiny speck to suddenly being in high definition. Every freckle on Simmons’ face stood out, every color was brighter, every little thing seemed to move so slowly and smoothly. Grif’s hands go to his mouth, then to the side of his head. He has a million things he to say, a thousand variations of, Thank you, Oh my God, holy fucking shit, is this real, is this happening?

Instead of voicing a single word of any of that, or even just outright saying, "Yes," he spits out, "Fuck you!"

Why? screams the chorus in his head.

Simmons blinks, visibly taken aback.

Was it because of his nature to just say, and not think?

His mouth parts in surprise before his expression crumples and it snaps shut, lips pressed together in a determined line.

Or was it because that's how was supposed to respond? He was Grif, Simmons was Simmons. They were supposed to disagree.

"I’m sorry," Simmons says lowly. His voice is trembling.

Or was it because he was back to being the petty fifteen-year-old he was when they met, acting without a care for the consequences? Guilt gnaws at Grif, clenching him in chilled claws of dread.

"I thought—I thought—Oh, God," Simmons moans, pressing his hands into his face. "What the hell am I doing?"

"What—Oh, Jesus, no, no! Simmons, no, that's not—!" Grif crosses the room in quick strides, reaching to hold Simmons’ face in his hands. But he shrinks away, and that action right there hits Grif harder than anything else.

"I’m sorry," Simmons repeats, furiously swiping at his eyes. "I wasn't thinking. I should’ve waited. I should’ve—"

Something clicks in Grif’s brain, which, for being so light and floaty a few seconds ago, now feels like it was spinning wildly out of his control, crashing, and promptly bursting into flames. He presses a hand to his temple. "Simmons, shut up and gimme a second to fucking think. ‘Kay?"

"I think you’ve made it pretty clear what you think," Simmons spits. Grif swallows back the lump in his throat.

"No," he says as firmly as he can. "You’re just jumping the gun as-per-fuckin’-usual." He squeezes Simmons’ thigh reassuringly, then darts for the dresser. He nearly pulls the whole drawer out as he yanks it open, tossing pair after pair of socks onto the floor.

"Um. Grif." Grif doesn't look up.

"Dex." Be strong, Grif.

"Dexter." Fuck. He looks up to Simmons’ expression, wishing immediately he hadn’t. He's stopped crying at least, but his cheeks are splotchy and a few stray tears still cling stubbornly to his eyelashes. Grif had done that. He and his stupid brain that couldn't say the stuff he needed to say it had done that. He's made him cry before, and he's felt bad about it, but not like this. Never like this. "Why—?"

"In a sec." Grif lets out a growl of frustration as he forcefully throws the socks he's holding against the wall. "Goddammit, where is it!"

"Where’s what?"

"Simmons, shut—" He hear's a clatter and the telltale sound of something rattling along on the floor. Grif curses and pounces onto the ground, sweeping his arm under the dresser. Simmons watches on with bewildered eyes.

"Okay." He hiccups a weak, wet laugh. "Okay, seriously, what the hell are you doing?"

"Looking," Grif grunts as he stretches an arm under the bed, "for—this!" He pinches his fingers around the ring and slides himself out from under the bed with only a small hassle. He sits up on his knees and holds up the ring.

Whatever Simmons had been planning on saying next fades away as he stares at the glittering bit of metal. The silence that fills the room is so heavy, so still that even the dust in the sunlight slows to a stop. The birds stop their morning songs and the only thing that exists is that ring, him, and Simmons.

He blinks once. Then twice. Grif swallows nervously and watches him like a hawk as he slowly lifts up his hands and takes off his glasses, taking his time to clean them. He slides them back on and the look he gives him feels like his very soul is being stared into.

"You," Simmons finally says, voice trembling, shoulders shaking, "are the biggest fucking asshole."

Relief floods Grif is like a drug, washing out the tension in his stomach and making his shoulder slump. "I wanted—" His voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "I wanted to be the first one to ask. I was waiting for-fucking-ever to be first." He chuckles and drags his other hand down his face. "That's why I—Agh. You know. So you going to try and steal it from me? Fuck you, man."

Simmons’ mouth flaps open and closed. Then, to Grif’s horror, fat tears start rolling down his cheeks all over again. "You ass," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry. I was the one that wasn't thinking."

Simmons huffs. Grif picks himself up off the floor and cautiously sits down on the edge of the bed. Simmons instantly wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, and buries his face into the crook of Grif’s shoulder, still mumbling and curses. After a few moments of Grif rubbing his back, Simmons pulls away and punches him in the arm, scowling.

"Don’t," he starts. "Don't ev—ever scare me like that again, oh my God!"

"Sorry," Grif says automatically. Simmons takes off his glasses again— they kept getting fogged up anyways— and kisses him. It's light, a bit uncoordinated. It's like their first kiss all over again, noses getting squashed on each other's cheeks and teeth clacking lightly, only the uncertainty is replaced with something like a question as if Simmons was asking, was he really sorry, was this really going to be okay?

"How long?" Simmons whispers against his mouth. He still has his awful morning breath, and Grif could absolutely not care any less.

"What?"

