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It was a stupid thing to fixate on, all things considered, and it wasn't as though there weren't a dozen other things to think about. There was the obvious one – a moregeous, Amy-shaped hole – but thinking on that made him want to heave. (Thinking on that brought back the taste of bitter, black bile on his lips, on how close he'd gotten to... but he wasn't going to think about that, either.)
(He had all of eternity to process things. He didn't see a hurry.)
Looking at the rucksack and all it represented wasn't painful, at least, but it raised at least a few questions Kieren didn't know he wanted answers to.
On the other hand, and after everything that had happened these past couple of days (and God, it felt so much longer than that), he thought he deserved a few answers. Ideally ones that didn't raise more questions than they answered, but Kieren had long since resigned himself to not always getting what he wanted.
“Mum, Dad,” he said abruptly, cutting into their whispered conversation (which he'd noticed had included lots of pointed looks in his direction and guilt practically radiating off them both), “is it okay if Simon stays the night?” And then, just in case guilt wasn't enough to sway them, “I'm not sure it'd be good for him to stay at Amy's place after...” He gestured around the room, eyes falling upon a plate of Mars bars piped with icing to make them look like coffins – a macabre touch Amy would probably have felt worthy of sacrificing her knickers for. “Everything.”
His dad nodded with a smile that was only a little uneasy. “I'll set up the camp bed.” (At this his mother rolled her eyes, and gave Kieren a wink so brief it could have been mistaken for an involuntary twitch.)
Simon sent him a sideways glance, but didn't protest. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said instead, with a quick, grateful nod. “I promise not to eat you out of house and home.”
Mum's smile was tight but genuine, and Kieren wondered if she too was thinking back on Amy barging in on their dinner and into their lives. “It's a shame, really.” She picked up an egg and cress sandwich, cut into the shape of a flower. “Most of this is going to go to waste. Don't think anyone's got much of an appetite. It looks lovely though,” she added quickly to Kieren, as if suddenly remembering who exactly had gotten up at five that morning to make the spread. “It's very...”
“Amy,” Simon agreed, his hand slipping into Kieren's, and giving it a squeeze tight enough to be felt through the deadened nerve endings (and Kieren's dad at once finding himself fascinated with a tombstone cupcake). “She'd have loved it.”
There was an unfamiliar tightness in Kieren's throat. He swallowed it down. “Yeah,” he said shakily. “I hope so.”
“This is my room,” Kieren said, unnecessarily – he was hardly going to take them up to Jem's room, was he? But he'd never been a brilliant conversationalist, even before his death, instead being drawn to people with big personalities and who spoke freely, without hesitation. Like Rick.
And Amy.
He could feel their eyes upon him now, immortalised in sketches that were always slightly off and he'd never get the chance to properly make right. Simon was looking at them too, albeit with a far less critical eye.
“He was handsome,” Simon remarked, nodding his head towards a portrait of Rick done in charcoal. It was the one he'd done... after, the stitches and staples clear and defined against white skin. There were other, more flattering pictures of Rick littered around his bedroom, but it didn't surprise Kieren for even a moment that this was the one Simon liked best. “I can see why you liked him.”
Kieren frowned. “That's not why,” and in the face of Simon's disbelieving raised eyebrow corrected himself, "that's not just why I liked him. He was my best mate before he was anything else. He stuck up for me. Even after his dad... even after I got barred from his house, he never stopped being my friend. Being...” The tightness in his throat had returned with a vengeance, and he had to clear his throat before continuing. “He stuck up for me,” he repeated, staring at the picture. He could never get the eyes right. Some people could draw eyes and breathe new life into the subjects of their art; in Kieren's sketches they remained dead and unseeing. “And it got him killed twice over.”
"He probably thought you were worth dying for," Simon said quietly, but with conviction, and unwittingly reminding Kieren of yet another thing he'd been trying to avoid dwelling on.
“Is that what you thought, back in the graveyard?” he snapped, words coming out louder than he'd intended. The dull murmur of people in the living room halted for a moment. “When you...” Took a bullet for him. When his eyes finally cleared against a haze of Blue Oblivion to find Simon lying still on top of him.
“Yes,” said Simon, so matter-of-factly that Kieren was already finding it hard to stay angry.
Hard, but not impossible. “And where would that have left me?” he demanded, hands curling into fists. “If I'd lost you and Amy, and knowing it was my fault? I can't,” his vision blurred, and he wiped at his eyes furiously, grateful he didn't have to worry about disturbing his contacts, “I can't handle anyone else dying because of me.”
