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They're lying in bed together, a few hours after the sun has set, when Simon finally summons the courage to bring it up.
"I thought the doctors were going to fix me," he says. "I woke up, came back to myself, and they said I was the first to respond to the medication. Told me they needed my permission to do more tests, to make it better."
Kieren, no longer half on his way to sleep, pulls his arms tighter around Simon, drawing him closer against his chest.
"I thought they were going to fix me, make me human again. Of course I said yes."
"You don't have to tell me this," he whispers into the back of Simon's neck, hating the way the other's voice is choked.
"Yes I do. I need to, so that you'll understand why I was there with you in the graveyard and why the second rising isn't going to happen."
Simon is still turned away from him, gazed fixed on the opposite wall.
"Okay," Kieren presses a kiss to the base of his skull though he knows Simon won't actually feel it. "So tell me."
---
The story spills out of him in stilted chunks, words coming rapidly for a moment and then halting while Simon tries to find the right way- or the will- to continue. He tells him:
How he died, which Kieren already knew some of. He'd been 27, fucked up beyond belief and on the outs with his family. A fight with his dad had driven him from home one night, and that time he hadn't ever returned.
How he doesn't remember anything from his untreated state, for which he is unspeakably grateful.
How when he woke up in the treatment center, the doctor had seemed so kind and patient with him, had implied that they would be able to cure him but never outright said as much.
How his father had visited him there, and then left him.
How after that, it didn't matter that he told the doctors to stop, that he didn't want to be tested on anymore. They cut open his back and picked at his spine and left him strapped to a table- skin flayed open and exposed- for hours or days or he doesn't even know, and ignored him when he pleaded for them to stop.
How he'd met Julian there, and (sort of) met the Undead Prophet. They had both warned him that the doctors didn't care for him, didn't care to cure him, that they would exploit him. They were proven right.
How Julian had slipped him a number before he was released to his father. He'd never planned to call, but then his dad woke him that first night home- screaming about something he can't even remember- and thrown him from the house with nothing but his trash bag from the treatment center.
How he'd walked and walked, through the night and into the sunrise, and then walked further into that afternoon. Hours crept by and he didn't know what to do. He needed someone to administer the neurotriptyline. He needed somewhere to stay. He needed help. And for once in his life, he reached out for it.
How it seemed like he was hugged more in one afternoon by strangers than he ever had been in all of his first life. Julian had helped him with his dose, and all the disciples- together that day for the first time ever- gazed upon his wound, and any doubts that they might've had about what they needed to do were wiped away.
How even after being so obviously accepted by this group, it took weeks to convince him he didn't need the cover-up. He was the only holdout, the last of the disciples to embrace himself as a member of the undead.
How after he started living his life without hiding who he was, the entire world seemed brighter than it ever had before. And the Prophet, the ULA, had been the ones to give him that. The scope of his world narrowed to teaching others that they should not hide who and what they were, that it was nothing to be ashamed of. And with every success, with every time Julian or the Prophet or anyone else expressed pride in him, he grew more determined to accomplish all of their goals- all of his goals.
How Amy came to the commune just as everyone began buzzing about a little place called Roarton and how the first to rise, rose there. Julian had pulled him aside one day, with a private message from the Prophet. He would go to Roarton, with Amy, and spread their word there, and in the meantime search for the person who had risen first, before all others. They would be crucial in bringing about the second rising, he'd been told, they would be incredible.
How he and Amy came to Roarton and drew others to them, and Simon met Kieren.
How Simon had set aside his beliefs for the first time since this whole thing had started, and found that there were still- even without them- things that were good and worth pursuing and caring about. And he had found all of that in Kieren.
How when Kieren told his rising story, had it drawn from him by anger and injustice, he'd been enraptured; first, by the sight before him, and then by the realization that Kieren was the first risen, and he was just as incredible as the Prophet had promised, and even more so.
How beautiful Kieren was without the cover-up.
How he was so excited to report that the first risen had been found. He called Julian, met him in the city. Everyone had been so proud of him, and they were yet another step closer to the second rising.
How the Prophet had told him, in no uncertain terms, that the first risen had to be killed- sacrificed- in order for their plans to unfold.
---
Simon stops there, out of words. At some point during the story they had separated, and now Kieren was curled up against the headboard, knees clutched to his chest and eyes wide. Simon hasn't moved at all except to tense what seems like every part of his body.
When Kieren finally speaks, it's to ask, "Can I see it? Your scar?"
It's not exactly what Simon's anticipating, but at this point who is he to deny Kieren anything? He sits up, turns on the bedside lamp, and- still facing the wall, still unable to so much as glance back at Kieren- removes his shirt.
There's a sharp intake of breath from behind him, shuffled movement, and then...
"Is it okay for me to touch you?"
Simon is, admittedly, at a loss. None of this comes even close to the reaction that he's been expecting (dreading) ever since he finally cemented his decision to tell Kieren everything. Hut, disgust, anger; any or all of that would make more sense to him than this- and he looks back, finally, to maybe get a better idea of what this is- concern. Concern and...admiration?
No. It looks closer to reverence.
"You want to...?"
Kieren nods, steady, eyes never straying from the ugly wound on his back.
"Okay," Simon says, returning his gaze to the wall. "Yes."
He doesn't feel a thing, even as he sense him move slowly closer, but he knows the very moment Kieren places a hand on his back by the way his breathing changes subtly, the same way it has every single other time he's touched Simon.
How could this not have changed, now that he knows everything?
"You are incredible, Simon," Kieren says clearly, and he sounds so sure of his words, so honest.
Simon squeezes his eyes closed tightly, starts shaking his head because he's not, he's not, he failed at everything he ever tried and he essentially killed himself for nothing, and when he got a second chance he finally thought he was doing something good when really he'd just thrown in his lot with and let himself be used by the first people to show him any sort of tolerance and compassion, and he met this beautiful, wonderful person and just when he thought that for once everything would work out, he-
"I was going to kill you," he can barely force the words through the constriction in his throat.
"But you didn't. After all of that- everything you've been through," and here Kieren's voice breaks, just a little, "you didn't."
"You don't get it! I brought the knife. I watched Gary drag you to that field and stood by while he forced you to go rabid and I didn't do anything to stop him and I was going to kill you! I didn't even know I couldn't go through with it until the very end."
"When you took a bullet for me, you mean? It wasn't just me you saved that day, you know. My family...if I had left them again, especially under those circumstances- well. Best not to think about it."
Simon's head drops forward into his hands in frustration.
"I'm sorry," Kieren says, "that someone you looked up to, someone who'd been there for you when no one else had, tried to force you to murder someone you care about. I can't imagine how that struggle must have felt. And for the record, I'm really glad you didn't kill me."
Simon lets out a strangled laugh, nearly hysterical, and is about to turn to Kieren- to hug him, or maybe just to stare incredulously- when he feels it. He almost doesn't recognize the sensation, having gone so long without, but there it is; the barest brush of fingertips against his skin, crawling up his back along the edge of where his scar must be, and then trailing slowly back down.
"Kieren?" His voice shakes.
"What? Nothing you can say is going to convince me that you're not a good person, so you might as well just-"
"Kieren, I can-"
"I'm gonna hug you in a minute and probably never let go so if you-"
"Kieren! I can feel you touching me!"
"Oh. What?"