Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hicc.

The noise made Carl flinch and turn around, giving his boyfriend a reproachful look. Ron pulled a defensive expression before the noise slipped out for a second time.

Hicc.

“Really?” Carl hissed through his teeth, trying to stay quiet to avoid the walkers that they’d run into on their walk through the forest. A good ten were staggering around and crunching leaves; a lot more than Carl wanted to handle with only Ron at his side, whom he was supposed to be teaching to use a knife.

Hicc.

Ron desperately tried to stop the noises by covering his lips with the palm of his hand but, the noises still slipped out, only muffled slightly. It didn’t seem to be drawing the walkers in to their hiding place behind a particularly large rock, but every time the noise met the air, Carl jumped, on edge.

Hicc.

Once they were free of the threat of walkers, the undead herd of corpses having moved on from their neck of the woods, Ron couldn’t resist bursting into a fit of giggles with a few hiccups thrown in. After a moment, Carl joined in laughing, too.

Chapter Text

Ron winced away from Carl’s prodding fingers.

“It’s not funny,” He said as his best friend laughed at him.

“It’s very funny.”

Carl was amused by the patchy red blotches on Ron’s shoulders, arms, and face. The younger boy was tanned and freckled, sun kissed where as Ron was strawberry red and very angry. His shoulders peeled and his back itched. Carl’s touching and giggling was not helping in the slightest.

“It’s really not. It hurts bad.”

“Oh, don’t be a big baby, Anderson. A little sunburn won’t kill you.”

The teens had spent the whole of yesterday down by the pond; one of their favorite places to hang out. Unfortunately enough for Ron, It had a blazing hot, cloudless day.

Carl sat behind him, rubbing some kind of “aloe vera infused” lotion on his back. He’d claimed it would make Ron feel better but, it was only burning, at this point.

“You should have worn sunscreen,” Carl said, for about the 15th time.

“Yes, Carl! I know that now!”

Carl just smiled, kissing the back of Ron’s neck to calm his irritated boyfriend.

“It’s okay, I still love you, even if you’re red like a tomato.”

Ron scoffed, turning around to look at Carl with a sarcastic smile.

“Golly gee, thanks Carl…”

The younger boy only smiled and kissed the tip of Ron’s red nose.

“You’re very welcome.”

Chapter Text

Getting the two in a quiet place at the same time, not to mention alone, was proving quiet difficult for Ron. He’d asked many a time for a moment in another room, but it hadn’t ever exactly worked out. Today, though, was going to be different. Ron got up in the morning and slipped out from under his sheets and covers, so not to disturb his sleeping boyfriend. The long haired boy didn’t get a good rest very often. It was better to let him sleep. He quietly padded across his carpeted floor to his bathroom where he cleaned up. His bed head was untamable, per usual, but he did his best to brush the wild curls into something resembling decent. He then brushed his teeth and scampered from the small bathroom to get dressed. Carl sat up grumpily and gazed through his one eye at him, blinking away the sleep. 

“Why’re you up so early..?” He queried, rubbing his thumb along the corner of his mouth to rid his face of any dried drool. 

“No reason,” Ron lied, just hiding his smile. 

“It’s like six, Ron…” Carl laid back down in the pile of warm pillows and blankets. “Just come back to bed…”

“Baby, I got somewhere to be.” Ron walked over, planting a kiss on his tired boyfriend’s cheek. “I’ll be back..” 

Waiting was excruciatingly painful. It had only been about 10 minutes, but it felt like at least an hour. Standing outside, Ron spent his time pacing and rehearsing what he was going to say. He surfaced from his own thoughts when he saw them approaching; Michonne and Carl’s dad, Rick. With his heart in his throat and butterflies in his stomach, Ron greeted them quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Alright, Anderson..” Rick said, halting a good distance from Ron, crossing his arms over his chest and tipping his head. Michonne was less intimidating, giving Ron a smile, but he was still nervous. 

“I have to ask you - both of you - a question...” He fiddled with his sleeve, eyes down cast in embarrassment. 

“It’s… complicated, and I’m -“

“Spit it out.” Rick growled, getting annoyed. He had places to be.

“I wanted to ask i-if I could - If you could give me your blessings...” He said, looking up at the two now shocked faces. 

“I want to marry Carl.” 

Michonne slowly smiled and cheekily punched Ron roughly on the shoulder. “Of course you can!” 

“Wait-“ Rick began to interrupt when and Michonne pulled Ron into a side hug, the thin boy slack jawed with surprise. Michonne gazed at Rick, expression threatening, even with the smile. 

Rick thought twice about what he had originally intended on saying.

“If… If you think it will make him happy.” 

Ron slowly smiled. 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Grimes! You won’t regret this!” Ron dodged around the older man, running off down the street in a fit of happiness. 

Rick couldn't help but give a small smile as he watched the young, happy boy run.

“I better not..."

Chapter Text

With his breath on my cheek, I think I begin to understand his faults and his struggles. I grasp for a deeper understanding and for his hand.
There it is, thin fingers grazing my palm as his head falters, finding it's place in the crook of my neck where his tears soak my shirt and wet my skin. I use my spare arm to hook up and under his, burying my own fingers into his curly, blond locks of hair. The only noise besides our shallow breaths is the sound of cricket's sharp chirps, cutting through the crisp night air.

I don't want him to feel so lost in this world, even though it is inevitable. There is no other way; this world kills every last sliver of innocence a person has, blowing it out like a candle and leaving it in the dark. I want to be his wick. I want to be the thing that keeps his hope burning and alit. But, I am cold and hardened by the world he just barely escaped from. I can not be any good for the boy with the bruised face and trembling hands that is clinging to me so desperately, searching for something to keep his flame burning. I am not that. I know I can not help Ron Anderson. It makes me sick to my stomach, how I must be leading him on with hallow promises of friendship and love. I am not capable of such human ideals. Humanity left me long ago, back at the prison. My hope is gone.

Yet, here I am, holding him as if my own flame is still burning. I hear his whispering through his sobs, but I am not sure what he says. I turn my head, my face in his hair now where I inhale deeply, taking in his earthy scent mixed with the faint trace of shampoo and sweat. He is pressed against me and I know I am falling for him. He must know too, because I feel something wet on my collar bone that is not his tears, but his mouth. I allow his kisses.

He needs love. We both do.

Chapter Text

The yellow, rusted, school bus was a hideout that Carl and Ron visited regularly. It's placement was random, setting off on the side of an abandoned road, untouched since the initial end of the world. One of the things that made it so great was that it's keys had been left in the ignition, and even though they'd never even tried to start the old thing, it proved to be lockable from the outside and in. This allowed privacy and insurance of no dead surprises on their return.

This visit was different, though. It was their first time outside the walls since the walker siege, almost two months ago, and the first time Carl had been outside Alexandria since the loss of his eye.

Ron didn't trust himself with guns anymore, but Carl was a useless shot, due to his new inhibition, so it was up to Ron to hold the gun that he'd shot his own boyfriend with.

It'd all been an accident; a huge mistake. Walkers were everywhere, his family was dead, and Carl had reached out for Ron at the wrong moment, resulting in the knee jerk reaction that had left him half blind.

It wasn't as if Carl blamed him. He attempted to prove Ron's innocence almost constantly by showering him with love and affection, but it never seemed to make Ron feel completely guiltless.

Even now, watching Carl veer ever so slightly to the left as he walked, the anger at himself bubbled in Ron's stomach. Ron causally reached out for Carl's hand, leading him back onto the path without his know so.

Carl smiled at the blond boy, even though the bad side of his face was stiff with scar tissue and scabbing, and smile didn't seem to reach his sad blue eyes.