Kieren knew that Simon knew how to speak, how to deliver each word like a promise of salvation and a new tomorrow. He was grateful that Simon also knew when to stay silent, letting him draw in a few shaky breaths to compose himself. (Technically speaking it didn't do anything, but going through the motions was still reassuring.)
“Do you ever wish you'd died instead?” Simon asked, after a pause. Kieren blinked by way of response, and Simon continued, not looking at him, “The night I came back... I went to my parents' house. Doesn't even make sense, looking back – I hadn't lived there in years, but I suppose some part of me remembered – and my mum..."
Kieren thought back to the photograph, torn and lovingly patched back together with sellotape, and took Simon's arm and led them towards the bed. He maintained his grip even as they sat down, perched on the edge.
“I didn't find out until long after. When my dad... And I spent so long after that wishing that someone could have just gotten to me first.”
"We're not to blame for what we did in our untreated state," Kieren said feebly, and Simon gave him a small smile that didn't meet his pinprick eyes.
“I did my affirmations too, you know. I even got to try out some earlier versions before they got the wording down pat. Doesn't always help, does it?”
Kieren thought back to all those mornings in front of the mirror, trying to speak and seeing Lisa Lancaster's bloody face staring back at him. He shook his head, and Simon tilted his in acknowledgement.
“That's when I have to remind myself that these things happen for a reason.”
“Amy said something similar.”
The sides of Simon's mouth tightened, his earlier smile more like a grimace. “One of the tenets of the Undead Prophet. We all have a purpose. Maybe mine was saving you. Others might disagree.”
There wasn't really anything Kieren could say to that, so instead he shifted closer and rested his head on Simon's shoulder. He could just about feel Simon's fingers running through his hair and along his scalp – though maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him.
There was a knock on his door, opening and revealing his dad before he had a chance to respond. He dutifully shifted away from Simon, while his dad just as dutifully looked the other way.
“I've blown up the old inflatable, since you two can't... don't...”
“Thanks Dad,” said Kieren, sparing him and helping lay the bed down on a bare stretch of carpet.
“Right.” His dad cleared his throat. “Seems a bit stuffy in here. Mind if I leave the door open?” Kieren shrugged, and his dad backed out, making a point of leaving the door firmly ajar.
A beat, and then Simon and Kieren shared a smirk, the earlier tension eased. “Steve's...” Simon began, and Kieren let out an amused huff, dropping back down beside him.
“He's not that bad. I mean, he knows, and I don't think he actually minds, it's just... easier for him to pretend like nothing's going on. It used to bother me, but then I thought about Rick's dad and...”
“Nobody's perfect?” Simon suggested.
Kieren laughed for the first time in days, longer and harder than was really warranted. “Right. We're all fuck-ups around here. Present company excluded, of course.”
Simon's brow furrowed. “I'm hardly perfect.”
“Tell that to your flock,” Kieren shot back, teasing – and realised immediately he'd said the wrong thing. Any earlier traces of amusement on Simon's face had faded, his expression now shuttered and distant. “I was just--”
"I'm not with them any longer."
“...oh.” Things seemed at last to be clicking into place. “Is that why you wanted to leave Roarton?”
Simon gave a slow, surprisingly hesitant nod – and of all the words Kieren could use to describe Simon (and he'd come up with some pretty unpleasant ones while Simon was away) 'hesitant' would not be among them. “I failed in my duties. Or maybe I succeeded, and it took me that long to work out what my duty was.” His teeth glinted in a humourless smile. “Either way, the Undead Prophet is not best pleased with me.”
Kieren's eyes widened, and he gripped at Simon's hand. “Is he... Are you in danger? That's why you wanted to leave?”
“I'm in no more danger here than anywhere else in the country,” said Simon, and Kieren had no idea if that was supposed to be reassuring. “The Undead Prophet knows me. He has eyes everywhere. If he wants to find me he will. I just have to hope I'm not worth his time.”
Right. Definitely not reassuring, but that meant... “You said it wasn't safe here. Said we needed to leave.” Kieren chewed his lip, taking care not to press too hard – he didn't need a split lip for the rest of eternity. "It was for my sake, not yours."
“Kieren,” Simon said, at once a warning and a plea not to push further. It went ignored.
