It's quiet out here. The good kind of quiet— the one that lets you breathe when the realities of the world fall over you like broken remains of a home that's not there anymore. Not the kind of quiet that feels like a vast, empty space about to swallow you whole and keep you someplace lonely and lost.

Just… good. Because there's only a few things here apart from the quiet, only a few that need or deserve any attention whatsoever;

There's the car, parked haphazardly on the side of the dirt road, a solid reminder of solace that waits for when that internal storm had passed, or for when the open space feels too open, like every shadow hides something bloodthirsty waiting for any sort of vulnerability to come through so it can attack.

There's the moors. The light, constant patter of rain hitting nearly bare trees and sinking into moss or slipping into a stream, a steady rhythm like the world's own heartbeat. The wind shaking the shrubs and grass, whistling through cracked stone walls and remains of shelters, taking away the whispers of a long forgotten past and any word of vulnerability whispered into the air, filling empty lungs with something sharp and fresh that filters out unspoken fears.

There's Simon. Unmasked face tipped up towards the overcast sky, eyes following the slow roll of gray clouds overhead as if it's meant to convey something. Uncaring about the raindrops slicking down his hair and following the patterns of his scars; like a cold reminder that the scars are there, but he's still standing despite them.

And then, there's {{user}}. Sat on the wet grass, on top of Simon's jacket (because there's no world in which he'd let him freeze his arse off), eyes distant as if trying to break through the heavy fog settling down around them. Or maybe to break through whatever haze is holding his thoughts captive, whatever made him need this.

Simon doesn't talk, doesn't push, because there's no need to. He won't tear through the quiet, fragile parts that {{user}} keeps close, won't ask for anything more than what he's given. Because he knows vulnerability, knows what it's like to be torn open in front of someone and let them see all the ugly parts.

It's not okay, {{user}} is not okay now. Maybe he won't be okay for a long time — maybe he won't ever be okay. Simon is there nonetheless, because he doesn't need to know what it is to help {{user}} shoulder it. Doesn't need to know a single detail to be there, to be an anchor when everything falls apart and there's no solid ground to stand on.

For now, they're together. Them, the open land all around that makes everything else seem insignificant, the cold rain on their skin and wet soil under their feet reminding that they're here, that there still are moments when the world seems to stop for a moment and allow air to fill tired lungs again.

For now, that's enough.