Simmons pulls away just far away enough that he can still lean his forehead against Grif’s. "You said you were waiting for 'forever.' How long were you thinking about...?"

Dating for seven years, Grif thinks, and we still suck ass at direct communication. No, he realizes, ‘dating’ isn't right anymore. Engaged and they still suck ass at direct communication. Or, wait. No, they weren't engaged yet. Neither of them had actually popped the question.

He was going to be engaged. Soon. As in, now soon. Oh, holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

"Grif?"

"Oh, uh." Grif coughs and clears his throat in embarrassment. "Four years? I bought this thing"—he gestures to the ring—"like, a year ago, though.”

"What?! We could have—Could have—" Simmons turns red. "Gotten engaged like, four years ago, and you didn't say anything!?"

"Hey man, I wasn't sure! I didn't want to push!"

"Pushing my buttons is your ‘thing’ though, you said so!"

"Oh, and you did so much better? How long were you waiting?"

Simmons falls silent at that. Grif snorts, smug. "See why I didn't—"

"Five years."

Grif chokes. "What?"

Simmons takes a deep breath. The tone in the room shifts to something a little more serious. "So—So you know when we met. Freshman year. We started hanging out a lot. And when you came over the first time, my dad, um. He..."

"He hated me."

"Yeah." Simmons' expression turns guilty. "I... I felt awful about this, and I still do, but I tried to, too."

"Tried to what?"

Simmons bites his lip hesitantly. "Hate you," he says quickly. Grif's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline as Simmons rushes on. "Because it was messing everything somewhat-decent up between my dad and me." Grif stares at him. "Seriously! Literally, the only thing I wanted back then was to get on good terms with my dad. It seemed logical to me. So I keep trying to find reasons to convince myself to do it." 

"Gee, thanks," Grif says dryly. Simmons cringes and glances away. "Was that why you stopped talking to me for like, two months? I here I was thinking it was because I stole the last carton of almond milk that week."

"I—How the hell do you remember that? Of course you would, what am I saying?" Grif doesn't know what he means by that, but he doesn't comment. "Okay, anyway, here's the thing; it fucking sucked."

Grif frowns. "So why'd you do it?"

"Because I really thought it would help." Simmons swallows. "I thought if I, if I stuck to myself, did everything on my own to prove I could be independent, lived my life to prove a point to my dad, I would get something out of it. But I didn't. And I honestly couldn't get why." Simmons snorts. "I thought it was your fault, at first. It just had to be in some way or another, because I was convinced that was how it was supposed to be. Turned out I had a case of something called missing my friend. Wow. Crazy." He sighs. "My dad definitely didn't make things easier. On one hand, he seemed happy I stopped talking to you. But he made it seem like it wasn't enough."

It takes a lot of effort to not just say, "Yeah, and?" because Grif knows all of this. He remembers the times Simmons would show up to school with bags under reddened eyes. He remembers when he would argue and snap much more when something had happened back home. He remembers when Simmons would show up at his house late at night with a scowl and a single duffel bag. He remembers the arguments he had with Simmons' father about their lives. He remembers it all. "No offense Simmons, but I know that? I don't—I don't know what's new here about your dad being a total dickwad."

Simmons scrunches his brow, lips twisting thoughtfully. "When we started hanging out again, I was like, twenty times worse about everything. Some of the stuff I said was awful, even by our standards. I'm really sorry about that, by the way."

"Only took you sixteen years."

Simmons sighs and leans closer into Grif. "It took me way too long to realize why I had so many issues with… Everything. About you. Even when we were around each other, I would sit there wondering why I was being so persnickety—"

"'Persnickety?' Why do you have to be such an old man? Only Sarge says shit like that."

"Shut up, I’m being serious!"

"Richard Simmons? Being serious? No."

Simmons gives him a look. Grif coughs and waves him on. "At first, I thought— I thought—" He puffs out his cheeks and blows out. “When we got closer,” he starts again, slowly, “I realized how different we were. And that difference was just... Crazy to me. I didn't see how someone could live the way you did and… Not have any consequences for it?"

It's called having shitty parents who weren't around enough to actually berate you about a bad grade or some shit. Not much better of a life, Simmons. But he doesn't say that. He knows it'll derail the conversation into this mess of apologies and reassurances, It's fine, No, really, it's fine, Oh my god, I said it was fine, can we move on?

"Right. Anyways. I started chastising you for doing the things I wasn't allowed to do, and you hated it, but I think— I think, back then, I thought I was helping?" Grif stays silent. Simmons makes this disgusted noise. "'Helping.' All I did was make you try to not do stuff even more."

"Damn right."

"But even after all of that, it took a year after we started going out in college to realize that not everyone had that life. My life. They shouldn't have that life. I thought it was normal."

"It was fucked up," Grif reiterates. Okay. He knew this was supposed to mean something. But he had no idea what the hell it was supposed to be.

"It was fucked up," Simmons echoes. "But I didn't realize that at the time. You did, though."

Grif blinks. "Huh? What'd I do?"

To his surprise, Simmons doesn't roll his eyes or start smugly explaining in the same way one would explain to a child. Instead, his shoulders relax and his smile grows. "You gave me the push I needed to get myself to realize what was wrong. You gave me the chance to try again."

