Work Text:
You take two bodies and you twirl them into one
Their hearts and their bones
And they won’t come undone
GRIF
1
Grif stares at Grey, and Grey stares back.
She’s waiting for him to say something, to react, but he’s still having trouble wrapping his brain around why he’s not surprised. But after a few moments, his lack of surprise makes more sense. It’s just the same shit, different day—bad luck follows him wherever he goes, how is today any different?
Drawn for the one-man draft, sole survivor of the massacre on his first outpost, landed with a shotgun-wielding maniac, caught up in a fake war—then caught up in a real one. The latest and greatest involved more Blue Team Drama™, but then, that seems to be the root of most of Grif’s problems these days.
So, when Grey tells him that his transplanted organs have started shutting down, Grif isn’t surprised so much as he feels this is just the rotten cherry on top of the fucked-up cake.
“That explains the recurring food poisoning,” Grif says. “Well, guess it wasn’t food poisoning.”
“Have you been sleeping more?” Grey asks. “Agitated? Anxious?”
“All the time,” Grif snorts. “Uh, but I have noticed I actually sleep more now.”
Grif likes to pretend he spends most of his time sleeping, but the truth of the matter is sleep means nightmares, and nightmares fucking suck, so he gets four hours a night if he’s lucky. Or, he did, until earlier this week, when he slept for twelve hours. And it wasn’t a tired feeling, but more of a heavy feeling.
The thing that brought him to Dr. Grey in the first place, though, was that he woke up this morning and forgot where he was for a good five minutes, forgot who the person lying next to him was.
“I see,” Grey says. “And how long have you been having episodes such as the one you had this morning?”
“Today was the first,” Grif says.
Grey taps something out on her data pad.
“So, what now?” Grif asks, wringing his hands.
Grey sets her data pad on her lap and purses her lips. Her cheery demeanor vanished long ago, replaced by a furrowed brow serious eyes. Grey is amazing at hiding her emotions, having been a doctor for so long, but Grif is no idiot. He grits his teeth and waits for her answer.
“You have time,” she begins, “I’d estimate two to three weeks.”
“Wait—can’t we just, like pull another mad doctor and make me part-cyborg? Like Simmons?” Grif asks.
“I’m afraid not,” Grey replies. She reaches up and takes her glasses off to massage her eyes and the bridge of her nose. “It’s a miracle you both survived the first procedure. Your body won’t be able to withstand another surgery of that caliber.”
“Well we can give it a fucking try, can’t we?” Grif snaps, rising to his feet. He sways a little, light-headed, but goes on, “What’ve I got to lose?”
“Time,” Grey says, voice level. She places her glasses back on her face and crosses her arms. “I don’t want to be unsympathetic, but I also need to be realistic, Captain Grif.
“And the reality is,” she continues, rising to her feet as well, “You will not survive surgery. Wouldn’t you rather spend the rest of the time you have with loved ones?”
Grif opens his mouth to say something then snaps it shut. Swallowing, he flops back down into his chair.
She’s right. He knows she’s right.
Grey lowers herself into her chair once more, starts talking about ways to make him more comfortable—antibiotics, supporting oxygenation, fluid resuscitation, lowering blood sugar—but the list is too long and Grif is much too tired. Why prolong the inevitable?
Before he’s even finished thinking the thought he knows why.
Simmons.
Fuck, Simmons is going to lose his shit.
“Is there a way to do all this stuff without anyone finding out?” Grif asks, interrupting Grey, who gives him a dirty look. It quickly shifts to confusion when she registers what he’s just said.
“I don’t mean to pry, but why don’t you want to tell anyone?” Grey asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t need everyone freaking out, okay?” Grif huffs. He crosses his arms. “It’ll make everything different, why tell anyone?”
Grey doesn’t say anything, and at first Grif thinks she’s going to lecture him. But she just lets out a long sigh.
“If that is your preference, I’ll see what I can do,” she says. “I’ll send you a message soon to set up an appointment.”
“Thanks.” Grif rises to his feet, more slowly this time, but he still feels a little off. He turns to leave the hospital room, eyes aching from the fluorescent lights reflecting off the white walls.
“Grif?” Grey calls as he reaches the door. Grif stops, waiting.
“There will come a point where it will be impossible to hide this,” she says.
