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This one should be easy, he thinks, and he's wrong.
Amy had painted a picture of a lost boy with big eyes. Died and rose before he could run kicking and screaming away from his teen years. Wears so much cover-up that she was surprised he could move his face enough to smile at her below those caked-on layers.
She hadn't told them about how he died, but the waver in her smile when they asked her said enough.
The point is: Amy described at length a boy who had seen so much pain even before the living branded him a monster. A boy who smiles and laughs but looks like an orphan in his own home. Simon thinks that when they arrive in Roarton, they will be met by someone who is looking for salvation, for a family that will love him for who he is. He thinks he will find someone just like he was himself.
But he's wrong.
-
It starts out like this:
You're, uh, sitting on my grave.
Oops.
To be fair, he's not exactly using it anymore. Simon cranes his neck back and isn't immediately sure what to make of the boy wandering towards him, face so evenly beige that it's more disconcerting than skin pale like porcelain with blue veins bulging like cracks. He meanders unnaturally, like he forgot how to walk somewhere along the line, which could be a reality after years underground. Simon wants to know what he looks like uncovered.
He says as much, in so many words. And then there are more words, and more, and the boy's face is difficult to read. Usually, this is about the point where they start to look start-stuck and dazzled, with Yeats sealing the deal. This one is dubiously intrigued at best and slightly offended at worst. Maybe that has something to do with the grave sitting from earlier. Oops.
Amy pops in, just on time, and confirms that this is in fact Kieren Walker. Good to know.
She's clearly delighted just to be around him. Something in her face lights up like Simon's never seen before, not with himself, not with anyone else back at the commune. She pokes fun at him, calls him affectionate names, but he doesn't waver. Something in the set of his shoulders and the edge to his voice makes it clear that he's not very receptive to what they're saying.
A bitterness starts to stew in Simon's dead heart at just how little Kieren wants to hear. Amy had made it clear that he was hurting, and even now it's plain to see that there's a storm growing behind those covered up eyes. He's loud about his opinions, but complacent in his own oppression. Simon wants so badly to make him see just how liberating it is to live in the skin they've been given in this second life, but he's not sure it will be easy anymore.
There's mystery in Kieren Walker, fabled friend of Amy's and owner of this grave. Simon wants to peel back those layers of cover up so he can see Kieren's real face staring back at him.
-
“Don't rock the boat,” Kieren says, and Simon almost laughs. This was Amy's idea, to head out bare-faced and force the Roartoners to acknowledge that they are real, they exist, they're not going away. Before he can shove his foot in his mouth, Simon asks where Kieren might be, suggests they start there. Amy's mouth takes on a scandalous twist.
Like him, do you? She asks. I sure know how to pick my boys.
Simon tries to keep his face neutral, makes sure he doesn't show her too much. All he says is that he doesn't think Kieren likes him that much, which is probably true after the whole grave sitting incident. Amy just snuggles close, pats his arm and says he'll warm up soon, beautiful.
But, anyway. That was then, this is now. And now Simon's got his arms around some poor sod's head, Gary he thinks, ready to crush his windpipe for trying to hurt one of the undead. Trying to hurt Kieren. Just a reflex, a strange protective urge.
Mostly he's just jerking him around now, making a point and daring the gun that's suddenly trained on him to go off. Wouldn't hurt him none, not unless it went through his head.
But then the gun shifts to Kieren, and Simon must hit absolute zero from how frozen his insides suddenly are. Amazing that he can still be startled into thinking he can feel. Thankfully, the gun doesn't go off, not even when Kieren slams his keys down on the bar like it's a declaration.
When Kieren struts away, turning back just once at the sound of his name to shoot the entire room an even glare, Simon sees something that almost makes his heart beat. He sees defiance and anger, he sees chips and gashes taken out of a carefully crafted mask of humanity.
More important is what he feels. It's raw and human, sitting under his skin like the come-down after a good high. He feels the desire to rush after Kieren, even though he's not sure what he would say or do. Kieren is just as pissed at him and Amy as he is the rest of the room, no doubt. That doesn't dampen the want stirring in Simon's gut one bit, though.
He lets Gary go almost as an afterthought.
