#no fuckin WAY angel dust was hotter than this guy!

[the-girl-who-didnt-smile]

Minnie the Moocher!

[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.