"Oh." Grif ducks his head away, embarrassed. He hadn't done any of those things on purpose. His entire goal of his high school career was only to try to get Simmons to relax for once in his life, which, in hindsight, was a little weird. Whatever it was, it shouldn't have been some emotional revelation. There wasn't supposed to be some hidden meaning. But if Simmons saw something and was waxing poetic about it, well, he wasn't about to stop him.

"Basically, you told me, "Hey, shut the fuck up for a second and relax." I got the message, but I didn't know how to do that. I had spent so much of my time and energy trying to do stuff for other people that I never stepped back to do what I wanted. So when it came to it, I was lost. But you... It was all you. You taught how to do it!" Simmons laughs again. He takes Grif’s hands eagerly in his own, peering at him with shining eyes. "Grif, you showed me that I could live for me. Not my dad. Not my mom. It was for whoever the hell I wanted to."

Oh. Oh. Something in Grif’s heart swells until he swears it’s going to burst out of him in this mess of affection. "Oh," he says intelligently, because what else was there to say?

Simmons is still talking. "I didn't really think back on that until we got back from a party from five years ago, and we got home at like two in the morning, and we were drunk as fuck, and I was so fucking happy!"

"Because you were drunk?"

"No, goddammit, it was because I was wondering earlier, ‘Where would I be without you? What life would I be living? What if you hadn't?’"—he snorts in disbelief— "Remember our first lab together?"

Grif tilts his head. "The one where I set your eyebrows on fire?"

"Yeah. I was wondering, what if you hadn't even done that? It was so fucking long ago, why would it matter? But then I kept thinking, and what if you hadn't kept messing with me after that? What if I hadn't spent two weeks trying to get you back for that? What if we had just gotten over it and forgot about each other? And holy shit Grif, it was the scariest fucking thing. I knew right then and there I didn't want that. I didn't want to be somewhere else. But it was okay. It was okay because I didn't need to worry about it. This is where I am now. I'm not in a different world where a guy named Dexter Grif didn't exist in my life. I'm in the world that does." And here, Simmons’ expression goes deadly serious. But within his eyes is a small flare of hopefulness and... Something else, burning with intensity. "I don't even want to think about it being any different, Dexter. I’m hoping you don't either."

Grif closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath through his nose, trying his damn hardest not to cry, but he's failing epically. He knows Simmons is still watching him intently, so he has to take a minute to compose himself and get his next words out. He opens his eyes again. “I don't,” he says in a croaky voice, "I mean, I don't want it to be different. ‘Cept for one thing."

"And what would that be?"

"I got a question for you, Richard."

"Mm?" He's smiling again.

The words come out after a deep breath in, then out.

“Wanna get married?”

Simmons’ smile melts into something so gentle and sweet that Grif nearly misses his next words. "I don't think that's how it goes," he says softly, but he's taking Grif’s face into his hands anyway. For once, they're warm.

"Shut up and answer the question, dumbass."

"Yeah." He’s crying again, that fucker, but Grif is too, so he can't really say anything. "Yes. Yes, I do, God, yes—"

Grif kisses him, not because that's what (he thinks) he's supposed to do, but because he doesn't know how words can convey the emotions that are rushing out of every part of his being. Joy, first of all, overwhelming, burning joy, affection, fondness, jubilation. Any worry and concern he had is buried and forgotten as their breath and tears mix, soon followed by their giddy laughter, the notes floating up in the room and hanging like stars.

The rings do look rather nice in the sunlight.

[a-taller-tale]

Love Letter

“Matchmaking” square for Red Team Bingo Summary: Grif should never have written anything down. Grimmons, based on this brilliant idea and sketch from @sabishiita​.

Hey Simmons,

You’ll never hear this from me but-

Grif crossed out the note.

Doc wanted me to do this stupid fucking exercise to let out my feelings on paper and I told him it was stupid and now I’m doing it anyway. Fuck.

He didn’t know why Doc was suddenly taking an interest in his mental health. Grif should’ve been wary of him after the last time the group had a therapy session, but Grif really didn’t know what to say to Simmons. This was as good an idea as any.

That morning, Simmons was losing his shit at Grif over something that didn’t matter at all. Again. It had been happening more and more often lately and Grif was getting sick of it. He'd tried to stalk off but Simmons kept following him.

The frustration bubbled over until Grif was yelling. “Why don’t you find someone else to bother? I’m so sick of your fucking face.”

Simmons bit his lip, then turned on his heel and left before he could try to backtrack. Grif didn’t lose his temper often, and when he did it burned out quick. The look on Simmons’ face was enough to have it drain out of him immediately. Simmons was less of a crybaby than he had been back in Blood Gulch, but Grif definitely made him cry. He felt like an asshole.

Lately Simmons was just so… It was hard to put into words.

I’m not sick of you, okay? I shouldn’t have said it. I know that’s a thing for you.

But its

Sometimes

Sometimes I get pissed when we have the same fights over and over and I don’t know why. I’ve always been this way and you’ve always been you and we fit.

Why does me being normal suddenly piss you off so much?