-
Give Back is horrible, obviously. Simon knows they're seen as less than second class citizens, barely human on a good day, but this is some bullshit.
Everyone wears disgusting bright orange vests that stand out like bullseyes, marking them as different form the rest. Simon doesn't put his on with the hopes that others will follow his example and refuse to wear them as well.
Also, because they're terrible.
Days grind by, and the undead of Roarton flock to Amy's living room to share the stories of their rising and to find solidarity with the other undead. Simon can't shake the memory from the back of his mind of off-white folding tables and blistering coffee sitting under the heavy lighting in a church basement, the one Narcotics Anonymous meeting he went to a few months before that last overdose.
In the first few months after he'd left the treatment center, he wished so badly that he'd kept going to them. He held the coin that they'd given him, celebrating 24 hours of being clean, and regretted every evening he spent hunting down his dealer instead of a meeting.
Now, as he watches the Redeemed of Roarton tell their stories, he doesn't regret anything. No – that's not quire true. He regrets the absence of one particular undead, though he doesn't let it bother him much.
Turns out he and that particular undead are sent off to work together the next day, just the two of them. Amy's voice keeps ringing in the back of his mind: Everything happens for a reason.
He thinks, perfect, time alone with Kieren, to speak to Kieren, to make Kieren understand.
Things don't go nearly as planned.
He's wrong about Kieren, but this time he says so out loud. He's not angry so much as he's bitterly disappointed. Bad vibes have to be coming off of him in waves, because even Amy avoids him when he stalks back into the bungalow later on.
That want is still burning under his skin, but it's different now. It's angry and conflicted and so frustrated that it feels like fire in the back of his throat. It's only inflamed as he watches the Roartoners scrub their faces clean, because Kieren is nowhere to be seen.
-
He's still burning hot with anger (well, in theory) when he opens the door later that evening. But as soon as Kieren rushes past him, it feels like he's been doused with water. It's like steam rising off his shoulders, like a different kind of rage. When he finally gets a good look, he sees a contact is missing, cover up is smeared, and Simon is ready to go rabid on whoever hurt Kieren.
Kieren looks frantic, almost afraid, like there are a million thoughts fighting in his head and he can't find the right words to get them out. Simon goes into disciple mode without even realizing it, prepared to listen and to care but also on the edge of hunting someone down if he has to.
And then Kieren kisses him.
Simon falters, skirts his fingertips along Kieren's neck, takes it slow because what the fuck? But Kieren is a steady presence pushing against him, and he yields easily. Kiren kisses so gently that it's almost tentative, like he's afraid that pressing too hard will make them disappear, like it's the only way he knows how. It breaks Simon's heart to think he hasn't been loved like he should.
So Simon presses forward, kisses Kieren like it's acceptance and a plea for forgiveness all at once. His fingers cup Kieren's neck, even though he can't really feel it, can't feel any of this. Phantom pressure is all it is, and it's amazing.
When they pull back, Simon expects a hushed I shouldn't have done that, followed by a quick exit from the bungalow and Simon's life altogether. Call it a gut feeling, or maybe just the cold cautious wisdom gained from a lifetime of fucking up and getting fucked up, only to wake up alone.
But, as the pattern regarding his perceptions of Kieren Walker dictates, he is wrong.
“I saw some shit tonight,” Kieren breathes, “And I just – You were right, I think.”
And then, with a helpful little boost from his tip-toes, Kieren plants one more quick kiss to the corner of Simon's mouth before falling back on the flats of his feet.
“I ought to be heading home, I suppose,” Kieren says, still looking sad and anxious but at least more sure of himself. Simon's fingertips are still pressing against the sides of his neck, barely-there pressure that he knows Kieren can't feel. It's mostly for himself, honestly. “Parent's are going to be wondering about me.”
A thud from the down the hall scares Kieren half to death – har har – and shocks them apart. Amy, fuck, he'd forgotten about her the minute he saw Kieren at the door. Kieren takes that as his cue to scoot.
“Bye, then,” he mutters, brushing past Simon.
“Wait,” Simon grabs Kieren's hand, “Will you stop by tomorrow?”
Kieren pauses, half out the door, and gives a slight nod before disappearing back into the night like he was never here.