"We're almost there," Ron crooned softly, tearing his gaze away from the mauled face of his lover, chewing his lip as they weaved through the trees of the forest, just a mile outside the Alexandrian walls.

Carl had seemed to mellow since the accident, and it'd been up to Ron to protect him as much as he could. He'd sensed a new fear in Carl, as if he was afraid of being unable to take care of himself, so Ron had promised that he would, when Carl couldn't.

That wasn't to say it wasn't difficult. Walkers lurked behind trees, and it was hard to stay safe in the forest near their mutual home. Ron most usually took down the molded, fermenting corpses with his knife, for fear of alerting more with gun shots. The Beretta was for emergencies only. Any excuse to not hold the weapon was a good reason, to Ron.

Reaching the highway, they cleared the area of the few walkers that traveled the burning asphalt. Walkers seemed to enjoy the scorching Virginian heat that the road absorbed, even when the the fleshy layers of skin on their feet stripped away with every crooked step, sizzling in their wake. Sweat dripped down Ron's back as he lunged at the last walker once more, shoving it to the pave easily. These monsters grew more light weight by the week. Their organs would rot out and spill out their lacerations as brown and black sludge, easily ridding them of a good 20 pounds, and that wasn't to mention the ones missing whole limps and chunks. Carl could only imagine what it was like back home, where it got at least 10 degrees hotter then Virginia, easily.

"Atlanta would put this summer to shame," Carl said as they dragged the deceased walker off the road.

"And Florida would top even that," He added as an after thought. Ron shook his head as he stood, wiping his brow.

"Fuck that," he said, swallowing thickly. "Too hot for me."

Carl's laugh made the hairs on the back of Ron's neck stand up. It was a sound that he hadn't heard in a long while, and it was like chilling music to his ears.

"You're a pussy," The hatted boy quipped. "We spent months in Georgia; no air conditioning. This is nothin'."

The country twang crept into Carl's voice, as it usually did, and Ron grinned, still shaking his head as he rubbed blood off on his jeans.

"I prefer the cold. I can get warm with blankets and a fire, but there's no way to stay cool with one old ass air conditioner per house."

The blond squinted his brown eyes against the bright sun, peering down the road at the bus that stood stark yellow against the green backdrop of the pine trees.

"I bet it's even hotter in there," He said with a slight groan. Carl only smirked.

"Shame. You'll just have to take your shirt off."

Ron whipped around at the blatant flirting and laughed at the freckled boy, who attempted to wink, despite have only one eye.

Getting into the bus was easy, thanks to their handy key. The lock on the back emergency door was a bit rusted due to all the rain that plagued the Virginian summers, but that was easily remedied by a bit of shoving and swearing.

Ron had been right. The inside of the bus was blazing, and the cracked vinyl of the seats stung to the touch. They spent a good 10 minutes cussing as they suffered from minor burns, and grunting as they forced as many windows at they could open, in an attempt to cool their hide-out down.

The bus took a few minutes to cool down and go from "hell's asshole" level heat to "shitty sauna", as Ron so creatively pointed out, earning another snort-giggle from Carl.

They lay their coats, that had been messily stuffed into their backpacks previously, over the seats to avoid burning their skin, and sat upon them, chatting happily as they wiped sweat from their red faces.

After conversation about the heat got boring, they moved onto games they could play.

"The floor is lava," Carl offered.

"The floor practically IS lava," Ron argued. "And it's way too hot to move."

Carl rolled his eyes, leaning back over his cool coat.

"Eye spy?" Carl asked.

Ron shook his head, fingers messing his the hem of his shirt, but began to play the game.

"I spy something yellow,"

"A bus," Carl scoffed and Ron nodded with a laugh. Carl shuffled, sitting up once more.

"I spy something.... gold."

Ron knew this one. They played the game all too often.

"My hair," He chirped with a smile. "I spy something blue."

"My shirt?" Carl asked, looking down at the sky blue flannel.

"Nope," Ron inched to the edge of his seat, looking at Carl with adoration and The one eyed boy squinted in thought and annoyance.

"The sky?"

"Nah."

"I give up," Carl said, voice growing softer as Ron inched closer.

"No giving up," Ron shot back, leaning in. Their lips locked together across the aisle and Carl reached out, gripping the collar of Ron's t-shirt. It was needy, but slow, and they let it last as long as they could without breathing. They grunted, out of breath, and Carl stood, sliding into Ron's lap with ease, having an upper hand over Ron in the course of a few seconds.

"Your eye," the blond breathed between the deep moans and lip locking.

"What?" Carl asked, hand reaching up to touch the edge of the old wound. Was it bleeding again?

"No, your eye is the blue that I spied.." Ron latched onto Carl's neck, earning a shutter from the shorter boy.

"You're so cliché, Anderson.."

The innocent kissing was interrupted by a new groaning noise, that came from neither of the teens.

Carl jumped off Ron quickly, looking around with his one wide eye, scared for a split second. Ron got to his feet only moments later, gun out of his holster in a split second, though he kept it aimed at the ground, with the safety on.

The Beretta felt hot and heavy in Ron's palms, and his hands seemed to shake. Carl's life depended on his aim; he couldn't shoot, let alone walk a straight line. There was no way he would be able to take a walker down by himself. His fears were confirmed to be true, as he looked out the window, and watched a walker lurch by, and then another, and another. The stench made him gag, having not been as used to it as Carl was, but he didn't dare remove an hand from the handgun to cover his nose.

"How many are there?" Carl asked quietly, but it was too late to be silent. A slam of flesh on metal echoed through the bus as a dead one slammed it's solid body against the bus siding.

"Are there seat belts on this thing?" Ron asked, ignoring the brunette's inquiry.

"In... In the seats towards the front, but-"

Ron slowly and reluctantly removed a hand from the pistol, still aiming it downwards, fishing in his pocket. He pulled out the keys that clinked and jingled slightly, showing Carl.

"Christ," was all Carl had to say.

Busses were loud. Very loud. Carl was buckled up behind the driver's seat, having demanded that Ron drive, even though it wasn't a question in the blond's mind as to who would be behind the wheel. Ron had rode in a car with Carl driving before, and had no intentions of doing it again, especially in a 20,000 pound monster of a bus.

"What's the plan," Carl hissed through clenched teeth, trying to be heard over the noise of the bus engine and walkers trying to get to them.

"Umm," Ron looked at the controls. Gas, break, wheel. Fuck the rest. He nudged the gas, but the bus only roared more.

Carl punched his shoulder. "Take it out of PARK-"

Ron took fumbled the controls, shifted the damn bus into drive and floored the gas again.

The first thing Ron noticed was that busses were hard to control. The second thing was that busses have a hard time rolling over moving corpses. They only got but so far before the crushing and dragging noise became unbearable and the bus slowed, despite Ron's pressure on the gas.

"What is-" Carl began but there was a loud pop, that was likely a body being ripped apart between pave and wheel, and blood sprayed the windshield as the whole bus lurched forward.

Ron was pale as a sheet now, despite the heat. Never the less, they'd gotten a small head start ahead of the horde.

"Let's GO!" Carl howled, unbuckling and yanking his boyfriend from the driver's seat. Ron ripped the keys from the ignition as he was pulled away.

The folding door gave with a shove and they burst out onto the street, looking back to see the horde of 30 walkers or so staggering after the now stationary bus, at least 100 feet back.

They ran the opposite way, passing the front of the bus, where flesh hung out of the grill in ribbons, and red coated the hood like fresh paint, contrasting with with sunshine yellow of the bus like ketchup on mustard.

Even in the woods, the two boys could still hear the walker's screeches and groans, as they threw themselves relentlessly at the metal vehicle, under the impression that their next meal was still inside.