Okay, so sometimes Grif still liked to mess with Simmons. A lot. It was hilarious to watch his face contort from disbelief to anger and back again. But it didn’t usually backfire like this. Fighting was what they did. But there was an edge to it now that he didn’t recognize.

Doc and Donut had seen the whole thing, of course, and kept trying to give him advice when he didn’t want to talk about it.

“If you can’t explain how you’re feeling out loud, it can help to try it another way,” Doc pointed out after Simmons had stormed off. “Like on paper. Pretend you’re writing him a letter. Use ‘I feel’ statements. Then you’ll know how to respond next time this comes up and ideally won’t use your words as hurtful weapons!”

“Yeah, thanks Doc. That’s really helpful,” he said flatly.

Donut piped in. “I keep a diary and it helps loads with my secret feelings and fantasies! Here, you can even use my notebook.” He produced a lightish-red notebook with a matching pen from seemingly nowhere.

“I’m not going to write down my feelings about Simmons,” Grif groused.

Doc shrugged. “Suit yourself! We can’t help anyone who won’t help themselves.” He switched to his O’Malley voice. “That will be a $25 copay for the fifteen minutes of talk therapy I’m never getting back.”

Grif flipped him off. “Bill me.”

But when he got back to his room, Donut’s notebook still clutched in his hand, he felt like trying.

Are we even friends? he wrote.

Fuck, that was dramatic. Sounded too much like Simmons. He scribbled it out.

I don’t want to lose you.

Okay, the melodrama wasn’t budging. Maybe writing it out would purge it.

It’s fine if we never get together. It’s fine if we never make out or cuddle or nap together or move in together if we ever get out of here. I’m okay. I’m always okay.

But I need you in my face right now. I love your face. I love you.

Grif stopped writing. Stared at the page. Then he crumpled it up and tossed it at the trash.

Thirty seconds later he actually got his ass up and crumpled it into a tiny ball and buried it deep in the can. Had to make sure no one would find it and read it. He’d burn it, but he hadn’t picked up a new lighter since Simmons confiscated his last one.

He’d watch TV and not think about Simmons and how it felt now that they weren’t in sync anymore. How it felt like Grif was going to lose him.

Donut and Doc came to his door to collect Donut’s feelings journal back and Grif tossed it at them without looking up.

When Simmons came back into their shared room, late, he didn’t look at Grif or say anything as he got changed to go to bed. Grif was in his own bed and pretended to be sleeping, watching him through slit eyes. Simmons’ expression alternated between sullen and kicked puppy, and he eyed the overflowing wastebasket in the room. “You never take out the fucking trash,” he muttered, clicking off the light and climbing into bed.

Grif’s eyes popped open, mind zooming in on exactly where in the trash his scribbled note was and racing through the unlikely scenario that Simmons would find it. The nerd’s anxiety was starting to rub off on him.

Realizing he wasn’t going to get any sleep until he did it, for the first time in years, Dexter Grif voluntarily took out the trash. After he was sure the nerd was sleeping and wouldn’t see him anyway.

Donut and Doc were snickering at each other a lot more than usual at lunch the next day.

Donut so obviously wanted him to ask what was up that Grif just continued eating until Donut couldn’t hold it in anymore. Sure enough, he couldn’t help spilling. “Now don’t get mad, okay?”

“Hm?” Grif grunted.

“Weeeellllll, I might have done something fun to get Simmons to forgive you for saying those hurtful things,” Donut said.

Grif paused with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. “What did you do?”

Doc volunteered this time, because they were the fucking wonder twins these days. “I noticed the torn page in Donut’s secret diary and we thought we’d do something to help you crazy kids.”

“You bear down really hard, Grif,” Donut said, ignoring the horror that was creeping into Grif’s expression. “It was easy to make a copy of that beautiful love letter you wrote Simmons and leave it on the floor next to his desk. He’ll think it was an accident. Finding someone’s secret love confession is the best trope!”

“What the fuck, Donut?”

“This way he’ll know that hiding your love for him all these years is the reason you snapped at him. It’s romantic!” Donut made a heart with his hands.

"And if you lose everything in the process I’ll forgive you the copay,” O’Malley cackled.

“O’Malley, you know I don’t like that kind of negative talk,” Donut scolded.

Grif really wanted to punch both of them in the face for not minding their own business, but it was his own fault anyway for listening to Doc and Donut.

There was no time. Simmons would be going back to the room for a break after the morning training his squad any minute.

Grif ran faster than any shotgun had ever motivated him to. He was out of breath when he got to the room and he thought maybe he’d made it, but when he opened the door Simmons was already there, clutching the piece of paper in his hands and standing very still.

Grif grabbed at his hair. This was the nail in the coffin. Simmons would act weird around him, ask for a different room. Things would never be the same again. And unlike any other time in his life, he couldn’t make himself not care this time. He’d lost a lot before. Losing Simmons too, after everything…

Simmons looked up over his shoulder. His eyes were wide and questioning, a flush over his nose and in his cheeks and a little frown on his face like when he was trying to figure something out. Grif didn’t know what his own face was doing, but whatever it was made Simmons’ breath catch as he took it in.