Tomorrow rolls around, and Kieren does stop by. Simon is pleased for all of thirty seconds.
It's so different from last night, when Kieren was eager and responsive and almost shy. He meets Simon's eyes now, hard gaze hidden behind dark contacts, and refuses to waver. Simon can't kiss him, isn't even allowed to touch him out of Kieren's fear of, what, indoctrination?
There's something wrong with someone as beautiful as Kieren not understanding why he's doing this. They all deserve to feel safe and comfortable in their own skin, not the skin that someone else picked out for them. Kieren shouldn't be forced to hide himself away, he should be allowed to embrace who he is in broad daylight. And Simon really thinks that the ULA is a gateway to that kind of thinking.
But it's not going to work, not on this Roartoner. So Simon suggests a compromise. Kieren considers it, and comes up with something mortifying.
Simon want so badly to appeal to this boy. Only somewhere along the line, it ceased to be about the ULA somehow. He came to this town to convert Kieren to his cause, and accidentally got converted to something himself. It doesn't feel wrong as he hastily layers patches of mousse on his face, but it sure as hell doesn't feel right.
He can't believe he's doing this.
-
There's a series of wrong, wrong, wrongs. It must be wrong that Kieren is the first, it must be wrong that anyone would ever want to kill him. Simon is wrong in his assumptions, Kieren was wrong that afternoon at lunch, the Undead Prophet is wrong if he thinks the Second Rising is worth this.
He unrolls the packet of tools and swears he can feel himself sweating through his dead skin. Each one looks grisly, and he's suddenly paralyzed with mental images of them sinking into Kieren's heart, slitting his throat, tearing through his gut.
The earth shifts beneath his feet, and Simon falls back against the wall to fight a bout of dizziness. This is the most alive he's felt since America. This is such bullshit.
-
Antiseptic and washed out lighting make for one hell of a headache. Must be association with his memories, his own brand of PTSD, but he's here on his own volition.
Simon's eyes are glued to Kieren. Not once during his life had he managed to resist a high, but Kieren had. He fought off Blue Oblivion and looks like he got nothing more than a headache out of it. He's amazing, fantastic, incredible, and Simon still doesn't fully understand him. Kieren is looking at Simon like he's a bit of an idiot, or maybe just insufferable. He doesn't mind, he did considering murdering Kieren after all.
About that. . .
Simon begins trying to explain himself, because he owes it to Kieren, but he's interrupted by a commotion. It's Amy, Christ, Amy is hurt, Amy is soaked crimson, Amy is dying, Amy is dead. She's lying there, stained with blood that doesn't run black. She was alive, she was the second rising, the first and the last. She is dead and it's all his fault.
Simon realizes now that this is his biggest wrong yet. It wasn't Kieren, it was never Kieren. It was Amy, beautiful sweet alive Amy. He brought her back here, he put her in this position. All for – for an insane belief.
He doesn't move forward to squeeze Kieren's shoulder, no matter how much he wants to. He was wrong, so wrong, and he does not deserve it.
-
As Amy's lowered into the ground for the second time, Simon feels his last attachment to the ULA snap like a cable under tension. Nothing is worth this.
Later, Kieren declares his desire to stay in Roarton, proving Simon wrong yet again. Simon decides to stay with him. It's not safe here, really not safe, but he'll do this for Kieren. Simon considers telling Kieren everything right there, in his living room at Amy's wake. The words get stuck in his throat before they can reach his tongue.
So he grabs his pack when the sun starts to go down, and heads back to the bungalow. First thing he notices is that the door is unlocked, and the gray light of the evening is casting shadows in every corner. It's the ambiance of disturbance; someone's been here.
Been being the key word. If they're still around, they're fantastic at hide and seek. Simon searches everywhere, even frantically pulls open the cupboards at one point. Only after does he notice the yellow paper tacked to the wall with a serrated knife.
JUDAS, the paper says to him, and he tells it to fuck off.
It's around midnight that he hears a knock on the door. Something inside of him is screaming don't open it, but he cautiously approaches anyway. When he swings the door open, the tension leaves his body in a hurry.
“Mind if I stay the night?” Kieren asks, looking forlorn in a long sleeve shirt and sweatpants. “Doesn't feel right to leave you alone here right now.”
