Perceptions
The major inspiration for this story was Breathe Me, by Sia.
It was the only time Grif ever listened to him. In a way, he felt like it was the true expression of their relationship. Normally, Grif would ignore him, taunt him, do things specifically designed to annoy the fuck out of him. But when they were alone together, Grif was totally different.
Well, ok, not totally. He still taunted him and got on his nerves, but at least he listened to him... sometimes. Proved he actually cared, once in a while. Well... at least he was faithful. Right?
"Oh who the fuck am I kidding," Simmons murmured, staring at his reflection in the mirror. "Grif is probably only with me because the only other options are so much worse. Donut? Sarge? The Blues!? Yah, that must be it."
The red-head finished shaving, sterilized the blade, and then tucked his things away in his locker before crawling into bed for the night. As always, he had no idea if he'd sleep alone. Grif tended to make that decision for him and he never had the heart to turn him away, no matter how much it hurt that it was only ever at the other's convenience.
He hadn't seen Grif since that afternoon, and he suspected he had probably holed up somewhere and was getting drunk on the latest supply shipment that had come in that morning. He had stuck around to work just long enough to unload the few cases of alcohol that were tucked in with their other supplies, then had managed to disappear, just like always, leaving Simmons and Donut to do the rest of the work by themselves.
Simmons stared unseeing into the darkness of their quarters for some time, wondering if Grif had managed to actually pass out this time. Maybe he wouldn't be back at all tonight. He wasn't sure if that should make him feel better or worse. He resisted the urge he had to go find him and make sure he was okay - not drowning in his own vomit or anything.
Some time later, Simmons had no idea how long he had lain awake, he heard the unmistakable sounds of Grif drunkenly staggering down the hall, running into the door, fumbling with it until he got it open, and at last beginning to strip. The pieces of his armor clanked together as they fell unceremoniously to the floor, and Simmons couldn't help but wince at how careless Grif was with the equipment meant to safeguard his life in this hellhole.
Silence fell for a few moments, and Simmons wondered if he had missed Grif getting into bed, then he heard the bare feet coming closer to his side instead; the drunken slur that called out to him in the darkness.
Maybe if he thinks I'm asleep he won't bother me, Simmons thought, squeezing his eyes closed and not answering. Maybe.
The weight of Grif sitting on the edge of his bed dispelled that thought quickly enough, the touch of his hand on Simmons's shoulder something he both longed for and yet hated himself for wanting. The drunken speech came again, Grif mumbling something or other about scooting over and giving him room.
If he did that now, it would prove he was awake, right? He didn't want to be awake. He didn't want Grif drunk. He stayed silent.
Grif sighed and leaned over, resting his head on Simmons's side. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Sorry I'm such a bastard all the time."
Typical, Simmons thought. Typical drunk.
One of Grif's hands was rubbing awkwardly on Simmons's back, and his other was searching for one of Simmons's hands in the dark. He finally found it, unclenched the fist that Simmons hadn't even known he was making, and at last got their fingers laced together.
Simmons still didn't move. He wished Grif would say this kind of thing when he was sober, when he could know for sure that he really meant it. But he only ever said it drunk.
Grif fell silent, and Simmons wondered after a while if he had passed out, but just as he was certain he had, Grif moved again. He crawled in behind Simmons, lacking any semblance of grace or care, and nudging the red-head forward so he could fit in between him and the wall. Any normal person would have figured out that if he hadn't been awake already, the herd of elephants that had just crawled into bed with him surely would have woken him up, but Grif wasn't normal, and he was drunk to boot, and he probably didn't even realize how much he had pushed and jostled his partner in the process of trying to join him in bed.
He finally got comfortable, curling up behind him, finding the lost hand and lacing their fingers together again. Then he started to talk again, half-mumbled and very slurred, but Simmons was used to it and could even make out most of what he said.
"You're really beautiful, y'know? Your eyes. Green is my favorite colors, y'know."
And last week it was red. And the week before that it was blue. And the week before that, purple. And gray. And...
"And your voice... I... it.. when I hear it, I just wanna keep hearin' it forever. Maybe... maybe I pretend to ignore you so much so you'll keeps talking to me."
Simmons held his breath.
" 'nd your... your... um... hands. Always so soft." Grif's voice was becoming harder to understand, and Simmons knew he'd be unconscious soon. Then he could finally get some sleep.
"I love you."
Silence.
"S... Simmons? You awake?" Clumsy hands touched his cheek and came away wet. "Y- you're crying? Hey... why're you crying."
"Just shut up, you idiot," Simmons murmured, sniffing as he turned over in Grif's arms. He smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and barbecue sauce. Simmons didn't even want to know.
"Hey... what're you cryin' for?"
Simmons pushed his face into Grif's chest. "Just shut up and go to sleep."
When they were alone together, Grif was totally different. It was the only time Grif ever listened to him.