They only stopped running when the smell of rotten flesh faded from their nostrils. Doubled over, Ron and Carl breathed with their hands on their knees.

"That was...." Carl coughed. ".... Stupid..."

Ron sat up, sniffing as he wiped his top lip free of sweat, only to be hugged tightly by Carl, the long haired boy's head pressed into his chest.

Ron slowly returned the embrace, rubbing his back. "I drove a bus," He said slowly, coming to his senses.

"Barely," muttered Carl.

Chapter Text

Usually, I'm relatively good at worming myself into the minds of others and understanding their vague motives. Most of the time, it's easy to see a stranger's true intentions just by the way they hold themselves and how they speak. The eyes are a huge giveaway as well. Liars are distant and look shiftily at you as if waiting for you to call their bluff, while truthful people tend to want to be close and make constant eye contact.

I know that Ron Anderson is supposed to be a filthy liar, just like his father. My dad tells me to keep my distance, Mich reminds me to watch my back, and Ron's body language screams liar. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't get close.

Yet, I want to believe him. Especially now, watching him through the window, sitting on my porch in the middle of the night, head bowed against the darkness.

I shouldn't go out there, I know it's asking for trouble, but I still unbolt the front door, as quiet as possible, and step out into the humid night air.

I know he's been crying, even before I see his face. I hear his sniffs and I see his shoulders shaking.

He must know I'm there, as I shut the door, yet he doesn't move an inch, simply sits quiet, as if he's been waiting for me.

Moving over to him, I sit beside him, hanging my feet over the edge of the porch, just as he is. It's strange how he doesn't tell me to get lost, doesn't cuss and spit names at me. He just sits.

"Enid broke up with me," He said, after a moment of silence.

I don't reply. I don't know how to reply to something like that. It seems like such a little thing to me. She wasn't dead, she wasn't bitten, she was just backing off from Ron. Ron looked sick to his stomach, and he was messing with a pack of cigarettes that sat in his lap.

"You can have her, now. I'm giving you permission."

"I don't need permission," The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself, and I quickly add to it as he looks at me angrily.

"I-I mean, I don't want permission. Enid is her own person, I don't want to own her. She doesn't want to be owned. I don't want her, anyway."

A moment of silence passes before Ron laughs, rubbing his face with a pale, shaky hand.

"I've seen you two sneaking off-"

"We were just outside. We weren't doing anything, Ron. Just talking. She likes it out there, but everyone needs someone to watch their back. Even you."

Ron's expression sours. "I don't need anyone," he said, checking his pockets for a lighter, and giving up when he didn't find one. I pull mine from my coat pocket, producing a flame with ease. We make eye contact.

"Of course you do," I say softly, and he lights his beaten cigarette, offering me one as well. We smoke in silence, shoulder to shoulder.

"Why'd she dump you?" I ask after a few puffs, and he responds with a shrug.

"Pretty obvious, isn't it? I mean, I wasn't the best boyfriend in the world, was I?"

"No," I agree, tapping my cigarette in my fingers. "A little bit overbearing, in my opinion, but it was understandable. You were worried."

He nods along with my words, brown eyes finding interest in his worn out sneakers.

"I don't think I love her," He admits. "I just want to keep her safe. She deserves to be safe."

It's agreeable enough. I didn't really see the love between them; just a mutual caring. Enid never did strike me as the loving type. Even when she was around me, she never does anything that crosses the boundary of friendship, even if she was very physical in showing it.

"That's fine," I tell him. "Sometimes, it's better that way. You both might be happier now," My hand finds his shoulder, and I make a move to stand up, but he looks at me, and his dark eyes stop me. He holds me with his gaze, my wrist trapped in his grip.

"I don't really want to go home alone," He says, and I'm quick to offer my assistance.

"I can walk you-" But, he interrupts me.

"Can I stay? The night?"

It takes me a moment to digest his request, but in the meantime, I don't pull away, and neither does he. The only noise in the air is frogs croaking and crickets chirping, and slowly, I nod. I really shouldn't trust him in my home, but I remind myself that Alexandria was his home first, and to him, I am the guest. He seems to trust me to an extent, and it's only fair of me to give him a chance.

"Yeah," I say, as I nod, helping him stand as well. "You have to be quiet, though. I don't want to wake up Judy or Dad. Both of them are really jumpy."

"So are you," He adds, as we step inside the exceptionally cooler house. Humidity still clings to our damp shirts, and I make a mental note to offer him a fresh change once we get to my room.

"Yeah," I say, once more, slowly sneaking across the living room and to the stairs. "I know."

We make it to the second floor without interruption, yet once we start down the hall, Michonne exits my dad's room.

It shocks me, but only for a moment. It makes sense. They have been very close lately. I try to hide the surprise on my face and open my mouth to explain the teen boy lurking behind me, but she just places a finger to her lips, shushing me quietly.

"Judith is finally asleep..." She whispers, seemingly unperturbed by the extra presence in the house, and I don't stick around any longer to question her. Taking Ron's wrist in my hand, as he'd done to me, previously, I march past Mich, muttering that Ron would be staying the night, so as not to leave her in the dark on the situation. She doesn't object, simply going downstairs, undoubtedly for a midnight snack.

"Your room is small," He comments as I open the door. He wasn't wrong; I'd chosen one of the smallest rooms in the house, in the hopes of not having to bunk with anyone else. Tonight was an exception.

The clock, on the wall, above my dresser, proved that it was close to 1:30 in the morning, and slowly, I began to question why Ron had rathered stay with me, of all people.

"Is everything at home okay?" I ask carefully, and calmly, so as not to make him panic and scramble for an answer.

"Yeah," He says, fiddling with a knife that was set on my bedside table. It's nothing special, but the handle is wooden and engraved with signs that I carved years ago. It's interesting to look at. I know he's not being truthful, but I don't push him for answers.

Pulling a blanket and pillow off my bed, I lay it out on the wooden floor, gesturing for him to take my spot on the squeaky cot. He doesn't argue, sitting down on the mattress with a squeak of rusty bed springs.

My room isn't exactly clean. Dirty clothes scatter my room, most stained with the brown blood of walkers. I peel off my sweaty shirt and toss it to the ground, making my way to my dresser.

"Do you want a change of pants, too?" I ask, my back to him as I dig through my clean clothes.

"Yes," He responds stiffly, but I toss him the spare clothes as I tug on my own fresh t-shirt. He grabs them clumsily and takes a look at them. They're ratty; an old pair of gym shorts and a gray shirt that the residence of Alexandria had scrounged up for me.

"Where are you going?" He asks as I make my way to the door. I'd figured it was pretty obvious and I quirk an eyebrow at him, jabbing a thumb at the door over my shoulder.

"I'm leaving the room so you can change."

He looks embarrassed, and just nods as I shut the door behind me with a shake of my head, making my way down the stairs and to the kitchen, where I find Mich, drinking from a chipped mug.

"Coffee?" I ask, "At 1 AM?" She gives me a sly smile, chuckling.

"You know it's my favorite, Carl. We're lucky to have the coffee beans here. It's a luxury."

I wrinkle my nose. To me, the bitter drink is disgusting, but it does wake you up in the morning. Mich must have a night watch on the wall.

"So, are you going to explain the blondie upstairs?" She asked, finishing off the coffee and setting the mug in the overflowing sink.

"He's been going through some things. I figured it was a good time to clean the slate with him. He's pretty lonely, from what I've gathered."

"I figured it was something like that. Just be careful, alright? I know you will, I just..."

"I know," I say, arms folded across my chest. Mich grabs her leather coat off the table, making her way to the front door. "Please don't wake your father. He had a long day."

"I wasn't planning on it," I mutter as she leaves, making my way back up the stairs, to my bedroom.