“Yeah,” Simon breathes all of his exhaustion into the word, “Please, come in.”
Kieren shuffles past him into the hall and stops to look around. Grief weighs heavily in his bones, dragging his shoulders into a sad little slump. He sighs, and Simon feels like he's allowed to touch him now.
At first, Kieren doesn't react to the hand squeezing his shoulder. There's a far away look in his eyes, and Simon isn't sure he even feels it. But then his gaze lands on Simon again, and his sigh sounds more like an admission this time: I need help. Kieren launches himself forward, wrapping his arms around Simon's neck and pulling him into a hug. It's then that Simon understands that Kieren is here for himself as well. So he wraps his arms around Kieren's middle and lets him choke out dry sobs into the crook of his neck.
“It's not fucking fair, Simon!” Kieren grits out at one point, and Simon feels like he's dying a second time, too.
They stand like that until Kieren starts to calm down, and soon he's more slumped against Simon's body than standing on his own feet. Simon guides Kieren into the bedroom after that, sitting him down on the bed and going to war with the laces on his boots.
Kieren fights him a little at first, but it's mostly for show. He's exhausted and miserable and dosed up with grief. The socks are easier to tackle, and soon they're neatly sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Simon rises to his feet as soon as Kieren is nestled under the blankets. He thinks it's too soon to get in bed with Kieren, too presumptuous to think that they've made it that far yet. But he's, you guessed it, wrong.
“Where're you going?” Kieren asks.
Simon just makes a vague motion towards the door with his thumb. “Couch.”
Kieren rolls his eyes. “Don't be daft. C'mere.”
Then Kieren tugs on Simon's sleeve, pulling him onto the bed and under the covers. It's not necessary, neither of them feel the cold, but it's still nice to crawl under a duvet and settle into the mattress. Simon has no clue what to do with his body at first. Maybe keep his distance, give Kieren the space he might need. But then Kieren yawns and throws an arm across Simon's chest, shoves his face under Simon's chin.
Well, if that's how it's going to be, Simon curls an arm around Kieren and drags him even closer.
“Alright?” Kieren asks after a small while.
No, not alright. Amy's dead, and it's mostly my fault. I almost murdered you. The ULA probably wants to hurt us. Not fucking alright.
“Alright.”
Kieren hums like he knows it's bullshit.
Sleep never finds Simon that night. He's too busy listening, keeping his ears and eyes open for any more disturbances. By the time dawn creeps over Roarton, nobody has gotten into the Bungalow, and he lets his eyes drift shut.
When he wakes up, he has no idea what time it is and he doesn't give a fuck. Kieren is missing from his side, which is alarming until he shoots upright and sees that he's sitting at the foot of his bed. In his hands is a photo of Simon's mother that he managed to steal before getting kicked out.
Simon flops back down on the bed. It's too early for this.
“Sorry,” Kieren sets the photo back down. “I suppose I shouldn't root through your stuff.”
Simon doesn't say anything, he just scratches as his hairless chin for something to do. He feels awkward like this, thinking maybe he should be telling Kieren all about what happened. But before he can get the right words in his head, Kieren drops a bomb on him:
“Last time I went searching through here was when you disappeared. Found Blue Oblivion then.”
Simon full on smacks himself in the face, hoping that maybe it will concuss him so they don't have to talk about it. “I wasn't going to take it.”
“Yeah,” Kieren bites. “Sure you weren't.”
It hurts, but fuck, if he doesn't deserve it. Instead of pursuing it, though, Kieren just flops down next to him and sighs up at the ceiling.
“Too much shite going down just now,” he decides. “We'll talk later.”
Simon is grateful for that, even though he knows he shouldn't be. They need to talk about this now, because it's only going to become worse with time. But when he glances over at Kieren's face, he can't bring himself to say anything. There's an invisible pressure pushing down on him, Simon knows. If he learns about this thing now, it might break him.
So instead Simon smiles, and it feels like a lie.
-
Kieren switches gears on him so often than Simon is afraid the damn things are going to jam. One minute he'll be batting his eyelashes and stealing kisses. The next minute, he'll be leveling Simon with a look that makes it clear he wants to call Simon out but wants to be polite about it.