“You weren’t supposed to see that—” Grif started, his mind racing for any excuse. “It’s not—” He didn’t have any excuses. Simmons knew it was his handwriting. He was writing a play? Transcribing something for Donut? So hangry he went into a fugue state and didn’t know what he’d written?

He could usually talk Simmons into believing anything when he really needed to, but his brain couldn’t get past the fact that he had to learn how to be alone again now because there was no way Simmons would take this well.

Simmons marched up to him and pulled Grif in by his shoulders. It took three seconds too long for Grif to react, but Simmons cupped his jaw and Grif’s hand went to Simmons’ hip and Simmons was kissing him. Grif was kissing him back.

After all these years it felt more natural than Grif had imagined it. Simmons’ hand went up into his hair and stroked and Grif melted against him.

“I love your face too, Grif,” Simmons said quietly when they finally parted.

“Yeah,” Grif said, vaguely aware he was having an out of body experience, but pretty okay with it actually. “You too.”

Simmons was still bright red and would probably freak later, but he snickered at Grif now and gave him a peck on the cheek. “That’s for taking out the trash.”

Hey Simmons,

You’ll never hear this from me but-

Doc wanted me to do this stupid fucking exercise to let out my feelings on paper and I told him it was stupid and now I’m doing it anyway. Fuck.

I’m not sick of you, okay? I shouldn’t have said it. I know it’s a thing for you.

But its

Sometimes

Sometimes I get pissed when we have the same fights over and over and I don’t know why. I’ve always been this way and you’ve always been you and we fit.

Why does me being normal suddenly piss you off so much?

Are we even friends anymore?

I don’t want to lose you.

It’s fine if we never get together. It’s fine if we never make out or cuddle or nap together or move in together if we ever get out of the army. I’m okay. I’m always okay.

But I need you in my face right now. I love your face. I love you.

[scintillating-galaxias]

Opposites, Chapter 2

im not sure if i should tag this too? since the first part has everything tagged?… maybe its fine idk but anyways!! chapter two of my grimmons fic, i hope you guys enjoy!!

(read it here on ao3)

1 / 2

A few days pass. Simmons is being weird again. He glances to Grif more often than not when he’s talking, says certain words with more emphasis, and again with the physical contact! He swears he’s been touched on the shoulder, or his back, or his arm more this past week than his entire lifetime. He thought Simmons wasn’t a huge fan of the whole touching thing!

He glances slyly at Simmons, who’s reassembling a rifle. His tongue peeks out from between his lips like it always does when he’s focused. When was the last time the guy has a hug? Not a ‘thank God you’re alive’ embrace of pure fear and desperation, just a simple, totally platonic, hug?

When was the last time Grif had had one?

The first one that comes to mind is Kai holding onto him as tight as her small arms could when he was leaving. But that was over a decade ago. It couldn’t have been that long since then. Could it? No. Maybe? No, no, that couldn’t be right, he knows that’s not right—

“Penny for your thoughts?” Simmons’ voice breaks him out of his musings.

“Make it a dollar and you have a deal.” Simmons rolls his eyes and fishes out a piece of chewing gum from somewhere in his armor.

“A piece of really old gum for your thoughts?” he rephrases in a monotone. Grif takes the gum and unwraps it thoughtfully.

“Not much. Just thinkin’ about Kai.” Grif pops the gum in his mouth and tilts his head a little. “We should go get her soon. No, scratch that, we are gonna go get her soon. And then we’re going right the fuck home. No more of this totally bullshit war, or wars, or whatever the hell is going on anymore.”

Simmons is quiet for a moment. “Is that—” he coughs and clears throat. He tries again. “That’s what you really want?”

“Hell yeah! Why the fuck wouldn’t I want to go home? That’s way better than what we’ve been doing, which is basically travel through a void for a bit, find some big rock with issues, move on after we fix said issue, find a cooler, bigger rock with more problems. Except for this time, it has snow! Wow! Oh, and we might die again. Whoop-dee-fuckin’-do.”

The conversation lulls a bit. Grif carefully retightens a screw in his own gun. Not too tight, the firing mechanisms might go wrong, not too loose, the recoil might be off in the field. At least, that’s what he thinks it is. He really doesn’t pay attention to these things. If it works, it works, and if it blows up in his face, well, he’s wearing armor that probably costs enough to bring a small country out of debt. It should work out fine.

“Just you guys?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Simmons says quickly. He turns back to his gun. Grif looks at him for a moment longer before he shrugs and goes back to putting his own weapon together.

During lunch, Tucker approaches him. He sits down across from him and stares until Grif looks up. He has his hands laced and he leans forward on the table like some business man trying to make a deal. Grif cocks an eyebrow. Tucker clears his throat.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he tells Grif.

“Hello to you too, asshole.”

“Dude! Just fucking— It’s not hard to figure out!” Tucker throws arms up, then drags a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Christ, it’s embarrassing watching you two moon over each other! Like, holy hell, you aren’t high school teenagers! You could get shot tomorrow, and then we have to deal with Simmons crying over your dumb ass! Get your shit together!”

