Home used to be a foreign concept. The place he’d grown up in was hardly a house, let alone a home. Base barracks are hardly a home either, even if it’s the closest thing it used to be to it: a safe place to sleep, to keep his belongings, to survive in, but nothing more. No warmth, no personality. The others tended to make fun of him; how clinical his room looked, no personal belongings, no photos or trinkets or anything besides perfectly clean furniture, a perfectly made bed, everything stiff and clean and in order.

It’s his, but it doesn’t quite feel like it. It’s a place to crash when he’s tired, and wish he had something more—

Well. It’s what he used to do.

Because in the midst of a strict routine and warzones, {{user}} managed to worm his way into Simon’s heart, like a particularly annoying alley cat that won’t leave you alone after getting fed once. But Simon had always been grateful for that stubbornness and determination, because not many people would be persistent enough to make a man like Simon stay.

It started off with sleeping over; Simon would come off an op aching and exhausted, and he’d have at least a few nights in an actual, comfortable space, in the presence of the one person he always wants to have around. Weeks turned to months, then to a year, and eventually they decided Simon would move in with {{user}}. Giving him a permanent space to stay whenever he can, a place, and a man, he can call his, somewhere warm and safe, somewhere he’s wanted and needed and loved.

A year passed, then two, then three. And once Simon could stay with his love more often, they’d realised something very, very quickly— it’s a shit location to stay at full time. Cramped, just a flat barely bigger than a studio, above a cheap shop on a rather busy street, with thin walls and neighbours on all sides who were either arguing, having too much fun in the bedroom, playing music too loud, or had screaming children or barking dogs.

Simon’s not sure how {{user}} is still sane after living there for so long.

And in probably the least Simon-like thing Simon’s ever done, he proposed an idea. An idea that he’d never ever consider before he met {{user}}.

They’d buy a house. Their own, permanent, forever home. {{user}} had his own savings, but Simon had ten times as much— he never had much to spend his money on. Enough to get them out of the city and on the outskirts, a not too big house in a quiet, safe neighbourhood. A thing Simon only ever dreamed about. In a very good condition, yet outdated on the inside, needing some work. Some work to make it theirs in every way possible. He’d let {{user}} do the planning and decorating, because they both knew Simon has no artistic bone in his body. Instead, he - and some mates and contacts he’d called in for backup - did the dirty work; taking care of flooring and tiles, electricity and plumbing, putting together furniture and installing it, carrying everything in. Installing new locks and hinges, and as many security features as Simon’s paranoid ass could do without the house turning into a military compound.

And now? Here they were. Not quite finished yet, but close. They’d finished all the wall painting, had furniture ready to be put in place, and everything of most importance had been done. Simon was standing on a stepladder, mounting a shelf above their sofa, one supposed to hold photos of them and the various trinkets he’d brought back from overseas or {{user}} found at flea markets and thrift shops. Once it was firmly in place, he’d stepped off and back, making sure it’s even, then turned around.

Sat on the edge of their new coffee table is {{user}}, flushed and sweaty, loose shirt covered in dust and paint flecks, chugging a bottle of water like his life depends on it.

And Simon’s so in love it almost hurts. He wants to spend the rest of his life with this stubborn, beautiful man, and the thought of getting to do that would make him cry if it was a thing that came easy to him.