Sometimes, he's not polite about it. Sometimes, he says jarring things, harsh things that fool Simon into thinking he can feel pain. But it's never more than a few days before Kieren comes shuffling back to the bungalow, head bowed just slightly and an apologetic smile on his face.
Because when they fight, it's over stupid things. Kieren keeps dropping stuff, books and remotes and a vase full of damp soil and dying roots once. Any time Simon asks what's up, he gets a terse nothing in reply. Simon is sure he saw Kieren's hands shaking before that last one, but Kieren just folds them under his arms and snaps that he's fine.
Simon doesn't quite believe him, but alright.
They get a brick through the window one morning when they're lying around in the living room. It doesn't hit anyone, but still.
Simon just sort of stares at it, almost definitely knowing where it came from. Kieren doesn't take kindly to being antagonized by what he assumes is the remainder of the HVF. He doesn't swear out the window, but his insults are still rather colorful. And her certainly doesn't take well to being told to calm down.
“Calm down?” Kieren all but shrieks. “The bungalow has been assaulted with masonry! Where the fuck did they even get this thing?”
Kieren picks up the brick and holds it like he's testing its weight. For one horrifying second, Simon is sure he's going to take off down the street to hurl it at their mystery assailant. Simon gets up, glass crunching beneath his feet, and gently pries it out of Kieren's hold.
“If we respond to them with violence, they'll feel justified in attacking us,” Simon explains.
Kieren gives him a flat look of disbelief. “You put Gary Kendal in a headlock the first day I met you.”
Well fuck.
“We're going back to my place,” Kieren says, tugging Simon out the door, “We're going to talk to my parents about this. Call the police, something.”
There's not a word of protest from Simon as Kieren drags him down the street by the hand. Which, oddly enough, gets him a berating later. It's a gentle berating and the effect is lessened by the way Kieren is struggling to tape a garbage bag over the busted window, but it's still a berating.
Simon has been trying, really trying, to listen to Kieren when he says things like this. When he says please stop staring honestly Simon I'm not that amazing stand up to me more it's okay I need to be called out too sometimes.
I'm not another ULA. I'm not another addiction.
Thing is, Simon always expects Kieren is going to pack up and leave, head off to his own house and never come back after these fights. He's always wrong.
Despite that, his stomach still knots up when he puts on his dead serious voice and asks Kieren to listen to something he has to say. Kieren looks curious, but not worried. Oh, boy. Simon rests his elbows on his knees, eyes down at his lap, and sighs.
Here goes.
“I got Amy killed,” he admits, and it all comes out as one hurried word. Kieren cocks an eyebrow.
“We've been through this,” he sighs, “She left and came back with you because she wanted to. It was Maxine Martin what killed her, not you.”
Simon forces himself to maintain eye contact, won't let himself run away from this. “You don't understand. I brought her back here so we could search for the First –”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“– Who I was ordered to kill.”
Silence. Followed by more silence, followed by Kieren's face getting all twisted up like he's angry and confused at once.
“Jesus Christ,” Kieren huffs, “That's why you came to Roarton?”
“I had no idea,” Simon says, “I swear, when I was sent to find the First Risen, I knew nothing about what I would have to do.”
The silence stretches into the territory of uncomfortable and keeps going a few miles. Kieren keeps making aborted little noises, like he wants to speak but doesn't know what to say. Simon keeps his mouth shut, and tries to come up with something, maybe an I'm sorry that won't sound like a cop-out.
He comes up empty handed.
“That's why you were in the cemetery,” Kieren realizes, shooting to his feet, “You thought it was me.”
Simon stays where he is, elbows digging into his thighs, fingers absentmindedly drumming against his mouth and chin. “I did.”
“Well why the fuck did you think it was me?” Kieren asks, hysteria lighting up his dead eyes. “What, because you had a crush?”
“Because of that day at lunch, when you described your rising,” Simon admits. “When you said it was midnight, no other graves unturned, I was sure it was you.”
“Oh, god, Simon,” Kieren huffs, and falls back down into the chair. “Christ, I should have kept my mouth shut, huh? You remember your rising, yeah? Remember the disorienting need to feed? God knows what else was going on then, I was just so damn hungry.”