What I didn't expect to find when I opened my bedroom door was Ron shirtless, pawing through my desk drawer. He has the gym shorts on, though they are loose on his hips. He is very skinny, and I can just see his ribs under his pale skin as he pulls out a small box of ammo from the drawer, eyes widening slightly as he realizes what it is.

"What are you doing?" I'm sure I meant to sound angry, but the words come out as curious. Never the less, he drops the box out of fear and the small cartridges go everywhere. I jump at the noise, hoping no one else had heard.

He was quick to start asking questions, pointing to the encased bullets on the wooden floor, shameless in being caught.

"Those are bullets, right? Do you have a gun? Can I use it?"

I shush him quickly, bending down and scooping up the bullets handful after handful, putting in back in the box.

"I do, but I'm not supposed to."

I find myself confiding in Ron, ever after I find him snooping through my things. "Why would you need to use it?"

"I'm just asking, I mean... I feel like I should learn. No one knows what might happen, or when it will happen. If those walls came down-"

"I get it," I snap. "Just, help me clean these up, and we'll talk about it."

It took us close to 15 minutes to pick up every single bullet. My hands smelt metallic afterward, and I'm sure his did as well. Wiping my palms on my pants, I turn to look at him. He gazes back, eagerly.

Slowly, I reach under my bed, pulling out a shoe box. He kneels to the ground beside me. Inside are my handgun and suppressor, along with a half full mag. He opens his mouth to ask more questions, but I hush him once more, screwing the suppressor tightly onto the gun to show him.

"Does that stop it from making noise?" He asks as I let him hold it.

"Somewhat; it still makes noise, but not enough to attract many walkers. It doesn't fool the living, though, so you still have to be careful where you shoot it."

The Beretta fits snuggly in Ron's palm and he turns it over in his hands, eyes wide as he examines the gun up close.

"What's this made out of?" He asks, tapping the makeshift suppressor with his pointer finger.

"Metal baseball bat," I say, leaning back on my heels. "My dad and I made it. It's not the quietest one I've ever made, but it works well enough. My dad has one he made out of a flashlight. It's pretty fucking sweet."

Ron looked up again. For a moment, you could pretend we were talking about something normal, like video games or cars, like kids, back before the world went to hell. I wish we were. Life would be so simple. Instead of sneaking into my house, late at night, Ron and I might be good friends, having a sleepover like regular kids. But, then I remind myself, I wouldn't be here, in Virginia, if not for the infection. I'd be back in Georgia. I'd be home.

He hands me the gun back, and I quickly remove the suppressor, stuffing it back into the shoe box and pushing it back under my bed.

"We should get some sleep-"

"How many people have you killed with that gun?"

His question feels like a punch to the gut, and at first, I'm unsure of how to reply. He's so blunt. He doesn't dodge around the truth like other people; he's straight up and honest.

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. My throat feels clogged as I remember my own mother, remember leading her through the endless maze of the prison, and eventually, to her demise. It aches, as I recall watching her fall unconscious, and putting a bullet in her skull before she could die and turn. I've used that gun, the monster under the bed, many a time.

"A lot," I reply. He stands, crawling into my bed, expression of earnest not faltering. I also get up, turning the overhead light off before laying down myself.

"You're brave, Carl." He says as I lay down, and I swallow down laughter.

"I'm serious. You know how to protect your family."

"Some of them," I hear my own voice crack, and I silently curse. Despite the sudden mutual trust between us, I really don't want to seem weak in front of Ron Anderson.

Sleep finds Ron quickly, and I am left alone in the dark, exhaustion pressing down upon my eyelids as I attempt to drift off. Thoughts of the Anderson boy float to the surface of my mind as I shift, rolling over so my back is to the underside of the bed; where the gun is stored. I must lull myself into a doze, because before I know it, I'm dreaming.

It's not a good dream. It makes my muscles tense and my teeth grit. Looking back on it, it will be hard to recall, but I know it's about my mom. She haunts my dreams regularly, and often, I relive shooting her. I relive shooting a lot of people; my mom, the boy at the prison, more of the governer's people. There's too many to count on my fingers. I can't fake being heartless in my sleep, and before I know it, I'm lashing out as someone attempts to wake me from my restless slumber.

As my fist makes contact with someone's lower jaw, they make a grunting noise and pain spikes in my knuckles. Forcing my eyes open, I attempt to steady myself, but my breath is coming in sharp gasps that I can't seem to control.

"Jesus christ-" Ron is clutching at his cheek, eyebrows furrowed in anger as he wheels back around to stare at me, but whatever insults he has prepared, die in his throat. I'm not sure what's made him stop until I feel the hot tears on my face.

My hand flies to my own face, and I wipe the salty tears away, trying to inhibit the childish whimpers that are escaping my throat. It's far from embarrassing. I'm humiliated, watching this boy, who called me brave only hours ago, stare at me in shock as I sob like a baby.

"Hey," He mutters, kneeling back down to eye level with me, leaning forward on his knees.

"Hey, stop that. It's not that big of a deal, I'm fine, I-" He reaches our for my shoulder, but I push him off, unsure if I actually want to explain my nightmare to him. He doesn't relent, though, instead, holding my wrist tightly.

"Did you have a shitty dream? It's okay if you did. I won't judge you."

I can only nod, free hand still clamped over my mouth as bits and pieces of the dream come back to me. Cutting her open, aiming the gun, pulling the trigger. It flashes behind my eyes, every time I blink, and I feel my limbs going weak.

Ron holds my other hand as it falls from my mouth, and the cries I'd been choking down slip past my lips. He doesn't back off, but he doesn't make me uncomfortable, either. Instead, he rubs small circles on the back of my hands with his thumbs, scooting closer a little at a time.

"Take deep breaths, Carl. It was just a dream."

But, it wasn't just a dream. I did shoot my mother. I did kill her. The sickening feeling in my gut and chest seems to swell, and as it does, I cry even harder. The blond boy's hands are in my hair, and my head must be in his lap because I'm looking up at him. He's hushing me softly, and a warm sense of content seems to overcome the swelling in my chest. It's odd, looking at his pale face through the blur of tears in my eyes. He looks concerned, staring back at me. He looks at me without pity, but with care and understanding. I can make out a bruise blooming on his lower cheek, and I feel guilty.

"I'm sorry," I croak, "I hit you-"

"Don't worry about it. Are you okay? You have to breathe, you're holding your breath." He tilts his head slightly to the left, and I can feel his hand still in my hair. He's right, I'm trying to stop my tears by repressing my breath, and it's making my chest ache even more. I force myself to exhale and inhale a few times, over and over. My hands shake and I feel a little nauseous. A pounding is starting at the base of my skull, and I'm sure it'll turn into a wicked headache in due time.

Helping me sit up, Ron sits in front of me, just as he did before.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I'm unsure if that would be wise, but something about Ron Anderson is so alluring, that I feel if I was going to tell anyone about the night horrors I experience at night, it'd be Ron. He seems so benevolent in his actions towards me, ever since our talk on the porch. It's strange, yet comforting.

I attempt to speak, choking yet again as I try to form the words that summarize my traumatic dream. He doesn't push me any further, instead leaning forward and wrapping his thin arms around my chest. His head finds it's way to my collar and he rests it there in the crook of my neck.

He's very warm to the touch, and comfortably so, as I ease into his embrace, eyes shut tightly as he rubs my back. My breath starts to steady, and his free hand returns to my mop of hair, running his thin fingers through the knots.

"Thank you," I'm whispering to him quietly, thankful for his presence in my room. I usually have to calm myself by taking a long, cold shower or by sneaking out of the house in the dead of night to take a walk. It feels so much safer here, in Ron's arms.

