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Love of mine, someday you will die
But I’ll be close behind
I’ll follow you into the dark
No blinding lights or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
Simmons had been sitting in the stiff chair next to the cot for God knows how long but he would sit there until Grif woke up. He had taken a serious hit during a rough fight with Locus and Felix which had put him in a coma. He seemed fine now but there had been a few touch and go moments. But, no matter what happened, he never let go of Grif’s hand, never moved from the chair. He knew that at some point or another Grif would die, the chances of that being sooner rather than later were greatly increased by the war, but he'd be damned if he let Grif die during this stupid war.
If Heaven or Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the “No”’s on their vacancy sign
If there’s no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
He knew from the minute he saw Grif that he was in love. His tan skin, his dark hair, his stubble, his big squishy arms that felt like warm pillows when he gave you a hug. Even after the accident when Grif had essentially been frankensteined with his body parts he still loved him. It was few nights after that incident that he found out Grif felt the same. He had been sleeping when he heard a creak from on top of the base. He immediately threw on his glasses and went to investigate. He peeped up onto the roof, ready to run and grab a gun if it was a threat, but he saw it was just Grif. Grif was lying down, one hand behind his head and the other in front of his face, as though he was observing it.
“Hey Simmons?” Grif asked.
Simmons wondered how Grif knew he was there but he figured he should probably just answer instead of avoiding it.
“Yeah?” He replied, walking over to Grif and plopping down next to him, his cyber parts making the thump of him falling much louder than normal.
“You ever wonder why we're here.” Grif questioned, pulling his vision away from his hand to look Simmons in the eye.
“We already went over this,” Simmons said, rolling his eyes, “We’re here because the reds had their ba-”
“No not that!” Grif exclaimed sitting up, “I mean in this universe!”
“Oh,” Simmons said looking down; he didn't know what to say.
“I mean, I could have died the other day Simmons!” Grif exclaimed, turning away from Simmons and looking back up at the stars, “Nearly dyeing has gotten me thinking, what happens when we die? I mean, it’s going to happen at some point. Are we going somewhere with pearly gates and bright lights, a fiery pit where we’re doomed, or just some damn dirty hole in the ground.”
“Grif are you al-,” once again Simmons was cut off.
“Do you think I would get into heaven?” Grif asked, “I mean I know I’ve done a lot of bad stuff like trying to kill the blues but, wasn't that justified? This is a war after all!"
Simmons didn’t know how to respond. He had never heard Grif talking like this and frankly, it was scary. There were a few minutes of heavy silence before Grif spoke again
“Sometimes I wonder if anyone would miss me if I died.” Grif murmured.
Simmons immediately snapped his head to look at Grif. Grif had sat up and was now looking down at his dangling feet.
“I mean,” Grif continued, “Sis can pretty much take care of herself, hell she hasn’t needed me since middle school.”
Simmons had to do something, Grif never talked like this and Simmons was terrified.
“Even you guys don't nee-,” This time it was Simmons turn to cut Grif off.
The kiss wasn’t anything spectacular, just a quick little peck on the lips, but it was the only thing Simmons could think to do.
“I need you,” Simmons said quietly as he pulled away.
It was silent for a minute, then two. Simmons was almost certain he had fucked up. Suddenly Grif grabbed Simmons by the back of the head. Yep, I’m going to die, this is it. But any and all thought in Simmons head stopped when Grif kissed him. It wasn’t like the previous kiss, as cheesy as it sounded, this one held something more. Romance.
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” Grif said resting his forehead on Simmons’, “You want to grab a couple beers and try to find someplace quiet?”
“Is this your way of asking me out on a date?” Simmons chuckled.
“Well we’re in a fucking canyon I can’t exactly take you out to a five star restaurant!” Grif said, laughing.
“I’ll go find a map if you find the beer,” Simmons said, sitting up.
“You got a deal,” Grif replied, standing up as well, “and Simmons?”
“Yeah?” He answered halfway into the base.
“Thanks,” Grif said with a smile.
“Don’t mention it,” Simmons replied, his smile matching Grif’s.
In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me,
"Son, fear is the heart of love."