Grif just nods and, shoving the door open, walks out to where Simmons is waiting for him.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“Fine,” Grif dismisses, waving his hand. “Like I thought—food poisoning.”
2
Grif spends the first day of the last week of his life with Kai. He’s afraid she’ll ask questions at first, but honestly, after being apart for so long, the only thing she wants to know is if Grif still likes cookies and cream ice cream.
The answer, of course, is “duh”.
“I like it here,” she says, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. “It’sh happenin’.”
“It’s what?” Grif raises and eyebrow. He’s already finished with his ice cream and is contemplating seconds.
“Happening,” Kai repeats, swallowing. “I could totally open a club here, no problem.”
Grif is amazed at his little sister, how far she’s come, how much she’s accomplished. How Kai’s managed to stay this optimistic through everything she’s been through—even before Grif was shipped off to war—he’ll never know. Fuck, if she can have a successful business in the middle of a war, she can do anything.
He feels a surge of pride for Kai. He tries not to think about how he won’t ever see her Chorusian Night Club Empire.
“Just one?” he asks. “You could open at least fifty-seven.”
“Well, duh.” Kai rolls her eyes. “But not all at once, that’s shitty strategy. You can’t use a sex swing without a firm bar to hang it from.”
“Yeah,” Grif agrees. “Wait, what?”
After ice cream Grif trails along after Kai as she flutters from shop to shop, most of them barren in the aftermath of Chorus’s civil war, but he can practically see the gears turning in her head. Chorus is lucky to have Kai, she’ll make this a hotspot in no time.
When they’re finished in the shopping district, Kai is toting three bags—one with clothing, one with makeup, and one with boxing gloves.
“Lina said she’d teach me,” Kai says. “In exchange, I’m going to teach her yoga. That girl is tense, I’m so glad she’s got Nessa now.”
“’Nessa’?” Grif asks.
“Kimball,” Kai clarifies. “Oh, yeah, Lina, Nessa, and I are totally on a first name basis after last night.”
Grif doesn’t ask, Kai doesn’t elaborate.
They spend the rest of the day lounging around the apartments Kimball provided for them. It’s like they’re kids again—cartoons blaring, Kai’s painting Grif’s toes, junk food everywhere. Grif almost forgets it won’t be like this forever.
“Hey, Kai?” Grif grabs the remote and mutes the show. Kai, half done with Grif’s left foot, glances up before promptly going back to work.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“I’ve got some shitty news,” he says, and when he says it he’s hit with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and it’s like he’s been drafted all over again. This time, however, there’s a zero percent chance of him coming back.
“That’s what you said the first time you left,” she says softly.
“Yeah.” Grif looks away out the window. The sun is setting, and an airship zips past their apartment. “Kai, you remember how Simmons gave me half his organs and became a cyborg that one time?”
“Yeah, that sounds like it was so badass,” Kai says. She laughs, but it’s shaky, too-high pitched.
“It totally was,” Grif agrees. “But, uh, I went to see Grey yesterday, you know, when I thought I had food poisoning?”
Kai nods, still not looking up.
“Kai, I’m dying,” Grif says. “Uh, the transplanted organs are failing.”
Kai nods again, and Grif notices the last two nails on his left foot are messy, and there’s nail polish all over her fingers.
“I’m really sorry—” Grif starts, but Kai leaps to her feet.
“It’s not fucking fair!” she yells. Her face darkens, and she kicks the end table next to Grif’s couch, and suddenly he has this image of eight-year-old Kai when he told her she couldn’t have chocolate for dinner. “I just got you back!”
“Kai—”
Kai lets out a frustrated growl and, rather than kick the table again, grabs it and flips it, sending bottles of nail polish flying. One of them shatters, and thick blue liquid seeps out onto the floor. She grabs a pillow and hurls it at the TV, which shakes and almost tips backward. It manages to stay upright, but Kai, unsatisfied, rushes forward and shoves it. It crashes into the floor, and as the life sputters out of it, Kai deflates as well, sinking to the floor.
Taking care not to step on the glass from the nail polish, Grif moves over to Kai’s side. It’s been a long day, and even this almost has him out of breath. He’s pretty sure the polish on his toes is being ground into the carpet, but he doesn’t give a shit. Kimball can replace it if she feels like it.
Grif puts his arm around Kai’s shoulder, and she leans into him, sobbing.