“What... What duties did you fail to do?”
Simon stiffened, his eyes fixed straight ahead, and for a moment Kieren was sure he wasn't going to get an answer. Then his... Simon slumped, and met his gaze with a look of pure anguish. “I was supposed to kill you.”
Kieren recoiled as if burnt, and got to his feet. “What?!”
“I was sent to Roarton to find the First Risen. I didn't... And then it was you, and I thought...” Simon's fingers were curled into the fabric of his trousers, furling and unfurling, “I didn't know what to expect. The Undead Prophet told me I had to kill you, and I had the knife, Kieren, I had the knife in my hand...”
It felt as though Simon's words were coming from a long way away, for all the sense they were making, and Kieren could feel his shoulders shaking with rage or fear or just relieving the tension that had been mounting for days. (Later he would think about this, remember he didn't move a muscle without meaning to, but right now he was too consumed in his confusion and anger to give it much thought.)
“Why didn't you just let them shoot me?” he asked, fighting the urge to wince at how coldly the question came out. “It would have saved you a job, wouldn't it?”
“I couldn't,” Simon said simply. “You're too important to me.”
“Why? Because I'm 'supposedly' the First Risen? Because you've got me built up in your head as this, as this messiah?”
“No. Because you're you.”
It was almost enough to calm him down, until another thought struck him. Kieren didn't feel the cold any more, but it was like being plunged into a bath of ice from within. “And if it hadn't been me? If it had been someone else in Roarton? If it had been Amy?”
“I don't know.”
Kieren laughed again, but this time with a hysterical, keening edge. “Right. I'm special.” He tugged at his clothes, the ones he'd spent an hour picking out this morning for Amy's funeral. It had been so messed up, and yet he'd felt oddly at peace standing in front of his wardrobe and for once picking out something with the intention of standing out from the crowd rather than fading into the background. “And what, I should expect one of your followers – sorry, former followers to come around any day now and try and finish the job?”
“They don't know it's you. I never gave them your name.” Against all reason, Simon's lips twitched. “I only told them you were beautiful.”
“Because that's not creepy or anything.”
Simon made a noise of frustration. “I didn't know that's what he intended for the First Risen.”
“And if you had?”
“If I had...” Simon repeated slowly, carefully, “I'd have kept my distance. From you, from Amy... I wouldn't have risked getting as close to you as I did.”
It was as though the fight had been drained out of him, escaping in gushing bursts of outrage. Kieren closed his eyes, and sat back down beside Simon, though not as close as he was before. “This is so fucked.”
“Everything about this is fucked,” agreed Simon bitterly. They shared a brief, companionable smile and sat in silence, broken only by the quiet chirp of birds outside the window.
“So, they're looking for someone beautiful, are they?” Kieren said at last, wryly. “Think I should don a cunning disguise and make everyone think I'm hideously ugly?”
“Another layer of cover-up and I'm not sure anyone could actually see your face.”
Kieren shook his head. “Nah. Think I'm going to go au naturale for a while. The look's growing on me.”
“It's a good look for you.” Simon leaned in closer, a wordless question, and Kieren answered it by gently pressing his lips against Simon's. It was gentle and brief, but it was a truce, of sorts.
It also held the potential to become a bit less brief and chaste, were it not for the interruption in the form of a knock on the door. They drew back, and Kieren schooled his features into something appropriately guilty – though guilty for what, he couldn't quite say.
His mum was standing at his doorway, and he was pleased to see she looked far more amused than disgusted. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, sounding anything but, “but Steve wanted to know if you two wanted to watch a film with us.”
Kieren started to shake his head, but Simon cut in, "What film?"
"She Wore a Yellow Ribbon."
Simon looked over at him expectantly, and Kieren pulled a face. "Seriously?"
"It's been ages since I last saw it."
"Oh God, you're actually going to get on with my dad now, aren't you?" Kieren said with a groan. “The two of you can talk blu-rays together.” He got to his feet and offered Simon a hand up. Simon took it and did not let go. (Kieren tried not to look too pleased.) “I'm bringing my sketchbook down,” he added, snatching it up from his desk, along with a few sticks of graphite.
Simon gave an approving nod. “Good. That one,” and he pointed at (oh God) the sketch of himself, still partially crumpled, “very flattering, but--”
“--the eyes are wrong,” Kieren finished for him, and Simon grinned.
“Don't worry. You've got forever to get it right.”