So I never went back
As that memory passed another began to fill Simmons’ mind, this one much less joyful. He had always known he was gay, but growing up in a big Catholic family with strong Dutch-Irish men didn’t exactly encourage him to come out. Unfortunately when he was 15, his parents had caught him doing some rather, shall we say unholy, things with the neighbor’s son. A week after that little fiasco Simmons was sent to a big Catholic School in Ireland where he could be “cleaned of his sins and make himself acceptable in the eyes of the lord once more” as his mom put it. Well if this was what was going to make him pure he’d rather stay filthy. The school was full of awful kids and diabolical old nuns who take every chance they had to help “cleanse” him with the ends of their paddles. Though it did have the desired effect on Simmons mind, he began to see himself as broken beyond repair. So he tried to make himself seem fixable.
He threw himself into his studies. He spent all his time in the library, not that anybody was inviting him anywhere. He made sure to pass all his exams with flying colors it wasn’t until one day that Simmons realized that it only made things worse. He was 17 about to leave class when the teacher held him back. Her name was Ms. Anderson; she was one of the meanest nuns in the school. Simmons sat at a chair in front of her desk, wringing his sweaty hands together, looking out the window at the now setting sun.
“I’ve seen a large change in your academics since you’ve come here Dick,” Ms. Anderson said as she walked up behind him and placed a wrinkly hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you Ma’am,” Simmons replied shakily. He didn’t know what was happening here but he knew something was off; Ms. Anderson never complimented students unless there was some ulterior motive behind it. As though she had heard his thoughts the old crone spun Simmons’ chair around and put her faces inches from his.
“You think this will put you back in God’s good graces you useless little fag!?!” She exclaimed, her spittle decorating Simmons’ face like a Jackson Pollock painting, “You are and always will be a filthy little fag, never worthy of anyone’s love! Especially God’s!”
Simmons slipped under the old woman’s bony arm and ran. He ran as fast as his lanky legs would carry him, all the while hearing the old bat screeching behind him about how useless and horrible he was. He ran out of the school and into the cooling evening air, he vowed to never turn back.
At one point he did stop running, his sweat drenched ginger curls flopping onto his forehead as he bent over to try and catch his breath. He had no idea where he was or what time it was, it wasn’t until a gruff voice behind spoke that he even knew anybody else was around.
“That was some running boy,” Said a man, clad in a bright red shirt. Simmons glasses were so fogged up from his running that he couldn’t get a good look at him.
“Uhm… Thanks,” He replied awkwardly as he took his glasses off and began to clean them with the bottom of his shirt.
“You got a name there sport?” The man questioned.
“Dick,” He answered calmly, putting his now clean glasses on, “Dick Simmons.”
With his glasses on he could now get a good look at the man, he looked to be in his mid to late 30s. Tall, muscular, dark brown hair that was starting to grey, and a bright red shirt that said Property of Red Team Blood Gulch Alpha in large letters. Simmons immediately stood stalk straight and saluted.
“I’m sorry sir,” He said quickly, “If I had known you were a man of the war I wouldn’t have be so formal.”
The man let out a ruff chuckle before he replied.
“At ease soldier”
Simmons let his spine slacken just a little but still made sure he was able to look the man in the eye. If there was one thing his father had taught him it was that you ALWAYS respect a military man.
"You know," the man said walking closer to Simmons, "we could use a kid like you in the war."
"Really?" Simmons asked, his eyes lighting up. He could be useful, he could help people!
"Of course," the man answered, "good running legs, respectful, you seem pretty smart. We've got a recruiting station not far from here if you'd like to sign up."
All Simmons could do was nod. With that the man put a hand on Simmons back and led him to the station, he didn’t even bother to look back. There was a comfortable silence before Simmons asked a question that had been burning in the back of his head since he had seen the man's shirt.
"I never did quite catch your name sir," Simmons said.
"You can just call me Sarge," The man replied with a warm smile.
