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Farrier had never realised how much he’d let himself rely on others until he was without them.
It had been chaos, back in that base, the shouting, the screams of the zombies that piled so heavily against the door it shattered like a glass bottle under all the pressure. It had been a rush to grab whatever of their supplies they could lay their hands on and get out before the clawing, rotted hands could grab you- grab you and drag you into the writhing pile of undead that steadily flooded the doorway, severing arms and legs and entire torsos in the rush to get through the narrow doorway.
Farrier had been the first out, practically unhinged the door the way he slammed into it, hand scrabbling at the handle to fight it open, he’d broke out into the fastest sprint of his life when he got out. He hadn’t even considered that he might not have been followed until he stopped and realised he was completely alone.
Farrier didn’t stop walking as he pulled his compass from his backpack, altering his direction of travel according to the device until he was headed in the right direction. He told himself he would find them, told himself they’d find somewhere safe and wait for him- not that he believed a word of it.
Philippe was a fine leader in that he didn’t hesitate to make the tough calls- to go around a small town even though there might be food because of gunfire they’d heard earlier, he even made the call to not put up a fight for that George kid, to retreat rather than fight a group as large as that one had been. Now he would make the tough call to move on without Farrier, and the worst part was the fact that Farrier couldn’t argue against it.
It took a week for him to get desperate, for him to realise the dwindling supplies and the dwindling bullets for the meagre pistol he’d grabbed in the rush. He’d seen no sign of life- apart from the screams of unfortunate creatures in the night that found themselves unable to escape from the undead. He’d seen plenty of zombies, including one that nearly got him- it had been without legs, but quick and almost lethally silent, sneaking up on Farrier from behind as he manoeuvred around a larger group that he thought he’d managed to sneak past. Once that bullet left his gun and entered that thing’s head it had been over for his hopes of sneaking past, and he’d ran until his knees ached and feet stung.
It had been almost two weeks now- he’d found supplies in a dead man’s backpack, a lone wolf just like him by the looks, almost completely ripped to shreds. The dead man’s campfire was still warm and the body surrounded by crows that pecked at Farrier’s heels and garbled and croaked as he rooted through the man’s belongings, “s’alright” he’d said to them “you have your share and I’ll have mine.”
It was early in the morning- early enough that the sun hadn’t yet fully risen, providing enough light for Farrier to move in relative safety without being left in the obvious light of day. He was still heading in the right direction, his compass had proven to be invaluable once again, and he’d hoped he would see someone- anyone, Friendly or not, when his prayers were answered.
If it were the day, he would’ve recognised the other survivor sooner, would’ve known him by the golden shine of his hair, the ungainly way the other walked, and by the endearingly familiar squint to their face, but, as it were, the sun had not yet risen enough so that the man that had been alone for weeks could quickly remember such a silhouette. As it were, he only realised once he’d pulled the gun up in front of him and heard the shout, the plea for mercy, that he’d realised.
He’d barely given himself enough time to holster his pistol before he’d started toward the other figure at a run, a desperate sprint that couldn’t hurt him if he tried purely because of what waited at the end for him.
Collins was warm and firm and alive in his arms as Farrier slammed into him, wrapping the other tightly in his grip. The kiss that followed was rough and needy and home, a home in a land without homes.
“Afternoon” Collins spluttered, like the word stuck in his throat as he desperately kissed at Farrier’s mouth.
“It’s not even morning yet you goddamn idiot” Farrier choked, and he could feel the unpleasant sting of tears behind his eyes, but he was laughing and so fucking happy. They’d found each other, they’d been reunited, like a couple of magnets they’d careened into each other and anchored the other to them, only separating when they absolutely had to because the sun had finally dragged itself up over the horizon and they were sitting ducks out here but they’d found each other and if it hadn’t meant life or death they might never have moved.
If they hadn’t needed to hold their guns, they might’ve held hands when they’d started their journey again.