He leans back ever so slightly, looking me in the eyes. He has the biggest brown eyes I've ever seen, with flecks of gold and green scattered in them like stardust in the sky. The tightening in my chest returns, but not out of sadness or fear. He leans in ever so slightly and kisses my cheek. It was an odd sensation. His lips are chapped, yet so soft and they graze my freckled skin as though even he is unsure of his own actions.

My heart is back to beating a mile a minute, but I know that, deep down, I don't want him to leave. He tries to pull away, looking embarrassed, but I have a handful of his shirt, and I'm tugging him back into our hug.

"Don't let go," I squeak, and I almost don't recognize it as my own voice, but I don't have much time to dwell on it, because he's kissing me again, just under my jaw bone. His lips leave trails of fire in their wake, and I'm practically frozen with shock, unsure of how to react past this point. I'm scared. Not scared for my life or for others around me, but I'm scared of messing up what I'm starting with Ron.

God, though, it feels amazing.

Tentatively, his kisses make their way up to my mouth and with a moment's hesitation, he pecks me quickly. And then again. And again. And soon, he's kissing me fully, and I can taste him. I can taste him on my lips and in my mouth, and I think it's my favorite flavor. He's eased me to the floor, hovering over me. My hands are on his hips, and I don't ever want to let him go. I'm never going to let go.

His hand slithers up under my shirt and he's touching every inch of me, eyes hooded as he looks at me between kisses that he plants on my exposed throat.

"I've wanted to do this for a while now," He comments as his hand trails down my stomach, over my gunshot scars. His words seem to light a fire in me. He's wanted me, Ron has wanted me. His mouth crashes back into mine and he nips at my lips, biting playfully.

I don't have time to think about my dad sleeping in the room next to us, or that Ron had just broken up with his girlfriend, or even that my sexuality is defiantly being questioned by this whole ordeal. I only focus on Ron. Ron's lips on my skin, how Ron's blond hair curls perfectly and falls in his face, how Ron is making me feel. His body is pressed flush to mine and we're groaning. His lips latch onto my neck, and I know he's leaving marks, but I don't care. I kiss back, peppering him wherever I can reach.

"Fuck," I sigh as he presses our bottom halves together, and I'm seeing stars. Pleasure is bursting in lights behind my eyes, and my hands are under his shirt as well. It's heavenly; Ron is heavenly.

Even after our energy fades, and we climb up into my bed, snuggling under the sheets, I'm still in awe of him. He's made me feel truly loved for the first time in a very long while.

In the beginning, I did not judge Ron fairly. No one did. I didn't quite understand his aggressiveness towards me hanging out with Enid, despite him not truly being affectionate with her. I understand now.

Fear comes in many shapes and forms. Nightmares, distance, anger. There are many forms. Tonight, I believe that Ron and I overcame a fear; the fears of being alone. But, already, as we fall asleep in each other's arms, I know that this will end painfully for one of us. In the end, I will not be able to keep my family safe, but in the meantime, I will try with everything I have.

I will keep Ron safe.

Chapter Text

I'm transfixed. Bewitched. I always was, but not how I feel in this moment, with his shoulder inches from mine and his chocolate brown eyes fixated upon the screen that is only a few feet in front of our faces. I hear my characters cry of anguish issue from the speaker, but I am not paying attention to the video game. My focus is upon the boy's dark blond curls that crown his face so flawlessly. Even his small imperfections, like the small scars on his hands, spots of acne, and the scent of sour morning breath; it all makes my bones ache with longing. I crave his touch and affection, but I am afraid to ask for it. My chosen character has fallen and he turns to me with a grin that could soften even the coldest man's heart.

"I beat you again, Grimes!"

I nod. The crack in his voice makes me hungry, hungry to know the taste of his lips trapped between my teeth. I don't know why I think these things about someone who only considers me a friend. I don't act upon them either, but only rise to my feet and make a claim for the restroom. I need a moment to breathe; to sort my thoughts out.

Chapter Text

I open my eyes only to be met with the darkness of 3 in the morning. I'm shaking badly and sweat is soaking through my shirt. I don't remember getting up, but I somehow do, staggering out of the living room and into the hall. As my bare feet touch the fuzz of the carpet, I feel bile rise in my throat and I double over as I vomit all over myself and the ugly pattern under my toes. I'm disgusted with myself. I haven't had a reaction this bad in months. It was my first day in Alexandria and I was already fucking up. Once I've emptied my stomach, and then some, I'm quiet for only a moment before the memories of the dream go from unfocused to painfully crystal clear.

His hands on my wrists and his fingers yanking my greasy hair as he uses me. Me, a child, only 13 years old. I was screaming for my father. For Mich. For anyone. But, they must not have cared enough, because no one came to help. My dad was not there this time. He was not there to plunge his knife into the Claimer's gut and rip upward with all he had. I was not able to watch my attacker's intestines spill onto the worn pavement as had the first time. It was just me. It was just him.

Someone says my name loudly and the lights flick on. Someone was screaming hysterically, a normally deep voice gone shrill and broken. It takes me a moment to realize that the brittle shrieks are coming from me, filling the silence of the night. My father grabs my shoulders to halt my noise, but I'm too out of it. With my own sick down my sweatshirt, I kick and punch at him. When he doesn't affect him, I bite and claw my chewed nails, bent of getting away from the person I could hardly recognize.

I'm blinded by the sudden light and my dad pushes me off of him, and gentler hands move me away. Cool night air nips at me and I wail, grasping for Mich's hands.

"Walk, baby, walk." Her words calm me slightly, but I'm still making noise. I know people hear me. I know the things they will whisper in the morning, but at the moment, I do not care.

I walk the sidewalk, screaming and howling my lament. I'm glad the claimer is dead because, in the moment, I wanted nothing more than to rip his skin from his face and limbs from their sockets.

Chapter Text

The reflective surface of the mirror is too clean and spotless for me to look in. I see every flaw in myself with a single glance. My hair is shoulder length and matted with blood, dirt and god knows what else. I can smell myself, and I smell like death left to bake in the sun. The normal smell of body odor is one thing, but I smell of sweat, vomit, blood, and rotten food all at once. I glance away from the mirror, leaning on the marble, trying not to work myself up. With a heavy breath, I look again. The first thing I notice are my scars. My upper lip is nicked permanently from a close call with a knife, and the right side of my face has suffered from years back where I picked at the scabs of a wound that hurt my mind more than my body. I tried to forget about the scars, preferring not to revisit those memories.

I slowly turn the faucet on, watching in amazement as clean, clear water streams out.

Washing clean of blood takes a long time and I find myself without warm water fairly quickly. Not that I care too much. The shower feels nice anyway. The water runs black and brown for 15 minutes and my hair takes an hour to untangle and wash. Looking at myself nude in the mirror is also hard. There are scars on my bare chest too; peppered buck shot wounds where I took a hit to the stomach when I was 10. Those memories aren't happy either. I'm lean, I can tell that much. I'm not ripped or anything special, I never ate enough to gain weight to do that. There was never enough food. I'm more toned from months of battling to survive. It's not prettying, looking strong but malnourished. It looks awkward and a bit frightening. I blink at my reflection, finding that I don't want to leave the bathroom. I don't want people to see me clean and not covered in weeks worth of dirt to hide. The idea of acting like a normal human again scares me. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach before the stench of my still dirty clothes catches in my nose.

I spend the next few minutes dry heaving over the toilet bowl, elbows resting on the seat with my head in my hands, running through my now untangled hair. I hear the door open and I feel soft hands rubbing my back as I spit up more bile, head bowed over the lid.

"Just breathe, Carl..." Mich whispers, rubbing slow circles as I hold back the painful tears as stomach acid burns my throat.