“This is so fucking unfair,” she whispers.
“Life’s a bitch, and then you die,” Grif says. Kai laughs shortly, smacks him on the shoulder, and hugs him back.
They’re still there two hours later, when Simmons, Sarge, Donut, and Doc traipse back into the apartment.
“What the fuck?” Simmons yelps, reaching up and grabbing at his hair.
“Grif! Is that blue nail polish!? Unbelievable! Unforgivable!”
“Wow, this looks just like my place after our first date!” Donut chimes in, looking over at Doc with a toothy grin. Doc’s face goes red and he excuses himself to the kitchen to put away groceries.
“Dex,” Simmons says, voice hoarse. “What. The hell?”
“Uh, there was totally a big rat, and I freaked out okay, and I tried to kill it, but it was super freaking fast, holy shit it was fast!” Kai babbles. “Then I was so mad my nail polish broke I started crying!”
Grif nods.
“That is one hundred percent what happened,” he says.
Simmons looks like he’s ready to faint, while Sarge has started vigorously cleaning the spilled nail polish, muttering to himself.
Grif meets Kai’s eyes and nods. The corners of her mouth twitch, and she nods back.
Turning his gaze back to Simmons, he lets out a sigh. As he watches Simmons rush over to Sarge (“Sarge, no, you—you’re just rubbing it into the—just let me—”), he wonders why he told Kai and why he can’t bring himself to tell Simmons.
He’ll have to sooner or later.
Kind of hard to hide organ failure.
3
Grif spends the rest of the week divvying up his time.
He lets Sarge chase him around, waving his shotgun as he shouts expletives cursing blue nail polish. It takes a while for Grif to catch his breath once he ducks inside a fuel station, where Lopez stares at him in a way only Lopez can stare.
“Idiota, solo empeoráras tu condición,” he drones.
“Cállate,” Grif wheezes.
Grif is certain that if Lopez could roll his eyes, he would.
Grif lets Doc and Donut have him over for dinner, stomachs more innuendos he thought possible. He’s oddly relieved something other than his dying insides is making him nauseous. What Grif can’t stomach is the food, but he does his best to push it around the plate. Besides, Grey would kill him if she knew he was eating so much sugar.
He visits Grey twice a day, always when Simmons is off doing something else. Simmons and Donut are in charge of organizing the menu and decorations for Kimball and Carolina’s wedding, though Grif can’t imagine working with Donut on a coloring book, let alone an entire fucking wedding. But behind Simmons’s half-hearted complaining, Grif can see he’s enjoying putting his energies towards something other than not getting shot.
“You really should try to get more rest,” Grey tells him for the millionth time.
“Have you met me?” Grif snorts. “I’m always resting.”
Grey rolls her eyes and lets him go.
Caboose invites the Reds to movie night, and despite Sarge’s grunting and grumbling, they spend hours with the Blues, watching shitty action movies, playing cards, and shoving their faces with popcorn. Grif enjoys the company, but he keeps getting frustrated with the movie—the movement makes him nauseous, and even though it’s one he’s seen a thousand times, he’s having trouble following the plot. He loses most of the card games too, but he just shrugs and insinuates foul play from the Blues. Sarge agrees.
Carolina keeps giving him weird looks, like she knows something. But she doesn’t say anything, like she understands his secrecy. Grif wonders at first if Kai told her but dismisses the idea. Kai wouldn’t do that without telling him.
Grif spends the fifth day after his diagnosis with Simmons.
They’ve been spending time together all week, of course, hell, they share a bed. But Grif wants to give the entire day to Simmons.
In the morning they drink coffee while Simmons tells him about his new Dungeons and Dragons campaign. Grif watches Simmons’s eyes light up, hands flailing. The nerd becomes so animated he almost spills his coffee.
“You want to drink the coffee, Rich, not oil your arm with it,” Grif teases.
“Hey—I take offense to that!” Simmons snaps. “Just because—fuck!”
Simmons hisses and jumps up from his chair as coffee sloshes out of his mug and onto his hand. Grif, keeled over with laughter, feels the telltale sting on his own jittering hand as he spills his own coffee.
“God dammit!” Grif shouts, dropping the mug. It shatters as it hits the cement, and more hot coffee splashes up and onto Grif and Simmons’s bare feet. “AH!”
