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there was a crunch behind owen’s head. he turned, hair flashing in his eyes for a second, and his hand darted to the knife in his pocket.
he sat up from the fire he’d built, checking twice to make sure it wasn’t dying out. swallowing, he produced the knife, treaded lightly towards the sound. half of his mind told him to call out for whoever it was, and then the reasonable half shot that first half between the eyes.
there was silence. owen didn’t even breathe for a moment, staying completely still, waiting to see if he heard anything.
in the distance, someone was muttering. owen stepped towards the noise to hear an american accent whispering, “fuck— oh fuck, jesus, nononono—“
it didn’t sound like a zombie (owen hated calling them that, it sounded so immature for something that’s quite literally taken over the world), or even someone in the stages of infection. there was no gargling, no smell of rotting flesh, no inability to form words. it sounded like a regular person, albeit scared shitless.
owen didn’t trust it, obviously, because he’s not an idiot. so he stayed put, knife in hand.
a boy stumbled out of the bushes around owen’s camp, shirt tattered and falling off him, covered in blood, staring at his sliced-open hand. he was panting, crying, hair slick to his forehead with sweat. maybe because he was pretty, or maybe because owen had sympathy for him (god, who was he kidding? it was obviously because he was pretty), owen stood up and started approaching him.
“nonono— don’t, get away—“ the boy hissed, staring at his shaking hand. he was obviously delirious.
owen tutted. it was too late not to help him now. he grabbed the wrist of his non-injured hand, dragged him over to the campfire, sat him down, and stared at him for a second.
“are you infected?”
the boy panted, stared at him. “what?? no, god—“
staring at him for a second longer, owen decided he wasn’t lying. he was too scared to lie right now, everything he said was like if someone shot pure adrenaline into his words.
“what the hell are you doing out here?”
“i’ll explain if—“ the boy breathed heavily some more, “if you fucking help me, asshole.”
“is that really how you’re going to talk to me?” owen gave him a look, then realised this was a post-apocalypse, not an interrogation, so he dropped it. “fine, but i’m only helping you because if i turn you away now i’ll have to worry about you killing me for it later.”
“fine, whatever, i don’t care,” he heaved, “just— fuck, this hurts so bad— please?” he did not look like a person who begged for help often.
owen opened his bag of shit to stop himself from dying, fished out something to clean the cut and some bandages. god, was he wasting the things he’d saved and collected to save his own life for this boy he had quite literally just met? was the world as he knew it ending? (i mean, literally yes, but figuratively he bloody hoped not).
“are you going to pass out at all?”
“i— don’t know. i hate blood. like— i really hate blood,” he muttered. he was only odd now, not delirious, which owen supposed was a sort of progress.
“that’s fine, love.” owen was only calling him that for comfort reasons. “look at me. don’t look away, no, don’t— look at me. good. right. now, what’s your name?”
“curt,” curt said, “mega.”
owen snorted. “your last name is mega?”
“yeah— can we not? just, just ask me stuff, i dunno, don’t wanna focus on the blood,”
“yes. fine. what the hell are you doing here? what happened?” owen asked, dabbing the sanitised cloth onto the cut down curt’s palm.
curt winced, pulled away until owen pulled him back. “i’m— running, from people. not— not zombies, people. they’re pissed off at me.”
“why?”
“i might’ve stolen all of their shit. anyway, doesn’t matter, but one of them cut me and i can’t stand my own blood and i’m drunk and i kinda just stumbled around until i fell into a clearing and then you got here.”
“i didn’t get here, you fell into my—“ owen scoffed, realised it wasn’t worth chasing up. “and you’re drunk?”
curt smiled like an idiot. he was really hot when he smiled like an idiot. “mhm.”
“christ, you’re a mess.” owen laughed slightly, taking a sip from his flask as he started winding the bandages around the cut.
curt laughed back. “i know.”
“you’re not doing a very good job at doing anything about it for someone that’s aware of it,” owen mused, as if he wasn’t sort of exactly the same.
“fuck you!”
“fuck you too! i’m helping you, don’t be an arse.”
“yeah, you’re right, actually. i shouldn’t be an asshole to you, you might, like, murder me,” curt said, and the drunk part suddenly seemed to make sense, because he clearly wouldn’t have said this if he wasn’t wankered, “you seem like the type to murder someone for being an asshole.”
owen really, really liked that. he loved being told that. hopefully that was more of a weird sexual thing than a psychological defect.
“right. you’re all fine, are you ready to piss off now?”
“first, rude. second, no.”
“what do you mean, no?”
“i kinda can’t stand up. i’m, like,” curt laughed, almost for effect, “really drunk.”
was this actually happening? was owen about to let a rude, spannered american sleep in his tent with him? fucking hell, he’d gone downhill.
“fine. but only because you’ll draw attention if you keep stumbling around like an idiot all night.”
“you don’t need to make excuses for helping me every time, doll, you can just say it’s ‘cause you wanna.”
owen glared. “don’t call me that. anyway, it isn’t. i don’t lie, so of course i’m going to tell you the real reasons.” he lied, and pulled curt into his tent, all covered over and camouflaged.
“nice place you got here,” curt laughed, like a wanker, as he laid down on the messy pile of blankets and pillows owen had managed to keep reasonably dry.
“shut up.” owen said, seemingly instinctually, then added, “yes, actually, be quiet, i don’t want you keeping me up all night.”
“yes, sir.” curt laughed at him again. owen flipped him off, then went to put out the fire as not to draw attention.
when he came back, curt was already asleep. he was sprawled out obnoxiously, his bloodied shirt tossed out the door. owen reluctantly got undressed and laid down next to the idiot, grabbing his (admittedly really hot) arm and shoving him over a little bit. he made a pathetic little whining noise and moved right back.
groaning, owen rolled onto his side and tried to get some sleep, debating what he’d do with curt when they woke up until he passed out.