I've always had a bit of social anxiety, coming off as shy around strangers, but this is downright humiliating. I'm horrified of interacting with the flawless and unharmed people of Alexandria.

Chapter Text

Murder was not something Carl's mother had approved of, even when lives were at risk. It was a horrible thing, she'd always told Carl. She was right, but a lot had changed since her death. Years had passed since Carl has been a child. He'd been through things that he always preferred not to speak about which led to him internalizing most of his emotions. Murder was not optional, he had realized long ago. Survival or Death was.

Carl Grimes thought about these things as he watched the savior kneel before his father, barring a bloody smile at them all. He wasn't afraid of his own death, and that pissed Carl off. How was he not trembling before Rick? Begging for mercy? He didn't deserve to live. He should be dead.

The thoughts bounced around his skull as he glanced up, catching sight of the Boy. The Boy in question was very important to Carl, even if they never spoke. Carl would never speak to him, for the Boy was dead, and also a figment of his imagination. These were assumptions of course. The Boy was a personal being in the Grimes child's life. His late boyfriend, Ron, seemed to haunt his life daily, and more so in situations like the one before them.

Carl looked away, tears stinging his eye as he stared the Savior down with his single blue eyes, contemplating his next move. His hand twitched as he listened to the grown man spit insult after insult, about how they would all die eventual and join the rest in the ground, with their friends.

He could just hear Ron's voice now, though it was just a recollection of a memory and not the hallucination across the clearing.

"Don't," He would have said. "It's not worth it, Carl. Don't give him the satisfaction."

No, don't give him the satisfaction. He wouldn't. His plan wouldn't allow the Savior a second of glory.

"What the fuck are you staring at?!" The savior said, catching sight of Carl blank gaze. Carl approached slowly, drawing and cocking his gun. Tension flooded the air as Carl's family looked to him, prediction his actions a fraction of a second late. Carl pointed his gun at the temple of the Savior as the enemy began to laugh.

"I'm going to kill you," Carl said in a monotone, calm voice. It wasn't a threat or a warning. Carl was just informing the crouched and bound man of his inevitable and bloody end. The Savior roared with laughter, doubting the 16-year-old.

"You ain't got the sack, kid-" He didn't finish the sentence, for Carl pulled the trigger as soon as he began to speak, his skull exploding at the impact of the bullet at point blank. Blood sprayed the ground and Carl, who was standing very close.

Silence filled with horror fell upon the clearing as Carl turned to look at his father's group.

He saw the phantom Ron, staring in horror and disappointment, and Carl just stared back.

"They're not going to kill any more of us," He said, emotionless.

"No more bull shit."

Chapter Text

Sleeping over with friends wasn't normally so worrying. Ron had fidgeted anxiously as Enid pulled out the Ouija Board, having heard all the superstitions over the lettered slab of wood. It varied each time. Either demons or possession, burning in hell or eternal bad luck. The board was just bad news, he'd assumed. Not anything to mess with. It just wasn't worth it, curiosity or not. So, obviously, watching his friends set the damn thing up made Ron Anderson uncomfortable, to say the least.

"Is this a good idea-? You know what, I'll answer that for you guys," Ron began. "No. No, this is NOT a good idea. Like, AT ALL-"

"Stop being such a pussy, Ron." Mikey and Enid laughed as they lit the last pumpkin spice candle that Mikey's mother owned. 'To set the spooky mood,' Enid had said.

The board was ominous, the dark lettering painted by hand onto the marbled wood of the base. It was simple really; numbers across the top, the alphabet in the middle, and along the bottom was "Hello, Yes, No, Goodbye". It was ridiculous. Ghosts? Who even believed in ghosts, besides crazy old people and that one creepy ass kid at school? No one.

Once the lights were turned off and the only thing allowing the teens to see through the dark was the Hallmark candles, Ron began to really panic. Enid and Mikey put their hands on the planchette and Ron gave one last groan before grudgingly placing his thin pale fingers on the smooth pointer.

After what felt like forever, the board piece began to inch over to the 'Hello'.

"Are you doing that?" Ron squeaked.

"No.." Enid hissed, before being interrupted by Mikey's giggles.

"Ohhh, spooky ghost-" He said before Enid took her hands off the board to smack him.

"You little shit! We agreed not to move it!" "I couldn't resist!"

A smile curved Ron's mouth, and he absentmindedly kept his hands on the planchette. He didn't even notice it twitch, staring at his friend's argue and swear. Then, he saw it. His hand had slid all the way over to the 'S', and then the 'T'. He just gaped, ignoring Enid and Mikey still cussing at each other.

'U', 'P', 'I', 'D'...

"What the fuck?" Was all Ron said, interrupting their argument. All three looked down at the board.

Enid crouched down but did not touch the planchette again.

"What'd it say?" She asked, sounding excited. Ron wouldn't have fucked around like Mikey, he was too skittish to mess around with the board.

"Stupid," Ron said, eyed wide as dinner plates.

"What?"

"It said 'Stupid'."

There was a moment of quiet, their breath in the air before Mikey spoke again.

"Well, that's fucking rude."

"Shut up! It's moving again!"

Ron watched in horror as the planchette slid to the goodbye. Enid wasn't having it and quickly spoke again.

"No, please stay! Mikey is annoying as fuck, ignore him. What's your name?"

Ron didn't dare move his hands, his fingertips hardly touching the board piece at all. The idea that a GHOST was covering over the three of them, guiding Ron in this horrible game was just absurd, but here he was, playing along. The pointer slid over to 'No'.

"Why not?" Enid scowled, sitting on her knees, pulling her ponytail tighter on the back of her skull. "Never mind- Okay. Let's start SIMPLE. Are you a boy or a girl?"

It moved slowly from the 'no' to the letter 'm'. "Okay, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Mikey looked annoyed. "I call bullshit."

"It's 'M' for male, you fucking douche nozzle." Ron snapped, rolling his eyes, being sarcastic even through his crippling fear.

"Do you know that you're dead?" Enid was getting curious.

"Wow, way to be insensitive, Enid. You have so much empathy." Mikey folded his arms, sitting criss-cross.

The pointer moved to 'yes'.

"Well that's good, I guess. Did you die in this house?"

It didn't move for a few seconds before starting to move to letters. The teens echoed the letters as they came, reading aloud.

"O... U... T... S...I...D...E." They seemed to harmonize through the dark room.

"Outside? What, did you die of heatstroke?" Mikey laughed.

"Yeah, I'm SO insensitive." Enid glared across the board at Mikey.

"I'm trying to shed some LIGHT on the situation, E."

"Guys, it's still talking!" Ron snapped at them, eyes not leaving the board.

"C... A...R..." But, then, it stopped, leaving them with the single word. A sort of sadness seemed to hang over them as they all exchanged looks. Car. A car crash, maybe even a walking pedestrian.

"Sorry," Mikey said, voice low and soft.

"How old are you?" Ron whispered. The pointer moved again to the one and then the five.

Another moment of silence was held for the dead kid. It felt stuffy in the room.

"Well, this is Mikey," Enid said, pointing to the black haired boy and then to Ron. "This is Ron, and I'm Enid."

It began to spell again.

C, A, R- It looked like it was spelling out the first word again and Ron's stomach dropped, but then it moved to the last letter.

"Carl?" Ron spoke out loud. "That's your name?"

"Nice to meet you, Carl."

Chapter Text

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" She snaps at me. I don't reply. Why would I?

"It's been months now, Carl." I don't care. I'll act like this as long as I please. She pushes me a little, palm connecting with my shoulder, nudging me along the beaten path of the woods. I wish she would stop. I wish she would leave me alone.

"Let it go."