“Dammit, Grif!” Simmons scrambles backwards, tripping over his chair as he moves. Grif, wheezing with laughter, reaches out and barely misses the scruff of Simmons’s shirt as he falls on his ass.
Sinking to his knees, Grif struggles for composure as he inches towards Simmons.
“Are—ha—are you okay, Rich?” he asks.
“Fuck off, Dex,” Simmons says, but a huge grin splits his face and suddenly the both of them are losing their shit.
They sit there for at least five minutes, quieting for a few seconds only to start up again. It would have been shorter, Grif thinks, but when Simmons tries to sit up he puts his arm through the glass of the patio door, and once clear of the shards, they dissolve into laughter once more.
Tiptoeing over the glass as they go back inside the apartment, Grif hopes Kimball doesn’t find this until after they’ve gone back to the Moon.
After Simmons has gone back to the Moon.
“Dex, are you crying?” Simmons frowns and leans in to inspect Grif’s face.
“Yeah, from laughing so fucking hard,” Grif says. “That was the weirdest shit of all time.”
“Hey, you started it,” Simmons says, rolling his eyes.
“Shut up, nerd,” Grif retorts.
“Dumbass.”
“Kiss-ass.”
“Hey.”
“Yeah?” Simmons turns to face Grif. The two of them are on the rooftop of the apartment, huddled on the couch they dragged up there a few days ago.
“You remember when you were fighting Gene, and I asked you if you ever wondered why we’re here?” Grif asks.
“Of course,” Simmons answers, cheeks going red.
The sun has started to set, making Simmons’s hair look like it’s on fire, and Grif resists the urge to reach over and touch it.
“Dex?” Simmons waves a hand in front of Grif’s face, yanking him away from his thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, I guess I was wondering if, you know.” Grif shrugs. “Wondering if you have an actual answer?”
“Like, have I ever wondered that or do I, like know why I’m here?” Simmons asks, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow.
“The second one,” Grif says.
Simmons looks away from Grif and out at the sun as it disappears behind the towering black buildings of New Armonia. Grif wishes he was on Simmons other side, the one without the mechanical eye; he loves it when Simmons gets lost in thought, loves how his eye goes far away and darts back and forth, like he’s studying something. He watches as the corners of Simmons’s mouth twitch down into a pensive frown, wonders what the guy is thinking about. Wonders if Simmons will actually answer the question. Simmons always hates it when Grif bothers him with these questions—which is why Grif does it.
“I think I’m just here,” Simmons says at last.
“What do you mean?” Grif asks.
“Well, um, does there need to be a reason we exist?” Simmons turns towards Grif once more. “I mean, obviously there are reasons why I’m here, specifically, in New Armonia, with you. But as far as me, existing here, in this universe for however long I’m here, I don’t think there is a reason.”
“Well, shit,” Grif says. “I’m usually the one who stumps you.”
“The pupil surpasses the teacher,” Simmons sings.
“Nerd.” Grif shakes his head. Not the answer he was expecting, not from Simmons. Simmons is usually the more optimistic one.
“Do you have an answer?” Simmons asks.
Did he? Grif thinks about growing up, practically an adult at eight years old, getting drafted, meeting Simmons, almost dying a billion freaking times. The sequence of events that brought him here had to have some meaning—right? Or maybe it’s all random, like Simmons said.
“I think fate is a cruel asshole,” Grif says.
“That’s it?” Simmons snorts. “Fate’s dumb, that’s why we’re here?”
“Isn’t that exactly what you just said?”
“Well—I mean—no, I was talking about, you know, getting here was based on the choices and actions of others, but existing in general is random, and—”
“This is making my head hurt, Rich,” Grif interrupts. He’s lying, of course. His head’s been hurting for days now.
Simmons sputters but snaps his mouth shut, swiveling his head to look back at the setting sun with a huff.
“You know I’m here because of you, right?” Grif says.
Simmons sidles over, nestles into Grif’s side and reaches for Grif’s blanket. Grif sighs and hands it over, shivering despite the sweat forming at his hairline and lip.
“Duh,” Simmons says. “I’m here for you too.”
Grif leans down and to kiss Simmons, who returns it, gently but eagerly. When they break apart, Grif wraps his arm around Simmons and they finish watching the sun go down.
“I love you, Rich.”