Simon tries to keep his face blank, prying through his memories now isn't going to help anyone. He's still got nothing to say that will fix this, so he keeps his mouth shut.
“You were going to kill me,” Kieren says, casual like he's stating a fact. There's no judgement, no anger, no disgust in his voice. Just an empty sort of fascination.
“I didn't,” Simon reminds him, “I couldn't.”
A pause. “And if you knew it was Amy?”
“No way,” Simon says, and he's sure of it. “I wouldn't be able to. Even if she asked me, I –”
He drops his head then, breaking eye contact and staring at his knees.
“I like to think I would have left them, you know, the ULA, if I knew what I would have to do before coming here,” he says, and it feels like acid burning him from the inside out. “But I'm not sure I would have. Not before you.”
He looks up again, something like hope etched in the lines of his face. Kieren rises to his feet again, but he looks less angry now, less confused. He just looks exhausted. He drags a hand through his hair and says, “I have to be alone just now.”
He strides out of the living room, and Simon's heart drops so hard he's almost fooled into thinking it's beating. He expects the slam of the front door, followed by a vacuum of silence so strong that it leaves nothing left inside of him. But he's wrong, he just hears the click of the bathroom door closing in the hall.
Simon manages to sit completely still for at least ten minutes, worry growing in his gut with every tick of the clock. He knows he should give Kieren his privacy, but he can't stand to sit here alone in the living room. So he wanders into the hall and sits against the bathroom door for what has to be another solid ten minutes, head bowed like he's begging to be absolved. Only after that stretch of time does he dare try to get Kieren's attention.
He knocks on the door, and gets a muffled fuck off in reply.
His head falls again.
“I deserved that,” he tells his knees, and his knees offer no sympathy. Still, he remains propped against the wood like pressing into it will put him closer to Kieren. There's no distinct sounds on the other side, no heavy breathing or weeping or angry venting. Simon's prying ears are met with silence, and he knows it's all he deserves right now.
It's only when Kieren opens the door, god knows how much later, that Simon is broken out of his thoughts. With the motion of the door, he tumbles backwards and lands heavily at Kieren's feet on the floor.
“Umf,” he huffs intelligently.
“Christ, what am I going to do with you?”
Simon can't help the immediate self-deprecating reply: “Throw me out?”
“Throw you out?” Kieren asks, and he almost sounds amused behind the incredulity, “Of your own bungalow?”
“It's not mine,” Simon says, “It's Amy's.”
Kieren looks like he wants to smack Simon, which, okay, that's understandable after everything. But he doesn't, he just leans down and drags Simon to his feet with an exaggerated groan. It's times like these that Simon mourns his dull senses and wishes for the feeling of warmth pressing against warmth. Ghostlike pressure isn't enough, they're already undead for fuck's sake.
“I'm pissed at you,” Kieren says, wiping away imaginary dirt from the front of Simon's shirt, but he doesn't sound angry. “Not for the crazy religious extremism. I hope that's a bit behind you now.”
“You're right,” Simon hurries to say. “So what is it?”
“For not telling me this before. For just. . . Prancing off into the city and leaving me alone with a town that hates me. Because if we're going to be anything, we've got to trust each other. We've got to tell each other shit, alright?”
“Alright,” Simon immediately mutters. “Alright.”
Kieren sighs, tired eyes trained on Simon. “How'd you even fall in with those blokes at the ULA?”
“I – I had nowhere else to go,” Simon says, voice so small and pathetic that he internally cringes. Kieren's eyes grow to about the size of billiard balls, eyebrows arching in and up in the most heartbroken expression Simon's seen since, well. . .
It won't do to think about Amy's deathbed right now.
“Hey,” Kieren grabs his shoulder, “Sorry. Guess that wasn't a very fair question, huh?”
“Nah, you're fine,” Simon says. “No more secrets, right?”
Kieren looks like he's trying to be angry but it's just not working out for him. “Oh, come here,” he mutters, and pulls Simon into a hug.
-
That evening, they decide to go visit Amy.
“God, I should have painted on her gravestone, too.”
“Rain would have washed it away,” Simon says, and Kieren shrugs.
“Give me a chisel,” he says, “I'll do something about it now.”
“You want to deface Amy's grave?”