“Yeah well, maybe,” Grif says irritatedly, “you wouldn’t be so 'embarrassed’ about us if you guys fucked off and let us deal with it ourselves.” And he goes back to ignoring him. Man, these hash browns were just outstanding today. They actually had a little flavor to them.

“You aren’t going deal with it though! You’re just gonna keep walking away like you do with everything else!”

“What do you think of the broccoli today? I personally think a little more butter could have been used. It’s a little dry.”

“Oh my God,” Tucker groans, dragging out each word. He abruptly stands up and leaves, apparently too done with Grif to survive this conversation.

Good. He needed a nap anyway.

In the safety of his room, he thinks. He ponders and wonders and dwells on every little thing that’s happened lately.

First, his own depressive thought session that was basically just him pining. Which was just pathetic. He didn’t want to think about that.

Second, there was Simmons getting all touchy and smiley and making Grif feel warm all the time. Stupid Simmons being cute. Fuck that guy.

Then it was the Doorway Incident he’s shoved into the dark corner of his brain. Then there were those godforsaken notes that he should really take care of soon. One thing Tucker had said stuck with him; he might not have tomorrow to do this. He didn’t have the luxury to have all the time in the world to wait until the perfect moment like some people did.

Grif props his head up on one hand. The other toys with the drawstring of his sweatpants. Listen to Caboose and opposites were his hints. Opposites and spies? Clothes? Spy clothes, no, codes. Opposites and codes.

Grif gasps and nearly falls out of his bed in his haste to turn the light on. He trips ungracefully over a stray gauntlet, but he still reaches the wall and slaps it until he manages to find the switch.

He pats himself down before lunging for his armor. Fuck, where did they go! What was he wearing last? His hoodie? Grif leans down and swipes it up, rips the notes out of the front pocket, and throws himself at his desk.

“No way,” he mutters. “There’s just— No.”

You were. You were and… I am? That’s the first thing Grif can think of, so he reaches over to his datapad and writes it down. Were 'were’ and 'am’ opposites? Well, if they weren’t, they were for the time being.

Grif shakes his head. He knows how he works. He just had to get it out, then he could go and fix it later. Not like Simmons, who edited as he went along. No, now wasn’t the time to think about Simmons. Except, technically, he was right now just by dealing with these notes. If he was indirectly thinking about Simmons, would it count?

He furiously shakes his head again. “Focus,” he mutters. He thumbs the pen imprint on the back of one of the notes.

You were hopefully out hate without i.

“I am… Hopelessly? Hopeless? That’s dark, Simmons,” Grif muses. “Okay, Grif. Start talking.” He sighs. Stupid brain going off on unimportant topics. Grif clears his throat and taps the papers into a straight line.

“So,” he begins. “'I am hopelessly, in… Love? Love. With. You.’ Okay.” He picks up his datapad and writes it down. Well. He’s got the first part figured out. He could go ahead and change—

Grif’s thoughts catch up with his eyes. His brain screeches to a halt. Then it trips and falls down the stairs, where it lays there staring at a cloudless sky in shock. The low roar of blood rushing to his ears fills the silence.

He reads the words again. And again. And a third time.

“No way.” Grif leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. “I— I got something wrong, didn’t I? It’s probably— no.” He makes a weird noise that could count as a giggle, but it’s so strained it sounds hysterical. “Haha! Real funny, Simmons! Good one!” he calls out. “You— You got me, you can stop… Hiding…”

Simmons does not materialize from the walls, or burst out of his tiny closet, or appear in the doorway, roaring with laughter and clutching his stomach.

Grif reads the words again.

“What. What?!” He stands up. Paces around the room. Falls back onto his bed. Gets up, reads the sentence again.

The universe hasn’t exactly been kind to him in the past. What made it change its mind now? He has to be dreaming. He’s had scary realistic dreams before. This wouldn’t be anything new. Grif pinches himself on the wrist, hard. Nothing happens except now his wrist stings a bit. He tries his ribs and his cheeks too, but there is still no sudden reveal of a dark closet or the inside of his helmet.

Grif makes a very embarrassing, very high-pitched sound. His face splits into a wide smile that reduces his vision to slits.

“'I am hopelessly in love with you.’ Oh, my God. Oh. My. God!” The feeling in his chest is too much for him, so he stands up, walks in quick, tight circles for a moment. He barely registers his steps because he swears he’s floating, drifting just above the clouds like he does in a dream.

There is an odd feeling he’s forgetting to do something. Nothing with the notes themselves. Simmons. He had to find Simmons.

Grif stands up and charges out of his room so fast he skids into the opposite wall. There, he takes a moment to collect himself.

What does he even say?  'I’m in love with you too’? No, that’s stupid. Maybe go a little slower, maybe hug him, or kiss his face, or something. No, what if Simmons wanted to go even slower than that? Could Grif hold his hand while watching a movie? That’s so cliché and corny, Simmons would love it, but what if he didn’t? Fuck! He doesn’t know what to do besides panic!