“Love you too, Dex.”
SIMMONS
4
They’re still on Chorus, spending time on the planet for Carolina and Kimball’s wedding. The ceremony was yesterday—beautiful, sappy, all the things Simmons loves and Grif rolls his eyes over. Then Carolina fucking carried Kimball outside, where they both hopped in a Warthog and took off for a few days. Grif, Simmons, and the others plan on leaving once they return so they can say a proper farewell.
Simmons would normally enjoy a mini vacation, seeing Jensen and the others, not being roommates with Sarge nor neighbors with the Blues for a few days.
But ever since the visit to Grey’s office, Grif has been acting weird.
Simmons figured that having food poisoning would look a lot different. Like, he thought Grif would be a lot grumpier, complain all the time, and, well, sick.
Sure, he’s had the symptoms—chills, nausea, and all that unpleasant shit, but through it all, Grif has been his normal self. Meaning, he still complains all the time, but not about himself, and he’s asked Simmons to watch Battle Star Galactica every night this week and pretended to be interested in the Dungeons and Dragons campaign Simmons is working on. There are bags under his eyes, but his speech is rapid fire, and he’s awake almost all night, watching videos on his data pad and pestering Simmons with the usual existential questions.
Also.
Does food poisoning usually last a week?
“Is everything okay?” Simmons asks one morning.
“Yah, why?” Grif says through a mouthful of cereal.
“I don’t know,” Simmons says. His face goes hot. Shouldn’t have brought it up, dammit! “You just seem different.”
“No idea what you’re talking about, Simmons,” Grif snorts. Using the back of his hand, he wipes a bit of milk from his chin and continues eating.
Simmons frowns. Grif hasn’t called him by his last name in months, not since the whole Temple fiasco.
“No, seriously,” Simmons says, “You’re being way too nice.”
“Giving you a break after years of torture.” Grif grins.
Simmons rolls his eyes. “Can you cut the shit?”
Grif doesn’t say anything, just stares blankly at Simmons.
“Jesus, fine!” Simmons shoves away from the table and storms out of the room.
Why did Grif have to be so freaking stubborn? Simmons thought they were past that beating around the bush crap, yet here they are, dancing around yet another issue. Of course, knowing what the issue is would make things a little easier.
Simmons is pacing back and forth in their bedroom when he hears the crash.
Any other day, he’d chalk it up to Grif being clumsy—they’re both guilty of upending a few chairs and dropping some plates. Any other time, he’d sigh and drag himself back to the kitchen to see if Grif needed help.
Today is different. Simmons feels fear, cold as ice, slice through him as everything off about Grif this past week flashes through his head. And there’s something about the finality in the sound that came from the kitchen that causes Simmons to sprint back.
The first thing he notices is milk everywhere, which is bizarre all on its own because Simmons has never known Grif to leave the sugary, cereal-flavored milk in the bowl.
Simmons takes in the upturned chair, eyes drifting down to Grif, flat on his back and passed out on the linoleum. His breathing is labored, and just as Simmons is about to call for help, Grif groans and pries one eye open.
“Oops,” he wheezes.
“What happened, are you all right?” Simmons swoops down on Grif, who’s trying—and failing—to push himself into a seated position.
“Uh, tripped,” Grif says. His breathing is levelling out a little, but his eyes are closed again.
“We should call Grey,” Simmons says. He’s not going to call bullshit on Grif’s excuse just yet, because the last thing they need right now is a squabble.
“Nah, no,” Grif protests, opening his eyes. He looks up at Simmons but can’t seem to focus, lock onto Simmons’s face. “’S all good, prom’ss.”
“Uh, yeah no, I’m calling Grey,” Simmons argues. He can actually hear his poor cyborg heart humming at what feels like the speed of light.
“Simm—Rich, I’m good, look—” Using his left arm, Grif pushes himself up a few inches. Simmons watches as Grif’s elbow shakes, struggling to support himself, and bites his lip when Grif sighs and sinks back to the floor.
“Dex?” Simmons hates this, hates seeing Grif like this, hates how small his voice sounds right now.
“Maybe…” Grif sighs. “Call Grey.”
5
Grey has to repeat herself five times before what she’s saying registers in Simmons’s brain.
“What?” His mechanical heart whirs, complaining as he attempts to control his breathing. “What?”
