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There's one bag of vodka left.
Ryland hadn't found it, somehow, when he was still getting his bearings. He only finds out it exists when he finds Simon slumped and half-awake in the corner of the medbay, a good third of the way through the bag already.
He visibly struggles to straighten up enough to even look at Ryland. Wherever Simon came from, rations were scarce. Hard, undiluted liquor must've been a rare treat. Or maybe Simon's just a lightweight. Either way, when Simon is caught, his faculties are shot to hell enough that he doesn't react with shame. Instead, he simply holds up the bag in offering.
And for some godforsaken reason, Ryland accepts that offer.
It's strong stuff. Ryland knows already. Ilyukhina had a preference for whatever brand of vodka this is. She had good taste. Not that the liquor itself tastes good, but it hits him hard and fast enough that he doesn't need to care.
When two thirds of the booze is gone, Ryland and Simon are sitting on the floor side by side. God knows where Rocky is. Still working, Ryland thinks. He'll come knocking in an hour at most, telling his humans to get some dang sleep. But honestly, Ryland feels close to nodding off here and now. The wall they're braced against is cold, but the vodka is warming him right up. Simon too. Ryland can feel Simon's body heat leeching into him, where their thighs and shoulders press against each other.
Ryland still doesn't remember much. Enough to know his last relationship was a good year or two past its expiration date when he got brought into Project Hail Mary. He doesn't know the last time he touched another human being. He doesn't remember when he last hugged someone. He doesn't remember the last time he had sex. Not that he cares too much, but the liquor pulls his thoughts in that direction for some reason.
He's tired and relaxed enough to loop his arm around Simon's shoulder to pull him closer. Likewise, Simon has loosened up enough that he doesn't flinch. In fact, he rests his head on Ryland's shoulder. Ryland hears him sigh. He sounds mildly content, for once.
Ryland doesn't know the last time he was this close to someone. The absence is suddenly all he can think about. He squeezes Simon's shoulder. Rubs across his back. Lets his hand slide up to weave his fingers into Simon's hair. He hasn't washed it in a few days, so it's greasy, but Ryland doesn't care. Doesn't even care if this is weird. Simon isn't afraid to say it when he's unhappy about whatever Ryland or Rocky may be doing, and he's making no complaints about this.
Before long, Ryland feels Simon's hand around him too. A firm, warm palm on his shoulder. A thumb idly brushing the outer edge of his collarbone. That hand sliding down Ryland's back, slowly, with splayed fingers. It comes to rest on the small of his back, nearly grabbing his hip. Ryland parts his lips at the touch. Every point of contact leaves his skin tingling. It must have been years since he's felt something like this, even without counting the coma time.
Ryland jolts when he feels Simon lift up his shirt. Just a little. Enough for Simon to dig his fingers slightly into Ryland's hip. Kneading for a moment. Sliding his fingers up the side of Ryland's waist in a way that makes him shiver, even as his body burns ever warmer.
It takes Ryland by surprise so much, he doesn't even notice his own hand moving. Sliding back down to squeeze Simon's shoulder. Toying with the collar of his shirt with his thumb. He doesn't notice what he's doing until his fingers find their way into Simon's shirt. Not reaching far enough to grab his pecs or anything, just resting his closed-fingered palm against Simon's sternum. He can't tell which of them is running warmer.
"Grace." Simon's voice comes so quietly he may as well have mouthed it. But all the same, Ryland perks up at the sound of his own name.
Simon pulls back just enough to meet Ryland's gaze. The lights are off in this room, but the light pouring in from the hallway makes it just bright enough to see Simon's eyes. His irises are so dark and thin that they're almost impossible to see, swallowed up by his dilated pupils. His gaze is as intense as the feeling of his body heat wrapped around Ryland.
Ryland swallows. Simon's eyes track the movement. Ryland's own eyes flicker, unbidden, to Simon's lips. Thin and scarred, but pretty all the same.
Ryland doesn't remember his last kiss. That thought also arrives unbidden. He blinks it away. Swallows again. Smiles a little bashfully.
"What're we doing?" he whispers, matching Simon's volume instinctively.
His fingers are still touching Simon's chest. He makes no move to rectify that. At least, not until Simon leans forward, and the angle changes too much for Ryland's hand to stay where it is. He withdraws from Simon's shirt, but still lets his hand linger on Simon's back. He doesn't want to pull away. Doesn't want this moment to end yet.
It turns out that Simon leaned over to pick up the bag of vodka again, now more than halfway emptied. Simon huffs under his breath, and Ryland knows his breath would be as enticingly warm as the rest of him. And it's weird to think that way, he's pretty sure, but he can't be bothered to care. Anyway, Simon huffs, rolls his eyes and takes yet another pull from the bag's straw. He drinks for a long time, but with the opening being so small that doesn't count for much. He takes a shot's worth, maybe two, before he lets the bag clumsily slide out of his lap.