“It wouldn't be defacement, Kieren says, “I would be an enhancement.”
“She'd love it,” Simon says, and Kieren squeezes his hand.
“Yeah. She would.”
They talk about her, talk to her, say useless stupid thing that they know won't change anything but their own moods. Kieren's voice catches once or twice, but he powers through. He goes on about what an insufferable arsehole Simon is. There's no real heat in his voice, but Simon knows it's his punishment for breaking Amy's heart and keeping secrets from Kieren.
Besides, Kieren doesn't let go of Simon's hand at all through his rant. Part of Simon thinks that Kieren might understand his guilt and grief. Another part of him knows that Kieren is just a good person, even when he's angry.
There's a lull after that, where neither of them want to say anything but they also don't want to leave. Kieren rests his head on Simon's shoulder and just stares at Amy's grave, sighing every few moments. It's a sound that gets lost in the wind whistling between the graves and rustling the trees.
Kieren began his second life here, and Simon almost brought it full circle on the 12th. That thought causes a nice lurch in his gut, like the world just stopped spinning and he's going to fall off. Simon would dwell more on it if Kieren didn't suddenly drop his hand to step forward.
“Something's off,” his eyebrows knit dangerously. “The dirt's moved.”
“Yeah?” Simon asks. He crouches down and stares at the loose soil, and sees. “Yeah.”
He feels like a fucking idiot, actually, squatting on the ground and analyzing the set of the dirt when he could be doing something dignified like weeping all over her grave. But as strange as it sounds, the dirt does look off. Not that the ground is destroyed like Amy's last grave, more like it's been tilled up. Disturbed and hastily put back together.
“You don't think. . .”
Simon cranes his neck back to look at Kieren and manages an honest-to-god grin. “If anyone could rise a second time, it would be Amy.”
“Yeah,” Kieren says, and it sounds like he's crying. But he's not, he's smiling all small and stormy with the Roarton sky passing just overhead.
-
Kieren spends about a week staying mostly at his house, checking in on Simon every once in a while because I don't just up and disappear on people. Simon rolls his eyes to mask his hurt. Point taken, already.
It's not quite forgiveness, because Kieren keeps dropping snide little comments into everything that Simon figures he definitely deserves. The blow is lessened slightly by the way Kieren seems to have become more tactile after that day at Amy's grave. They don't just sit on the sofa anymore, they lie across each other in a heap.
Soon, Kieren's back to spending nights in the bungalow again.
Simon was never awesome at the whole sleeping thing, alive or dead. He always did it better when he had someone's arms around him and a neck to nestle his nose into. Never was he a fan of being the big spoon, he always liked having someone else wrapping up his body in their arms. It gave him a sense of security, he supposes.
Only problem is that Kieren is such a tiny little thing, comparatively. They make it work, but sometimes they slip apart.
That's why, he thinks, he wakes up in the middle of the night feeling confused and empty. Kieren is busy cuddling with the duvet, and Simon seems to have drifted to the other side of the bed somewhere in the middle of the night. The moon hangs low outside, peeping in through the crack in the curtains like it wants to say hello. Simon's a bit grumpy and just wants it to fuck off.
He sits up then, breathing uselessly but evenly through his nose. He scratches at the back of his neck, fingers brushing his injection hole, and looks down at Kieren. The moonlight is fighting valiantly to pierce through the fog outside, but it's honestly doing a shitty job of it. Kieren's face is mostly in shadow, light only catching on his eyelashes where they rest against his cheek.
He's almost disappearing into the surroundings, skin tone so white it nearly matches the sheets. It's as if he could sink into the mattress, blend into the world and be gone. By all means, Simon should have already lost him by now in the haze of fuckups and wrongness that are following him like a storm cloud.
But then Kieren makes a tiny noise, not really a snore but not a sigh either, and Simon's bad mood flees into the night. It's hard to be unhappy when Kieren scrunches his face up, wriggles his nose like a rabbit, and blearily opens his eyes.
There's a long moment where Kieren just stares blankly up at Simon like he's trying to figure out if he's awake or in a dream. A yawn, a few blinks, and Kieren seems to be coming back to the realm of the living – or at least the realm of the awake.
