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Waking up next to the one he loves is a privilege John never thought he’d get to have for even one night, let alone the rest of his life. However, when the sun’s warmth caresses his face through a gap in the curtains, he rouses to the sight of one Simon Riley, ethereal in the late morning light. The realisation that they’ve both slept in for the first time in years pales in comparison to the radiant sight before him.
The rise and fall of Simon’s chest is steady, the beat of his heart rhythmic beneath John’s ear. The same strip of light that warms John’s cheek cascades across the planes of Simon’s torso, catching on the sparse blond hair that is scorched by scars. John reaches up, tracing his fingers along the stubborn, textured flesh with reverence: proof of his love’s fierce will to live decorating his chest prettier than any medal ever could.
Tilting his head back further to get a better look at his face, John feels his heart skip a beat. He’s never seen Simon’s expression so lax and calm before. The ever-present furrow in his brow has smoothed out without interference from John’s comforting touch. John can see his eyes moving beneath their lids, and realises with a thick bout of emotion in his throat that his Simon, who snaps from deep sleep to high alert at the slightest shift of the breeze, is dreaming. It strikes John particularly hard, because Simon told him once he hasn’t dreamed since his mother passed.
Yet, here, now, in John’s arms, he reclaims such a simple, human part of himself he’d been convinced was lost forever. John bites his lower lip to keep it from wobbling, blinking away the blurry sting in his eyes so that he can memorise every arc, slope and edge of Simon’s face at this moment. He wants the sight burnt into his retinas forever. Simon’s peaceful face at his most vulnerable is a sign of healing somehow more precious than the fading scars on his chest.
I want to get old with you, John recalls telling him once, months ago, when they were near freezing to death somewhere in the Siberian wilderness. They’d been dancing around these feelings for years, but that day, John was particularly tired – maybe a little delirious, too. The sluggish bleeding of the wound in his side, tightly wrapped in Simon’s sacrificed shirt, had loosened his lips more than he’d like to admit. He’ll never forget the devastated look in Simon’s eyes when he looked up at him and admitted, Someday, I was really hoping I’d get to heal with you, Simon.
His years-long dream is coming true. Stifling a sob, he reaches up to caress Simon’s cheek, swiping a loving thumb across the scar bisecting his lip. The urge to kiss him and see his gorgeous eyes wars with the desire to watch them dream longer. Ultimately, the decision is made for him when blond lashes begin to flutter, and brown eyes peer down at him hazily. Simon blinks once, twice, then reaches for him, fingers skimming his shaved hair as his palm rests warmer than the sun on his cheek.
“You’re crying,” Simon murmurs, so soft and concerned, and John can’t help but choke on a laugh-sob as the furrow between his brows returns.
“I’m fine,” he assures, shifting back a bit to accommodate as Simon rolls onto his side to face him. He blocks the sun out in the process, and John loses his breath as the rays catch in his blond locks, making them look like strands of golden silk.
Simon hesitates, gaze darting over John’s form for any sign of pain or discomfort, ever-calculating and assessing. They’re the same careful eyes of the Lieutenant that John fell in love with. He can’t help but chuckle, drawing Simon in for a kiss. It’s sleepy, passionate, and helplessly enamoured on both sides. When Simon pulls back, he looks less concerned, but still wipes the stray tear from John’s cheek. “What’s on your mind?” He asks.
“You’ll laugh at me,” John croaks, chuckling.
Simon frowns, shaking his head lightly. His thumb gently caresses the crow’s feet in the corner of John’s eye. “I won’t.”
Biting his lip, John admires him for a moment longer, before admitting, “You were dreaming.” He laughs as Simon’s brows raise, a floored blink aptly conveying his confusion. “I’ve never seen you dream before.”
Simon’s lips purse. Then, he smiles, the creases beneath his eyes making John’s heart soar. The sun can’t compare to you, he thinks, as Simon releases his face to hold his hand, instead. Their fingers entwine, a soft clink sounding as their rings click together. “I was dreaming about you.” Simon’s cheeks pinken with the admission.
John chokes on a tearful chuckle, his wobbly smile stifling a grin. “I’m right here. What are you dreaming of me for, ye daftie?”
“We were at dinner, with mum,” Simon explains, eyes locked on their joined hands. Sobering up a bit, John rubs the back of his hand with his thumb. Simon follows the movement thoughtlessly, his eyes miles away in thought. “You were telling her about the time I fell on my arse during that training exercise in Italy. Both of you couldn’t stop laughing at me. She looked… happy. She liked you.”
John intends to keep it together, but seeing Simon’s eyes grow misty has him crumbling. He leans forward, kissing him again. And again, and again; tangling the fingers of his free hand in his warm, golden hair as he peppers his face with love and affection. He kisses away the tears that fall, guides Simon’s warm face into his neck, and they lay there for a while, linking their legs together to get closer.
Simon nuzzles closer into his neck, shoulders tensing. “She would have loved you,” He whispers, unable to speak any louder with the grief lodged in his throat. John knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to ease it.
All he can say is, “You can cry if you need to, love.”
It takes a while for the tears to stop, but they hold each other through it, as they always have; always will. By the time peace falls over them again, the strip of sunlight is at their hips. They lay facing one another with their heads on the pillows, hands still joined together. John gently lifts them to kiss the ring on Simon’s finger. “Let’s visit her. Before the honeymoon.”
Simon smiles, tears long dry now. “Can we?” He asks, eyes impossibly soft. It’s shy, almost child-like.
“Of course,” John murmurs, squeezing his hand lightly. “I want to meet her. Before I whisk her son away to god-knows-where.”
Chuckling, Simon pulls their hands back toward him, kissing John’s ring this time. He gazes at him fondly, a teasing hint in his eye. “Where shall we go, then? Somewhere cold?”
John can’t help but grin, closing his eyes. “You know me so well.”
“Snowboarding?”
“Depends,” John hums, peeling one eye open to squint at him. “You actually gonna snowboard, or are you gonna pop your skis on?”
“Skis, naturally.”
John laughs, squeezing his hand while swatting his shoulder with the other. “Away ‘n bile yer heid, ye bloody heathen.”
“I’d rather not repeat Italy in the snow.”
John throws his head back and laughs. He can feel Simon chuckling beside him, strong, scarred shoulders shaking with mirth.