It was the only time Grif ever listened to him. In a way, he felt like it was the true expression of their relationship. Normally, Grif would ignore him, taunt him, do things specifically designed to annoy the fuck out of him. But when they were alone together, Grif was totally different.
Well, ok, not totally. He still taunted him and got on his nerves, but at least he listened to him... sometimes. Proved he actually cared, once in a while. Well... at least he was faithful. Right?
"Oh who the fuck am I kidding," Simmons murmured, staring at his reflection in the mirror. "Grif is probably only with me because the only other options are so much worse. Donut? Sarge? The Blues!? Yah, that must be it."
The red-head finished shaving, sterilized the blade, and then tucked his things away in his locker before crawling into bed for the night. As always, he had no idea if he'd sleep alone. Grif tended to make that decision for him and he never had the heart to turn him away, no matter how much it hurt that it was only ever at the other's convenience.
He hadn't seen Grif since that afternoon, and he suspected he had probably holed up somewhere and was getting drunk on the latest supply shipment that had come in that morning. He had stuck around to work just long enough to unload the few cases of alcohol that were tucked in with their other supplies, then had managed to disappear, just like always, leaving Simmons and Donut to do the rest of the work by themselves.
Simmons stared unseeing into the darkness of their quarters for some time, wondering if Grif had managed to actually pass out this time. Maybe he wouldn't be back at all tonight. He wasn't sure if that should make him feel better or worse. He resisted the urge he had to go find him and make sure he was okay - not drowning in his own vomit or anything.
Some time later, Simmons had no idea how long he had lain awake, he heard the unmistakable sounds of Grif drunkenly staggering down the hall, running into the door, fumbling with it until he got it open, and at last beginning to strip. The pieces of his armor clanked together as they fell unceremoniously to the floor, and Simmons couldn't help but wince at how careless Grif was with the equipment meant to safeguard his life in this hellhole.
Silence fell for a few moments, and Simmons wondered if he had missed Grif getting into bed, then he heard the bare feet coming closer to his side instead; the drunken slur that called out to him in the darkness.
Maybe if he thinks I'm asleep he won't bother me, Simmons thought, squeezing his eyes closed and not answering. Maybe.
The weight of Grif sitting on the edge of his bed dispelled that thought quickly enough, the touch of his hand on Simmons's shoulder something he both longed for and yet hated himself for wanting. The drunken speech came again, Grif mumbling something or other about scooting over and giving him room.
If he did that now, it would prove he was awake, right? He didn't want to be awake. He didn't want Grif drunk. He stayed silent.
Grif sighed and leaned over, resting his head on Simmons's side. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Sorry I'm such a bastard all the time."
Typical, Simmons thought. Typical drunk.
One of Grif's hands was rubbing awkwardly on Simmons's back, and his other was searching for one of Simmons's hands in the dark. He finally found it, unclenched the fist that Simmons hadn't even known he was making, and at last got their fingers laced together.
Simmons still didn't move. He wished Grif would say this kind of thing when he was sober, when he could know for sure that he really meant it. But he only ever said it drunk.
Grif fell silent, and Simmons wondered after a while if he had passed out, but just as he was certain he had, Grif moved again. He crawled in behind Simmons, lacking any semblance of grace or care, and nudging the red-head forward so he could fit in between him and the wall. Any normal person would have figured out that if he hadn't been awake already, the herd of elephants that had just crawled into bed with him surely would have woken him up, but Grif wasn't normal, and he was drunk to boot, and he probably didn't even realize how much he had pushed and jostled his partner in the process of trying to join him in bed.
He finally got comfortable, curling up behind him, finding the lost hand and lacing their fingers together again. Then he started to talk again, half-mumbled and very slurred, but Simmons was used to it and could even make out most of what he said.
"You're really beautiful, y'know? Your eyes. Green is my favorite colors, y'know."
And last week it was red. And the week before that it was blue. And the week before that, purple. And gray. And...
"And your voice... I... it.. when I hear it, I just wanna keep hearin' it forever. Maybe... maybe I pretend to ignore you so much so you'll keeps talking to me."
Simmons held his breath.
" 'nd your... your... um... hands. Always so soft." Grif's voice was becoming harder to understand, and Simmons knew he'd be unconscious soon. Then he could finally get some sleep.
"I love you."
Silence.
"S... Simmons? You awake?" Clumsy hands touched his cheek and came away wet. "Y- you're crying? Hey... why're you crying."
"Just shut up, you idiot," Simmons murmured, sniffing as he turned over in Grif's arms. He smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and barbecue sauce. Simmons didn't even want to know.
"Hey... what're you cryin' for?"
Simmons pushed his face into Grif's chest. "Just shut up and go to sleep."
When they were alone together, Grif was totally different. It was the only time Grif ever listened to him.