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Kieren is not better. Not completely. There are tell-tale signs in the small self-depreciating comments, the scoff when Simon tells him that he is wonderful, and the occasional wince when he glances in the mirror and forgets what he is. Yet Simon will stroke the scars along his wrists, cradle his face oh so carefully in his hands, not wanting him to fly away though not wanting to crack and break his fragile form.
Occasionally there will be a worse day, so Kieren doesn’t speak, and Simon does; nineteen to the dozen about poetry, when he went to the beach for the first time, the first song he learned to play on the guitar. Just to prevent Kieren getting lost. And in repayment Kieren will simply hold Simon, caressing his hair, neck, chest. Telling him with no words that he too is important, is beautiful, is loved. More now than he ever has been.
When Kieren learns what Simon was doing at the graveyard that day, he panics. He shouts and he screams and then he runs. Drawn to the only place that is holy and sacred to him. This time there is no blood to spill, so he just sits, unable to feel the cold or the damp seeping through his clothes. He does not cry, enough tears have been spent these past few months. Instead he wonders; would Simon have done it? Would Simon have taken that knife and driven it through his skull, then looked down at his lifeless body? Would Kieren have ended up like Rick, betrayed by someone who was just on the wrong end of righteous?
Too late he realises that he has no neurotriptyline, there’s not enough time to run home. Not enough time, not enough time, not enough- Simon is grabbing him by the shoulders, spinning him and pushing his jumper down to put in the syringe. The gun is thrown to the ground and Simon crushes a shaking Kieren to his chest. Both are breathing heavily, in a state of breathless panic.
It takes a while for both of them to calm down, touching each other’s faces with trembling fingers, reminding themselves that the other exists. Heavy breathing, their foreheads touch, they could not hold each other tighter if their muscles allowed. The day grows brighter around them as they whisper half-apologies and accusations.
Simon begins to move first, holding Kieren’s shoulders like on the day of the fete, Kieren stumbling and unsteady next to him.
The rest of the day is spent talking, not about poetry or the beach or guitars, but about themselves and each other. All is laid bare on the table and it’s uncomfortable and they hate it but they know the other needs it and so they persevere.
“I didn’t want to Kieren,” Simon presses his head into his hands, “I shut down, I had to bottle it up and keep all that away. I had to…”
“Why?” Kieren is angry, God is he angry.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Simon’s voice begins to rise, his face twisting in anguish, “to have a shit relationship with your father in the first place, then have to return to him as the murderer of your own mother, and have him throw you away. The ULA told me I had a place in the world, that I was accepted as myself! The Prophet told me he was proud of me, of what I was doing. The first-.”
Simon rubs his knuckles, laughing sardonically, “The only time my father was proud of me was when I caught a fish when I was seven.”
The truth and hurt in Simon’s words hits Kieren like a train, he walks over to Simon and brushes a stray hair off his face, pressing a soft kiss to Simon’s temple.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispers.
“What?” Simon doesn’t understand, what has he ever done that Kieren could possibly be proud of?
“You made your choice, and for that I’m proud of you.” Kieren looks Simon in the eye and smiles a little, telling him that everything has been forgiven.