"No," I croak the word out, throat raw with emotion. She's selfish, thinking only of our friendship, which is quickly dwindling away. She should have expected it.

She went quiet for a while. We walk in silence for almost 10 minutes, but I'm not sure. Then she says it;

"Since he died, you've become a fucking monster." My throat aches now and I just slide my hands into my coat pockets.

"I wonder if you were always like that, and he just brought out the best in you."

She turns. She walks away. She doesn't come back. I'm thankful. I don't want to face her, seeings the pain in her eyes. I know she misses Ron just as much as I do, but she is stronger than I. She can calm her emotions, where as I don't rein them in, and take my anger out on the nearest person.

Weeks passed, and one day, she was just gone. Left in the night, we all assumed. Wanted no part in the war with the Saviors. Wanted no part in me.

I am not proud of my actions. Ron Anderson would not be proud of my actions.

Chapter Text

My natural aptitude for being a complete and utter fuck up is really starting to affect my ability to socialize like a real fucking human being.

I wish I was exaggerating, but walking into the Anderson's household and talking to Mrs. Anderson herself, made me want to blow chunks. This was far from desirable, considering I drank at least a half gallon of powdered chocolate milk prior to my visit.

Her son, Ron, had wanted to talk more since our little chat on the porch the day before and had invited me over to play video games. How anyone had time to play games, let alone be good at them, I had no idea. I could hardly remember the last TV show I'd watched, or even what games I used to play. It was all part of my past-life heartache; all repressed memories.

Yet, here I was, watching this kind hearted, yet painfully stupid, boy tumble down the stairs in a fit of excitement at his mother's call of,

"Ron, Carl's here!"

He looked stuck dumb with surprise at my presence in his kitchen and gawked for a split second before coming to his senses.

Of course. He hadn't thought I'd actually come.

I began to regret my decision even more, if possible. Maybe he hadn't REALLY wanted me to come over and was just trying to appear welcoming. Maybe he didn't actually give a fuck about getting to know me, but if this was true, he didn't voice it, welcoming me with a slight stutter of shock in his voice.

I just smiled and answered their every question with a 'yes' or a 'no'. Thankfully, they caught on relatively quickly that I was not much for talking.

And thus, began the hard part.

Ron, being the friendly boy he is, led me upstairs to the match of player on player battles he'd promised me. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't the cardboard box of first person shooter games that he dragged from his closet.

This had to be a sick joke, I swore it. Some kind of stupid prank. But, he told me about each game in detail, apparently obvious to the disgusting irony he was presenting me with.

I quickly came to the conclusion that he had no idea how fucked up each game was to me after living through multiple situations that were painfully similar to the 'shoot em up' genre. After a few deep breaths, I smiled and picked a game for us to play. We sat down, and he showed me the controls.

I'd have to grit my teeth.

Chapter Text

Lustful thinking was not something that usually occupied my mind. I was usually tame in that sense. Sexuality hadn't crossed my mind up until I started having the dreams. I found myself having a sort of craving for physical contact. It stresses me out, considerably, and even more so when my thoughts turn on one of my friends.

Gritting my teeth, I gaze from my spot on the bank of the lake as Ron and Mikey wade in the water, shirts off and jeans hanging low on their hips.

Mikey had a bit of a childish look about him. He wasn't my type, even if he was undoubtedly cute, in a strange 'Mikey' type of way. Ron, on the other hand, was looking dangerously attractive, with his smile and small hips being clutched by the soaked denim of his waist band. I laid down, resting an arm over my eyes as my hat tumbled from my head. The blazing heat had coaxed us all out of our shirts. Even Enid sat beside me sun bathing in just an old and beaten bra.

It was strange, how she could make such a relaxed position look so hostile. She was like a snake, drinking in the sun on a sizzling rock, just daring you to inch closer into the proximity of her poisonous fangs.

Yet, I found myself agreeing that she wasn't my type, and vice versa. Enid had spilled her secret to me of her own preferences, and we'd agreed that we would cover for each other. She was comfortable being half naked around me, despite Mikey's lingering gaze at her rack.

"He's looking again," I comment, moving my arm slightly and catching him in the act of practically drooling, eyes unfocused. I wasn't the only one to notice, as Ron clapped in his face, jerking the bigger boy from his traveling imagination. I laugh and so does Enid.

"Yeah, he's not the only one staring," she said as our laughter died down.

I raised an eyebrow in question, sitting up on my elbows again.

"You've got quite a hungry look in your eye."

I know she's not talking about me looking at her. My cheeks heat up, and it's not from the blistering rays of the high sun.

"Is it that obvious?" I ask, voice wavering slightly as my eyebrows knit in worry.

"Don't worry, Grimes." She closes her eyes again, wiggling to get comfy on her beach blanket.

"We both know how oblivious he is."

Though he acts as if he doesn't know, I feel as if he does. The way he acts around me, it's like he's... teasing me. Even now, with his wet jeans hugging his ass while he faces away from me; it drives me nuts. It's not fair. I'm too shy to approach him and actually ask him how he feels about boys, or if he's just into chicks.

"Why don't you just come out to him?" Enid's voice is lowered and I close my eyes in annoyance. God, it's like she reads my fucking mind.

"Why don't you?"

"Because me liking tits is irrelevant to the situation."

I let out a scoff and she hands me a cold bottle. I sip it, tasting the tang of the beer on my tongue. Maybe she's right. I could get him alone and tell him I'm gay, or that I'm into him. It might not even end badly.

Worst case scenario, he thinks I'm weird.

Best case- I bite my bottom lip.

You know, maybe it's worth a shot.

"Ron!" My voice carries and he turns around, curly locks plastered to his forehead from Mikey splashing him.

"I need your help, um.."

"Getting more towels." Enid mutters under her breath.

"Getting more towels!" I finish.

At first, confusion flashed across his face, but he climbed from the lake, shaking his hair of water and following me as I get up, falling into step with me as we made our way from the lake side. Anxiety falls into the pit of my stomach. God, I can't believe I'm actually doing this. This is fucking crazy.

We're out of sight now, walking out behind an empty home, taking a short cut to Ron's house.

"Can I tell you so-" I'm cut off as he starts speaking as well. Our walking halts and we blink at each other in shock.

"What?"

"I wanna ask you something," He says, brown eyes innocent as ever. I swallow thickly. Is this actually happening?

He takes a deep breath.

"Do you think Enid still likes me?"

He's joking right? Like, this is all a prank set up by Enid, or, better yet, this is another one of my creepy ass dreams and I'll wake up at 3 in the morning with a massive boner and a headache.

I must look mad, because he looks a bit upset.

"You don't like her, right? I mean, she does hang out with you a lot-"

"She's gay.." The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I really shouldn't have outed her like that, and I regret it immediately, but the damage is done.

His face goes blank for a moment before understanding floods his face.

"That... explains a lot."

I just nod, jaw grit tightly.

"So am I.."

I'm on a roll today, just spilling EVERYONE'S secrets.

The awkwardness hangs thick on our shoulders as we stare at each other.

"Oh."

I've already fucked up enough, I figured. Might as well just ruin my life completely, right? What's the worst that could happen?

I step forward, grabbing his shoulders and filling the gap between us with a hard, desperate kiss on the lips.

He's stiff as a board in my grip, but he doesn't try to get away. I pull back and lean backward until my shoulder blades dig into the siding of the white house behind us.

His eyes are as wide as dinner plates as he stares me down, processing all the information thrust upon him in the past minute.

Enid, gay.

Carl, gay.

Carl, gay for Ron.

It's a lot to comprehend, but something must click, because he jumps at me like an animal, pulling me into an open mouthed and hungry kiss. I kiss back, clutching at his belt loops on his soaked jeans, bare chests pressed together.