“Watching people sleep is creepy,” he says, but he doesn't sound like he minds too much.
“We're reanimated corpses,” Simon argues, “Everything about us is creepy.”
He gets a weakly tossed pillow in the face for his troubles.
“That doesn't sound very progressive, Mr. Twelfth Disciple,” Kieren teases, but his face crumples immediately. He looks bashful at once, an apology written in his eyes, but Simon waves it off.
“I guess you're right,” he says, his smile taking on a despondent edge in the dull moonlight. It doesn't fool Simon and it sure as hell doesn't fool Kieren. He throws a hand out, blue veins pushing against pale skin, and tugs Simon back down for a kiss.
Kissing Kieren when he's half asleep is unlike kissing anyone else on the planet, probably. It's not a good kiss, not by any stretch. It's uncoordinated. It would be way too wet if they had any substantial saliva. It feels more like he's meandering towards something instead of setting goals. But after a while, he puts his whole body into it, dragging his fingernails down Simon's arms, twisting their legs all together under the covers, rubbing his face against Simon's cheeks while trying desperately to land a kiss on his mouth. Rarely does he hit his mark, but Simon doesn't mind.
It never lasts long, though, because he's always tired when he's like this. Eventually, Kieren sags back against the pillows and drags Simon to lie across his chest. There's no heartbeat there, but Simon listens for one anyway.
“Do you ever have nightmares,” Kieren asks, voice thick with sleep, “From before?”
“No,” Simon hesitantly raises his head and meets Kieren's eyes. “Not from before. But from after, yeah.”
Kieren's eyebrows slowly draw together, but he doesn't ask any questions. Simon is glad, because he's not sure if he's up for that conversation just yet.
“You don't have to tell me now,” Kieren assures him, “But it might help to talk about it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Simon mutters. He drops back down and buries his face in the crook of Kieren's neck. “Feelings later. Sleep now.”
Kieren barks out a laugh. “Your feelings are what's keeping us up, you creepy romantic.”
“Can't help it, you're amazing,” Simon mutters agains his neck, because he can. He expects Kieren to shoot him down again, like always. This time, though, he's wrong.
Kieren just hums in the back of his throat like he's considering that. “Yeah,” he eventually says, “I am.”
Simon snorts out a surprised laugh. “What a humble little bastard you are.”
“Hey, you said it.”
That he did. “And I meant it. I mean every word.”
They drift off, then, letting silence blanket them in the dark. When they reopen their eyes, the moon has fucked off and left the sun in its wake. Simon tries so hard to tug the duvet up and over his head, but Kieren isn't having any of it.
“Rise and shine, it's already –” he plucks the alarm clock off of the bedside table and squints, “Half past eleven. Shit, I told dad I'd be 'round in the morning.”
He gets up, letting Simon fall to fill the space he vacated. It's not warm, and even if it was it's not like he'd be able to feel it. It's nice to pretend, though. Somewhere else in the bungalow, Kieren is rummaging around, looking for the rest of his clothes and his shoes, probably. Simon considers getting up to help, but that would mean getting out of bed.
Nah.
“Where the hell have my boots gone?” Kieren calls from the living room.
“Try by the door,” Simon grunts. "Where we keep the shoes."
“Well thank you, smartarse – oh.”
Simon smiles into the pillow.
When Kieren hobbles into the bedroom trying to wrestle a boot on, Simon decides he should at least sit up to send him off. He blinks a few times and figures he probably looks worse than he did when he crawled out of the grave. Kieren doesn't look bad, though, he looks fuzzy and disheveled, but not bad.
“You're beautiful,” Simon mutters, and Kieren grimaces slightly. Suddenly, Simon yearns for last night, when Kieren was compliant and cuddly and believed Simon when he said things like this. Maybe some day Kieren won't have to be half asleep to admit to himself that he's wonderful.
But for now, baby steps.
“Hey,” he reaches out and grabs Kieren's hands, tugging him to stand by the bed. “I mean it.”
Something about the look Kieren gives him makes him feel alright. The air between them is easy and warm, even if they can't feel it. He thinks Kieren might not fight this time, might just smile and lean down and kiss Simon on the mouth – no, that's not quite right. This time, it's less of an assumption and more like a desire.
And this time, he's right.