They’re standing in the middle of the waiting room, waiting for the others to arrive.
“I’m so sorry, Simmons,” Grey says, placing a hand on his arm. Simmons rips away.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” Simmons demands. Anger, red and hot and roiling, surges through his blood, into his hands, down to the pit of his stomach.
Why didn’t Grif tell him?
“He wanted everything to stay normal for as long as possible, and I wanted to honor his wishes,” Grey explains. “I’ve done everything I can to address the symptoms, but eventually, his organs will completely shut down.”
“Normal?” Simmons scoffs. “Normal? This is anything but fucking normal, you should have told me! He should have told me, fuck normal!”
Grey opens her mouth to respond, but
Simmons feels his face go hot, and suddenly he’s seeing red. Anger courses through his body, screams into his ears, squeezes his lungs. He can’t see straight, form a coherent thought—he’s not sure how long he’s lost but when his vision clears he’s screaming, and he has one hand clutched around the collar of Sarge’s shirt, the other pulled back into a fist.
“This is your fucking fault!” Simmons is shouting. “Your fault!”
Sarge just stands there, stone-faced, doesn’t even flinch when Simmons sends his fist into the wall next to his head.
“FUCK!” Simmons shoves Sarge backwards into the wall, turns away from him and runs a shaking hand through his hair.
It’s not fair, he knows, he knows it’s not fair. Sarge saved Grif’s life years ago, he’s lucky to have survived this long without the organs rejecting his body. But there’s nothing to be angry at, nothing tangible anyway, so he latched onto the first person he saw. Shit, he may have even freaked out at Caboose if he’d been the one to waltz in.
Maybe he should be angry at the UNSC, for dropping them on Blood Gulch in the first place, where they almost died on countless occasions, where Simmons became part cyborg and Grif became part Simmons.
Simmons lets out a breathy laugh. Part Simmons.
Grif would think that’s super cheesy.
Maybe he should be angry at himself, for wasting so much time. Years, so many years wasted denying what he felt—what they both felt—and now that they’re finally happy, finally free, it’s all been fucking ripped away. Simmons can feel every second hammering at the back of his skull,
There’s a pressure on his shoulder and Simmons freezes, ready to pounce, but then realizes it’s Sarge’s hand. Simmons glances at him over his shoulder, expecting anger, finding understanding.
“S’all right, son,” Sarge says.
“I—I need to go.” Simmons shrugs Sarge’s hand away.
He beelines for the door to Grif’s room, hand freezing over the latch.
“I’m sorry,” he says, not looking at Sarge. Sarge doesn’t say anything, and Simmons enters Grif’s room.
Grif is half asleep when Simmons enters his room. Simmons tries not to flinch when he sees the tubes and wires tethering Grif to life, tries to block out the beeping and hissing of machinery as he shuffles towards the bed.
“’Sup, nerd?” Grif mumbles as Simmons sits down next to him.
“Oh. You know,” Simmons says, giving Grif a shaky smile.
“Yelling,” Grif says.
“Huh?”
“Heard yelling,” Grif elaborates.
“Oh, that.” Simmons sighs. “Uh, kinda yelled at Sarge. But, uh, don’t worry about it!”
“Rebel,” Grif laughs. Then he frowns. “Wait why… were you yelling?”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s stupid,” Simmons insists. Next thing he needs is Grif giving him shit.
“Not his fault,” Grif mutters.
“What?”
“Not his fault,” Grif repeats. “Not his fault, not your fault. Just bad fucking luck.”
Simmons lets out something between a laugh and a growl. Bad luck, fate, bullshit—whatever it is, they’ve been plagued by it for basically their entire lives.
“Like you said,” Grif says. “No reason.”
“Fuck what I said,” Simmons says. “I change my mind, I exist, and you exist, and we exist, so we can be together.”
“Simmons.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Dex?” He called him Simmons again. “We could’ve done something, or, or Sarge could’ve given you cyborg parts or—”
“Rich,” Grif says, raising his voice above the hoarse whisper he’s been using. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Okay?” Simmons laughs. “Nothing is okay, Dex. You’re dying.”
“You’ll be okay,” Grif insists. “You have to.”
“Do I?” Simmons snaps.
“Yeah, idiot, you do,” Grif says. “You better not fucking leave Sarge to his own devices.”
