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Kieren figures that the first thing they'd do once alone, now that they can feel again, would be- well. Even without physical sensation, they'd both enjoyed and been eager to kiss each other at every opportunity, so it stands to reason, right? And things even seemed to be heading in that direction, initially; they'd gotten back to the bungalow after another awkward meal with his parents, and Simon had him pressed flush against the door less than a second after it closed, kissing the life out of him. It was a welcome feeling, being kissed breathless, it'd been so long- with so much terrible shit in between- that he'd forgotten just how wonderful an experience it was.
They stay like that, making out against the door, until neither of them could take the lack of air any longer and Kieren could feel the beginnings of a bruise in his back from the knob. And they stay a few moments more, reveling in the puffs of breath on their faces, Simon's forehead resting against Kieren's, unmoving, enjoying the closeness. Then, before he can suggest they get a move on, Simon spins him away from the door, backing them toward the chair from which he used to hold court over the Prophet's followers. He manages to remove Kieren's jumper (stolen from Simon, he's engulfed in it, beautiful and alluring and unbearably adorable) and shirt before depositing him into the seat with a soft whump. He's reaching for Simon's own layers before he even registers that the other has taken a step back, left him shirtless and grasping.
“Wait here,” he says, and promptly disappears to his bedroom.
So yes, Kieren cannot be faulted for assuming that all of this is leading up to (some highly anticipated, oh my god finally) sex. As such, he also cannot be faulted for being thrown off a bit when Simon returns to the sitting room, still fully clothed (more's the pity) and carrying one of Kieren's soft, thin paintbrushes and a jar of red acrylic.
“What're you-”
“Shhhh,” Simon whispers against his lips, moving to straddle his lap in the chair. It's a tight fit but not uncomfortable, a solid warm weight to anchor him in place. A deep, bruising kiss leaves him gasping for air, pale chest heaving as Simon unscrews the lid and dips the brush into the paint.
The first stroke is light, a barely-there swipe against his torso. The second is more sure, and then Simon sticks his tongue out in concentration and Kieren no longer registers anything else because he cannot stop staring.
At least, he doesn't register anything until Simon starts in on his abdomen. His breath hitches once, twice, and then he's dissolved into helpless laughter, stomach twitching, messing up Simon's careful work where he didn't pull his hand back quickly enough.
“Oh my god, stop, stop!”
“What?!”
“I'm ticklish! I can't believe I forgot I'm ticklish.” He'd closed his eyes at some point, and when he opens them again he's greeted by a rapidly widening grin on Simon's face, and he knows what's coming just as surely as he knows there's no stopping it.
He tries anyway, reaching out in an attempt to block Simon's hands.
“Don't you dare, don't even, Simon-” he's cut off with another kiss, so all-consuming that he doesn't notice Simon taking hold of his wrists and moving them behind his head until it's too late, and then he skims his free hand down Kieren's chest to dig fingers into his ribs.
He pulls away from the kiss with a shuddering gasp, shouldering into Simon's chest to get away.
“Stop, stop, seriously!” He manages between bouts of giggles, and something on his face must show how much he means it because Simon withdraws almost immediately.
“Okay, sorry, I'm sorry, are you alright?”
“Fine, yeah, just- hah!- apparently very ticklish.”
“Are you sure you're okay?” He looks concerned and a little guilty, “I shouldn't have done that after you said to stop, I'm sorry.”
Kieren doesn't tell him it's fine, because he's right about that much, but he does pull him into another kiss, slow and deep, and tenderly cards hands through his hair.
“Alright, up, let's see what we've got here,” he says, gesturing to his naked chest. Simon climbs off of him immediately, awkwardly, and they walk hand in hand into the bedroom, and come to a halt in front of the mirror. Simon moves to stand behind Kieren.
“You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on-” is what Kieren can make out before it becomes illegible.
“What's the rest of it?”
Simon lets go of his hands to lightly squeeze his shoulders as he leans closer to recite into his ear:
“You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on.”
They stand in silence for another moment, eyes locked in the mirror, before Simon speaks again.
“It's from-”
“Doesn't matter who wrote it first, really, it's from you.”
They kiss again, both still facing the mirror, Simon's eyes straying to Kieren's reflection, the paint nearly dry now on his chest. He slides his hands down Kieren's arms to lace their fingers together again, ecstatic simply to be able to feel that, feel him.
Kieren pulls away after a moment, tugging Simon back out into the corridor, down past the door to Amy's room, into the bathroom. He pushes Simon to lean against the sink while he twists the knobs as hot as they'll go.
“You said you missed hot showers more than anything, when I asked you last month. Come on.”
Simon would take a moment to reflect on just how adorably precious Kieren is, except he's too busy staring as the other quickly divests himself of all remaining clothes, and- well.
Simon is quick to follow.
He'd had a plan for when they eventually (inevitably) ended up showering together, and in all honesty it had involved a lot less actual washing and rather more orgasms, but the way Kieren maneuvered him underneath the spray and set to massaging shampoo into his hair- lingering perhaps more than necessary on the nape of his neck- despite being quite a bit shorter and definitely more in need of washing, was honestly just as good.
Possibly better.
By the time Kieren finished with his hair and reached for the body soap, he was nearly limp with contentment, steadying himself with one hand against the wall and his forehead pressed into Kieren's temple. He thinks he could sleep here, like this, without having to worry about anything bad ever happening again.
At least until Kieren's hands trail down his chest, soapy cloth suddenly nowhere in sight, to rest at the jut of his hipbones, thumbs rubbing circles into the skin there.
“Come on, let's wash this paint off now,” he says, “and then I think we should go find a bed. I don't really want my first time to be in the shower. That can come later.”
Simon chokes and nearly inhales a lungful of water.
They wash up rather quickly after that.