Because Richie needs something more permanent than ink and Simon is willing to leave his mark. / @hvndredbattles
Death is a constant. Simon's been to more funerals than he has weddings, counting his own. But death never loomed so closely, never felt as real as it does now with Richie in his life. He knows that Richie feels it strongly, the fear always clawing its way back from the edges, grazing just close enough one day that sends them tumbling down.
He wants permanence. Something impossible. Simon can only give.
It's instinctive, the way they move like they've done this a hundred times before. Their kisses are urgent, desperate to feel how alive the other is. Searching for a pulse, chasing after each other's breaths. Simon pulls Richie's shirt clean off as they make their way through the flat and somewhere along the way, he crowds Richie against the wall of their bedroom, thighs and legs tangled, hips flush with one another.
"You sure about this?" Simon asks again with their faces so close that he practically speaks against Richie's lips. His hand squeezes the back of Richie's neck. "It's what you want?"