"Fuck it," he mutters.
Then both his hands are on Ryland's shoulders, and there are lips against his, and Ryland bluescreens.
That touch, that kiss, seems to break a dam. Because Ryland exhales sharply into the kiss, and then he's the one sliding his hands up Simon's back, beneath his shirt, and the room spins when Simon pushes him onto the floor. Their shirts are both discarded in a rush of movements that are faster than Ryland's foggy, tipsy brain can keep up with. It doesn't matter anyway. Not as much as all that skin contact. Simon's chest against his. A comforting heavy weight pinning him to the floor. Grounding him no matter how far from the ground they really are.
Simon bites a lot. but Ryland was right about his breath being warm. Every sigh, every gasp is enough to make Ryland shiver. Just as much as Simon's hands grabbing and kneading and sliding over every inch of skin they can access. His hands are rough, but his actions aren't. Biting notwithstanding, at least.
Ryland gives as good as he gets. As good as he can manage. He's not sure if experience is on his side, to say nothing about his inebriated state. Still, he gently, bluntly drags his fingernails up Simon's sides to hear him groan. Ryland feels his dick twitch in response, but heck if he knows if he'll be able to get it up. Doesn't matter right now. Just touching is enough. Simon's crushing him a little, but that's fine. Chest to chest, stomach to stomach, they're as close as they can physically get. Unless they fucked each other right here on the floor, and isn't that an idea?
As if motivated by said idea, Ryland slides one hand over Simon's butt, squeezing him through his sweatpants. Ryland's other hand dives beneath the waistband, kneading the bare skin of his ass. Simon breaks the kiss, and for a split second Ryland thinks he's gone too far, but then there are teeth and lips against his neck, still achingly gentle, but biting firmly enough to draw a moan out of him.
He can't help it anymore. he bucks his hips. Pulls Simon down to meet him. Simon— shit, it feels like Simon is hung, even if he's not much harder than Ryland is at this point. The vodka might have knocked them both out of commission.
'The loins sleep tonight,' is a phrase that Ryland suddenly remembers without context. He giggles into the cold air of the room. That noise abruptly dissolves into another breathless moan when Simon licks a stripe across one of Ryland's nipples, before coming back up to kiss him roughly. His lips might be sore and bruised tomorrow. Some weird little part of him looks forward to it.
He feels fingers tugging on the hem of his pants. Simon breaks away again. When Ryland's gaze focuses enough, he sees Simon looking down at him with wide, puppy-like eyes. There's a little tension in his face, and his lips are parted, moving the tiniest bit like he wants to say something. But he doesn't. His fingers, tugging just enough to feel without moving the fabric lower, do the asking for him.
He's waiting for permission. Permission to act. Permission to enjoy this. Permission to keep touching. Permission to not have to let go. Permission to let himself believe this moment is real. Permission to indulge in the alien luxuries of comfort and safety and human connection.
Ryland holds Simon's waist firmly, a reassuring presence, as he raises his hips in invitation. An invitation Simon takes, pulling Ryland's pants and underwear down to just above his knees. At that point he sighs sharply, sitting up to tug his own garments out of the way. Ryland doesn't even get a moment to apologize or feel awkward for not doing it himself. Not when Simon spits into his hand and wraps it around both their cocks.
Ryland almost swears, head knocking back against the floor. His hands fly up to clutch at Simon. One hand on his shoulder, the other tangling into his hair, pulling Simon down into another kiss. Simon growls into this one, and the sound makes Ryland's chest flutter.
He has no idea when he last did anything like this. All he knows is that his body has missed the contact like nothing else. An itch finally scratched, a button finally pushed, a candle finally lit. It doesn't even matter if he can't come. The sex is almost secondary, frankly. It can't compare to the euphoria of simply touching, and being touched.
His head is swimming from the alcohol, and everything just feels nice. He's all too happy to submit to it, to indulge in it, to try and memorize the shape and feeling of Simon's back with his fingertips. Memorizing the taste of his mouth, the feeling of his breath, the callused fingers exploring Ryland's body in turn.
There's no knowing how long they stay like that before Rocky comes knocking. He admonishes them for getting drunk. Simon is dismissive and a little jerkish about it. A little too blunt about how yes, humans poison themselves as a fun pastime, and how no, it'd take more than a single bag of vodka to do any lasting damage. He says this, of course, right before making a disgusting noise and lurching like he's a hair away from throwing up. That just about kills whatever arousal Ryland might've had, and he insists on having Simon sleep in the recovery position just in case.
It gives them an excuse to spoon, anyway.
Rocky dutifully watches them sleep, as always. And he definitely heard whatever they were doing before. Ryland can practically feel confusion emanating from him. But, well. Rocky seems to know better than to ask about it right now. That it can wait until they wake up.