“Sarge will be fine,” Simmons says through gritted teeth.
“Can you make sure Kai gets to visit home?” Grif asks.
“Home?”
“Hawai’i. Honolulu.”
A pain like a knife slices through Simmons, and the realization hits that he won’t get to see Hawai’i with Grif, will have to see it without Grif, will have to see everything without Grif.
“Yeah, I can—” Simmons’s voice cracks. “I can do that.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Whatever it takes.”
Grif chuckles.
“Kiss-ass,” he mutters.
“Dumbass,” Simmons says. He takes Grif’s hand in his and watches as Grif falls asleep, the ghost of a smile on his face.
Four days pass. Then five.
But Grif doesn’t wake up.
Simmons stays by Grif’s side until he’s led away—Donut? He thinks it is, can’t be sure, all he can discern is the tone. Can’t pick out the words. Can’t turn to check. It isn’t until they stand up to greet the other people entering the room and Simmons sees the shock of straw-colored hair that he knows it’s Donut for sure.
A few people come up to him, mouths moving, and he can hear a dull hum of noises he can’t quite string into words. Everything is covered in a dense fog, and Simmons can’t tell if he’s hot or cold. Eventually, people stop bothering him and whisper among themselves.
Time passes, he isn’t sure how long, and suddenly there’s a new face in front of him.
They’re warm and bright and dressed in yellow.
“Kai.”
Kai nods, leans forward, and throws her arms around Simmons, and every feeling suspended up in the dense cloud around his head comes crashing down. Grief, black and suffocating, settles in his chest. Anger, at the world at Grif at himself at everything and everyone. Relief, that Grif is finally free.
“He’s gone,” he croaks. He feels Kai nod into his shoulder, and he can feel the warmth of her tears as they soak through his shirt.
And they sit there, sharing their grief, clinging to each other as if, without something to tether them there, they’ll drift away.
As the room clears, as Simmons and Kai wait for the worst of the storm to pass, Simmons pulls away.
“Kai?”
“Yeah?” she says, letting out a shaky sigh.
“We’re going to be okay.”
6
Hawai’i is vibrant.
It’s cerulean and emerald and orange and violet. The buildings of Honolulu creep right up to the edge of the ocean, defiant. At night the city gives off a warm glow, reflecting on the water, clear and never quiet. Mountains surround the city on three sides, covered in vegetation and even some houses, and at the edge of the city Lē’ahi—the Diamond Head volcano—lies dormant.
Kai points out clubs and local shops, talkative as always, and after a while Simmons tunes her out. Instead, he looks up and down the streets, inside storefronts, restaurants. He imagines Grif waiting in line at the video game store, leaning back in the one of the café’s patio chairs, enjoying copious amounts of ice cream, napping on the beach.
Everything about Honolulu, about Hawaii, screams Dexter Grif.
Whenever Grif talked about his home, his face would light up and his speech would quicken. His eyes would go far away, and after a few minutes, his face would darken, and he’d mumble something about needing to go to the bathroom. Simmons didn’t understand—not at first. Leaving home was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Then Kai crash landed on Blood Gulch, and Simmons realized that Grif, unlike him, left something he cared about behind. A family, this beautiful fucking island. After Chorus, Grif would bring up visiting home some time, and when they had to travel to Earth to save it from Temple, Grif complained about not taking a vacation.
Simmons looks down at the box tucked under his left arm.
Well. Grif is finally home.
“Oh, man, we would come here all the time,” Kai sighs. “Dex napped mostly but sometimes we surfed together. Oh, and this is a perfect spot to bring a date. Man, the sand gets in all the cracks though.”
“Yeah,” Simmons says, squinting into the sunset. It’s turned the water a bright orange, and— “Wait, what?”
“C’mon, his favorite spot’s over here!” Kai calls, already bounding across the sand.
Simmons is considerably less graceful as he tries to run after her. How does she stay so balanced? He wonders if it would be easier if he was barefoot, but then remembers he’s just as clumsy on solid ground.
When he finally catches up to Kai she’s doing cartwheels in the sand. Occasionally, her hand slips in the loose sand, but for the most part she stays upright. Simmons stands and watches for a minute or two, waiting for her to notice he’s there.
“Oh!” Kai claps her hands together to get the sand off. “Finally!”
Simmons rolls his eyes.