Before he sends himself into a downward spiral, he pushes off of the wall and bursts into Simmons’ room. Simmons himself is sitting on the edge of on his bed, capping and uncapping his calligraphy pen. He stands up quickly as Grif braces himself against the doorway

“What’s wro—”

“Did you mean it?” Simmons blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“The notes, are they real? Did you mean it, Simmons?” He hates the vulnerability is his voice, but he has to make sure, he has to be positive this wasn’t a sick, cruel joke. “Do you actually…?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I do, dumbass!” Grif’s mind goes blank for a second. His lips move on their own accord.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t look as embarrassed as Grif initially thought he would be.

“You’re serious.” Grif can feel the grin coming back. Something in his chest swells.

“Yes, Grif, oh my God!” And there it is, that red flush on his cheeks. It makes his freckles stand out more, his green eye just a little bit brighter. It’s a nice look on him in Grif’s professional opinion.

“Ho-ly shit.” Grif crosses the room in quick, short strides, and holds Simmons’ face in his hands. The pen drops to the floor. “You’re real. This is—” Grif breaks off in nervous laughter. The butterflies in his stomach feel more like a school of fish by the way it flips when Simmons smiles. It’s a little squashed by the way Grif is cupping his cheeks, but it’s a nice smile nonetheless. “Wow.”

For a moment, they just stare at each other in a mix of awe and shock. Simmons suddenly starts chuckling. His head falls onto Grif’s shoulder and wraps his long arms around his torso. “You’re really fucking thick headed sometimes, you know that?”

“Excuse me, sometimes? You should know me better by now. It’s all or nothing.” Grif’s brows furrow. “Hey, that reminds me, why did you go straight for… You know.” The words get stuck, even though he doesn’t reason for them to be anymore. “I— I’m in love with you? And not like, 'Hey, wanna go out?’ Not that I’m complaining, but still.” It felt so strange but so natural to say it out loud. To Simmons. Not a mirror, or a rock, or his hand. To Simmons.

“I— Hmm.” Simmons’ mouth twists in thought. Grif waits impatiently, but he can’t push anything right now, so he stays quiet. “I think… I was scared we wouldn’t have time for that stuff.”

“Dude, we spend so much time just sitting here. It’s always the Blues getting into shit.”

“Shut up, Grif, I’m trying to get this right.” He takes Grif’s hand in his robotic one, idly rubbing his thumb on Grif’s palm. “Anyways. We're— We’re always getting shot at, getting injured, and I was terrified that something would happen to you before I got the chance to say anything. One of us could die tomorrow and I didn’t want to live with that. Or die with that, I don’t know.

And it’s been about six years since I felt— Felt… Fuck it, liked you, and that’s a lot of time to have a 'crush’ on someone and I decided that it wasn’t the correct term anymore. And then more time passed, and uh. I realized about two years ago that I didn’t 'like’ you anymore. Not like that, I like you! A lot! I just. Yeah,” he finishes lamely. He bites his lip a bit as he looks apprehensively at Grif.

Grif knows his mouth has fallen open again. It takes him a few tries to get his words out. “I… I didn’t know you, um. You know.”

“Yeah, I know you didn’t know.”

Grif rolls his eyes. “Dude, you’re still really fucking cheesy for passing on that cornball message through cryptic notes.”

“Oh, like you could do any better!” Simmons drops his hand and pushes at him, but there’s no real force behind it. “You just keep referring to this as 'that’!”

“Is that a challenge?” Grifs grin gets bigger. “Hey. Hey, Simmons. Guess what.”

Simmons sighs. “What?”

“I love you.” Simmons instantly turn bright red and starts babbling nonsense. Grif takes that as a sign to keep going. “In fact, I am super in love with you. You—”

“Grif!” Simmons groans and he keeps slapping his hands at Grif’s chest, but that pleased smile betrays him. “Grif, stop it, oh my God—”

“You are my anchor to this wretched life. My cinnamon bun. My starlight on the darkest nights.”

Simmons seems torn between laughing and being annoyed. He ends up making a weird beeping sound that Grif will have to make fun of later because watching Simmons get all flustered was way more entertaining. “And since I love you so much—”

“Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it!”

Grif holds him at arm’s length and puts on his best puppy face, with a pouty lip and everything. “Aw, but Simmons, my dearest, I was going to ask if you wanted to see a movie later! But I’ll have to find something else now.” He puts a wrist to his forehead. “Tragedy! My hard work and great efforts for the love of my life, ruined by the very same person! Oh, the irony!”

Simmons eyes him suspiciously. Then his brow shoots up to his hairline. “You were being serious?”

Grif drops his wrist back to his side. “Nah, not really. I don’t even know if this place even has a decent sized wall to project something on.”

“Oh,” Simmons says quietly. His shoulders slump a bit.

Grif frowns. “Wait, about the movie thing or the other thing, or the other other thing?”

“Er… All of them?” Simmons says uncertainly.

“Oh.” Oh. “Yeah, I’m, um, down for. That. I guess. I mean, sure, yeah, let’s do that. The movie. With just us.” There’s a pregnant pause. “And the other thing, yeah, kind of serious about that too.”

Simmons looks like he’s trying not to look too amused, but the relief is evident. “And that whole 'super in love’ spiel?”

“That too.”