If Heaven or Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the “No”’s on their vacancy sign
If there’s no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark
Now that same man was walking in, probably to tell him to eat or get some rest even though he knew Simmons wouldn't do it. He had changed since that night; his hair was now completely grey and on the verge of white, his body was littered with scars from knives and some close calls with bullets, the bags under his eyes much prominent, but he was still Sarge. He set a tray of food down next to Simmons, barely getting any acknowledgement from the latter.
"You know," he began, "you're not going to be any good to him when he wakes up if you're a tired, hungry mess."
“You say that as though you know he’s going to wake up,” Simmons replied bitterly.
“Looks,” Sarge said, pulling up a chair right next to Simmons, “I know I’ve given Grif probably the most shit out of all of you combined about being lazy. But, as much shit as I gave him, he is strong. A fighter.”
Simmons looked at the man next to him. He saw a lot in those eyes; sadness, fear, regret, empathy, but most importantly he saw honesty. Sarge was telling the truth. Simmons looked down to how feet, not wanting the man he respected like a father to see him cry.
“Do you,” Simmons swallowed, “Do you really think he’ll make it?”
“I’d bet money on it,” the older man replied. With a clap on the back he left Simmons to his thoughts. Memories were running through his head like a horse on a track, but one stuck out in particular.
You and me have everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
and the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It’s nothing to cry about
‘Cause we’ll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms
He and Grif were laying down on one of the many hills in the canyon, it had been a little over three months since the night they had told each other how they felt. Neither knew what time it was, neither seemed to care, both mesmerized by the stars above them and the heat of someone they loved next to them. Not to mention, they were a little drunk.
“Simmons,” Grif said, lazily lolling his head to the side so he could see the man better, “I’ve decided something.”
“Oh and what’s that,” Simmons said with a small chuckle.
“When we get out of this war you and I are going to travel the world,” Grif answered, waving his hands high in the air for emphasis.
“Oh, really?” Simmons said, propping himself up on his elbow to get better look at the man next to him.
“Yep,” Grif said, “We’re going to go everywhere and do everything. Take cheesy pictures, buy dumb souvenirs, and try to convince cute foreign guys into threesomes, it’ll be great.”
Simmons couldn’t help but laugh. No matter what happened, Grif could make him laugh. They both settled back down onto the hill, looking back up at the stars. It was few minutes before either of them spoke.
“You really think we’ll both get to see the end of this war?” Simmons muttered. Grif sat straight up and looked Simmons dead in the eye, his face serious.
“Dick Simmons,” Grif said, rising a pinky up between them, “I swear on this very pinkie, that we survive this war and go on fucking awesome adventures.” Simmons looked at the pinky and wrapped his own around it with a smile.
“You’re such a dork,” Simmons said shaking his head.
“Hey,” Grif said accusingly, “Pinky promises are fucking sacred! If either of us breaks this the other has the right to break our pinky.”
“Still a dork,” Simmons said, unwrapping his pinky to instead intertwine his fingers with Grif’s.
“Nerd”
“Lazy”
“Kissass”
“Frankenstein”
“Cyborg”
“Yellow bitch”
Grif faked shock: putting a hand to his mouth and letting out an over-dramatic gasp.
“How dare you!” He said loudly, putting a hand to his head and turning away from Simmons, “I thought you loved me!”
“Quiet down idiot we’re gonna get caught,” Simmons said, giggling at Grif’s little performance.
“I can’t quite down,” He said, throwing on arm out and pinning the other to his chest, “Not after my heart’s been shattered!”
Grif was just starting up a monologue when Simmons grabbed both sides of his face and pulled him for a kiss. The monologue when into the back of his mind as he returned the kiss. They stayed like that for a bit before they pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” Simmons drawled out.
“Apology accepted,” Grif said with a smirk and a wink. After that they both just laid down and looked at the stars, content with each other and what the future had to hold.
If Heaven or Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the “No”’s on their vacancy sign
If there’s no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark
Then I’ll follow you into the dark
Simmons was back to reality, looking at the limp form that was his boyfriend. He saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the only indicator that he was still alive. Simmons reached out and held Grif’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze.
“I’m not going to let you break your promise,” Simmons choked out, resting his head on both their hands together.
He could have sworn he felt one of Grif’s fingers twitch.