“How are you so… happy?” he asks. Now more than ever he feels the weight of the box under his arm as he watches Kai’s face fall. He shouldn’t have opened his stupid mouth, he should’ve—
“I’m happy ’cause I’m home, I’m happy ’cause Dex is finally home, and he’s not suffering anymore,” she says, looking away from Simmons. “But I’m sad too, you know. I miss him. I wish he could’ve come for real, and not in a fricking box.”
Simmons realizes that Kai, having spent years alone after her brother was drafted, must have been afraid of exactly this. Grif coming home in a casket—or box.
“I’m sorry, I was just a huge ass hole,” Simmons sighs. “I wish he could be here for real too.”
“I mean, he is here for real,” Kai counters, gesturing at the box Simmons is holding.
“Ah.” Simmons shifts on his feet, looking off over the water. “Right.”
For a moment the two of them stand there, watching the sun sink lower beneath the horizon. Then Kai plops down and pats the sand on her left. Simmons recalls what Kai said about sand getting in all the cracks, but his legs are so sore from traversing through Honolulu all day he decides he’ll deal with it.
Setting the box gingerly on in the sand, Simmons sits down next to Kai.
About an hour passes in silence as they admire the waves swooshing up and down the beach, the lazy way the sky turns from orange to grey to navy blue. A few clouds roll in, covering up the moon, but they have plenty of light from the city. Simmons gazes at Honolulu’s reflection in the water and thinks it almost looks like there’s a second city in the ocean.
Kai leans over and rests her head on Simmons’s shoulder, lets out a sigh, and pushes herself to her knees.
“I guess now’s as good a time as any, huh?”
Simmons’s toes twitch but he realizes the last thing he wants to do is stand up. Walk to the water. Do what they came here to do. He knows he’s being stupid and selfish, but he can’t bring himself to move.
Kai’s eyes meet his and she lowers herself back down to the sand. This time, when she leans her head on his shoulder, she leaves it there.
“We can totally wait,” she says. “Nighttime is really pretty so, like, no rush here.”
Simmons just nods and stares out over the water. Normally he’d cringe at such close contact from anyone—well, most anyone—but Kai’s keeping him grounded. Another wave of anger and guilt washes over him—he should be the one keeping Kai grounded. Dex was her brother, after all.
Kai sniffles. Simmons’s eyes widen, and he looks down to find Kai crying.
“Shit, I’m sorry—I’m dragging this out, we can—we can do it now, okay?” Simmons scrambles to find the right thing to say; he’s never been one for comforting people. He pats her on the shoulder once, twice, and is about to give up when Kai throws her arms around him.
“Oof!” Simmons freezes, breath knocked out of him, arms outstretched. He’s not sure what the fuck to do with his arms at first.
Slowly, gently, he returns Kai’s embrace.
Simmons is about to complain that he’s got something in his eyes, sand maybe, but he just cries instead.
“God, Grif would give us so much shit right now,” Simmons laughs.
Kai giggles and pulls away, wiping her arm across her eyes. “Yeah, but you know he’d secretly be all over this sappy shit.”
Simmons grins. He stands then, brushing the sand off his pants and offers a hand to Kai, who raises her eyebrow and rises to her feet on her own. Simmons shrugs and scoops up the box, and together they make their way to the edge of the water.
The steady rumble and crash of the waves fills Simmons’s ears. The smell of salt and sand permeates the air, but it isn’t unpleasant—better than the dust-filled air on Blood Gulch. Fresh. Simmons can taste salt as well, but that’s probably from all the crying.
Once they reach the ocean, Simmons holds the box out to Kai. Kai takes the lid off and drops it on the ground next to her, just out of reach of the water washing over their feet. They both look down at the ashes, then back at each other.
“Uh, should we—” Simmons jerks his head towards the water.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” Kai says with a grin.
Together, hands gripping the box, they sprinkle the ashes in the water. They swirl with the waves, some of them getting pulled back into the ocean, some drifting along the shore. Simmons imagines Grif here, swimming—or napping—and for the first time in weeks, he feels happy.
He’s happy because Grif is finally home.
Grif is finally home and, as Simmons looks out at the ocean one last time, breathing in the salty air, feels like this is where he belongs too.
Kai elbows him in the ribs.
“C’mon, let’s go home,” she says.
Simmons nods.
Home.