That’s when Simmons leans down and kisses him. Not so hard it makes him dizzy, or so soft he’s chasing for more. It’s more careful if anything. As if to say, is this okay? And it’s so much more than just 'okay’, Grif can’t think of a word for it. A lump sticks in his throat, stealing away his next breath. He gasps lightly, and Simmons breaks away.

“So,” Simmons says slowly. His smile turns sheepish. “Uh. Sorry. I just— Yeah.”

“You should do that again,” Grif says quietly. They just stand there for a moment, waiting for the other to make the first move. Within a few seconds, Simmons huffs and pulls him in again.

There’s more confident this time, but a better-suited word would be clumsy. Their noses bump, neither of them knows how to shape their mouth, or where to put their lips. Their teeth graze each other enough to make Simmons hum, and Grif doesn’t know where to put his hands, so he just drops them to Simmons’ waist.

He never would trade it for anything else.

All rational thoughts are wiped away when Simmons’ hands move to the back of Grif’s neck, fingers idly wrapping themselves around stray strands of hair. He feels Simmons tilt his head a little bit, fitting their lips together better. He makes a pleased noise, and Simmons smiles against his mouth. His neck hurts a little from craning his head up, but Simmons was now pressing his lips all over Grif’s face, on his nose, just between his eyes, the corner of his mouth, on his mouth, again, and again, and again, so he can ignore it.

It fills his body with so many emotions at once because this, this right here is all he’s wanted. To be sure of something for once in his life, and to know he can have this. He can have Simmons here with him, and he can hold him when he’s upset instead of awkward shoulder patting, he can laugh for hours with him and finally look up at him with a smile without it becoming weird, he can kiss him to mess with him instead of making backhanded comments.

Certainty. That’s the thing he was missing this whole time.

“Y'know,” Simmons murmurs against his cheek. “I don’t see your hair down that much.”

Grif jerks back and sputters an incredulous laugh. “Really? We just started figuring out, like, half a lifetime’s worth of emotional constipation, and you’re thinking about my hair?”

“It’s nice!” Simmons says defensively. He finally steps away from Grif, arms crossed. Grif pretends to not notice how much that bothers him. “It’s… Nice. Also, please don’t talk about constipation when we’re making out.”

“'It’s nice.’ Thanks.” Grif rolls his eyes and goes to pull out the tie. His scalp was starting ache a bit anyway. Simmons’ fingers twitch slightly as he shakes it out and pushes it back from his face. Grif makes a quiet note of that for… Later.

Simmons lets out a heavy breath. “We’re still going to have to figure this… This,” he gestures vaguely, “out eventually.”

“Ugh. Do we have to?” Grif whines. “I think it’s fine right now. We can— We can come back to that later. You know what we’re going to have to do now? Take a kick-ass nap. Or make out more, can we do that?”

“I didn’t say now, dipshit. It’s just that years of experience plus Doc and Donut has told me that poor communication isn’t healthy.”

“Healthy,” Grif repeats. “Yeah, 'cause we’re just the best at being healthy.” They keep flat faces for a beat before they burst out laughing. Grif doubles over, barely registering Simmons using him as a support. He can hear the rare, tiny snorts that he knows Simmons hates, but right now it’s the most precious sound in the world.

“We are so shit at this,” Simmons manages before breaking down again. Grif wheezes in response.

“At least we’re consistent!” It takes another minute for them to calm down. Grif wipes a tear from his eye. “No, but seriously—” He breaks out into another fit of giggles. “Fuck, we’re gonna go and do the nap thing now. No,” Grif presses a finger to Simmons’ lips when he starts to protest. “They overwork us anyways. We can take breaks.”

“They don’t overwork you,” Simmons mumbles around his finger. “And I still have forms—”

“That other people can fill out themselves.” Grif grabs both of Simmons’ hands and tugs him towards his bed. He goes with barely any resistance, and they curl up on top of the covers. So much for needing to work.

It takes a few minutes of repositioning and a lot of repetition of the phrase, 'Move, jackass,’ but they manage. Simmons ends up with his chin resting on top of Grif’s head. His arm loops over Grif’s back to mess with the back of his hair again. He’s tucked against Simmons’ chest. There, he can hear the whirrs and clicks of all of the complicated parts that make him up. It’s strangely comforting.

Exhaustion hits him all at once. He hadn’t realized how late it was when he came in here. He inhales deeply into Simmons’ shirt. It still smells like vanilla for somehow. The scent reminds Grif of something, but he can’t remember what.

Simmons sighs, breath hot against his head. Giddiness pulses through Grif’s body again. In the span of Thank you.“

"For what?”

“For— You know what, forget it. I want to sleep.” Grif shrugs and scoots a bit closer.

“I’ll take that action.” Grif can feel Simmons chuckles bubble from his chest to his throat. He’s washed over again with sheer joy, and he shivers a bit. Simmons apparently takes this as him being cold because he pulls him into his chest a little more.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Something itches in the back of Grif’s mind.

“Guess you were right,” he murmurs.

“Wha’? 'bout wha’?” Simmons answers sleepily.

“Opposites do attract.”

Simmons makes a confused noise.“What’re you even sayin’?”

“Nothin’.” A minute of silence passes. “G'night, Simmons.”

“Goodnigh’, Grif.”