It happens so quickly. His left hand snakes down and palms me through my jeans, earning a yelp that doesn't sound like it belongs to me. I'm absolutely dumb struck.

This whole situation went from 'worse than worst case scenario' to 'the best thing to ever happen to me'.

Before I know it, my pants are down and he's slipping out of his. Here? Now? My breath hitches subconsciously and his thin legs hook over my hips.

Yup. Here, now.

We're wiggling, trying to get into a good position, and we end up with him pressed into the house with his back to me, grinding up on each other. I'm in complete shock. I don't know how this happened, but I'm not in the right frame of mind to question it.

I'm not sure at what point in time we lost the last bit of clothing separating us, but it happens. We had a hard time getting started with no lube or anything, but as soon as it gets comfortable, everything picks up again.

It's a rush, losing your virginity. It happens so fast and you don't have time to think. One minute, you're clothed, the next you're not. He's panting as we go, muttering sweet nothings to me as I whimper and whine in shock. It'd be embarrassing otherwise, but in the moment I feel nothing but heat between us.

We pulled apart slowly, out of breath and dizzy as we came down from our high, eyes hooded with lust and exhaustion.

"Me, too.." He huffed, clumsily pulling his boxers and pants back on.

"What?"

"I'm gay, I think."

I laugh, resting my hands on my knees.

"You think?"

He laughs, too.

"We should... get back to the lake before they come looking for us."

I nod in agreement, slowly standing and approaching him, planting a soft, tentative kiss on his pouty lips, despite our previous actions.

"Let's go before Mikey tries to make a move on Enid."

"Yeah.."

Chapter Text

The party was quiet, as they all were. Usually, Carl was sulking around the alcohol or the upstairs bedrooms to avoid the other party guests, but tonight he was following a certain someone, making sure he didn't do anything like last time. Except, Carl had almost no idea what had happened 'last time', only haven seen Ron run off into the night, hand in hand with Enid. That was enough proof for Carl to want to keep an eye on his supposed friends, not exactly enjoying the party, to begin with. Beer in hand, courtesy of his father, he opened the back door and stepped onto the pavement of the dimly lit porch, where Mikey and Ron were play fighting, buzzed from the drinks. Enid stood nearby, laughing at the boys' antics.

Walking over with the smallest of springs in his steps, he stood beside Enid, waiting a moment before leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"Can we get out of here?"

Turning slightly, she gave him a look.

"No."

Annoyance edged into Carl's tone as he shifted from side to side, eyeing the other teens as they rough housed.

"Why not?"

"There's beer here."

With an eye roll, he murmured to her, "My dad has beer at the house."

This seemed to interest her. Solitude and alcohol without adult supervision? Who could say no? She nodded curtly and the two began to inch away.

"Hey, wait-" Mikey began, but Ron reached them first.

"Where are you going?" He sounded demanding and he pulled on Carl's shoulder, to bring him face to face.

"We're leaving." Carl spat angrily, looking Ron up and down, habitually.

"Not with Enid, you're not. You think I'm stupid?"

"Maybe.."

It wasn't clear who threw the first punch; both went to move at the same time, fists clenched. Ron's hit missed and connected with the other's shoulder while Carl's landed Ron on the jaw. Barreling Carl over and into the grass was Ron's plan B, and it worked. They rolled, staining their only articles of nice clothing. Enid glared and sneered at the pathetic excuse for a fight, slinking inside without either of them noticing, a distressed Mikey hot on her heels.

Ron and Carl did not stop though, even when they heard the door open and close. This hatred ran deep in their bones.

A fist full of hair was caught in Ron's clenched fist and a hard yank made Carl cry out, grabbing Ron's right arm roughly, trying to push him up and off. It just made him yelp and grow angrier. Clawing for Carl's wrists, he shoved him back down into the dirt, pinning him.

"What'd'ya going to do now, Grimes?!" He yelled, spitting in Carl's face. He was soaked in sweat from the struggle, panting and exhausted.

"Enid is my girlfriend, and no matter how much you want to-" He froze, looking down as he felt Carl struggle more. Something hard had- Oh, no.

Ron jumped up quickly and Carl rolled over, obviously shaken.

"What was that-?!"

"Fuck off!" Carl yelled, ears red as fire as he desperately tried to get away from Ron's judgmental gaze.

"Carl-!" He leapt forward again, spinning him around, getting a good look at the bulge in his supposed enemy's pants before looking away in shock.

There was silence in the crisp night air, aside from Carl's pants and stressed mutters to himself, trying to compose himself and brush off the dirt.

"Do you LIKE me?" Ron asked and Carl reddened more, if possible, angry and embarrassed.

"Hell no!" He pushed past Ron, tugging his shirt down over his crotch and going inside, leaving a confused and unsure Ron alone in the yard.

Chapter Text

The stares burned into the back of Carl's skull as he bounced his knee, hands settled in his lap.

What was the point of this? Setting him up to be gawked at in front of all of Hilltop while other's gathered around the sick bed of the disgusting excuses for human beings.

Enid was settled in a far off bed, having sustained injury, yet not as horrific as the who boys that lay in cots, unconscious and wrapped in blood soaked bandages.

A smile played the oldest Grimes child's lips and he hummed a small toon, cocking his leg upward to rest upon his other leg, holding the calf muscle with intended strength.

"Why?!" A female voice yelled, and he saw an absolutely disgusting woman round on him, spittle flying.

"This is YOUR fault."

"They sort of got in the way of my shovel," Carl cooed, only to be slapped by the pig of a lady. It stung his cheek, which prickled with numb pain from the gaping hole in the side of his head that was uncovered. An expression of horror crossed her face as her palm made contact with the rough surface of the scar tissue. Carl just shook himself, replacing the look of anger with a cold smile.

"YOU ALMOST KILLED HIM."

"Ma'am," Carl began with a single eyed roll. "I'm well aware of this."

The curses and insults thrown upon his shoulders by the woman were countless.

Psycho, Mad, Crazy, Blood thirsty.

Carl tipped his hat downward at the words, not having the will power to gaze upon her hoggish face any longer.

Chapter Text

[Warnings: Swearing, Small vomit Mention.]

This place was going to get every single one of us killed. There was no doubt in my mind about these people; they were throwing parties and having brunch, all while the dead lurked just outside their walls.

I fidgeted in my seat, my blue gaze avoiding the old fashioned camera that was being positioned by an even older woman's hands. She smiled so kindly, but I could see the unsure thoughts floating around her green irises, silently judging me and the small child that I bounced on my knee.

She walked back around the spotless sofa, taking up her spot on the floral print seat. I don't take my eyes off of her. If I do, I'll be in danger, and so will my sister. I won't let that happen. I will never let that happen.

"Carl, was it? You're Rick's son..." She smiled sweetly, and I could feel anxious nausea settle in my gut for not the first time that day. I wet my lips, my hand going to Judith's back, rubbing a small circle between her shoulder blades as if she was the one in need of comforting.

"And this is?" She turned her attention to Judy, smile growing. I must be painful to look at, even after being showered and spending an hour trying to comb out hair. I know of the scars on my face and my malnourished demeanor. I was no beauty, after so many years on the road.

"Judith," I answer more coldly than I'd meant to, and she looked up to meet my gaze yet again, pulling back into her stiff posture, taken aback by my sudden verbalization.

"Judith... What a beautiful name." She wrote something down in her small notebook before setting it on the coffee table between us, legs crossing as casually and slowly as she could as if she was afraid any sudden movements would startle me into an attack. I taste bile in the back of my throat, from earlier, but I say nothing.

"How old are you, Carl?"

I start. It'd been a very long time since I'd been asked that. Too long for me to remember the number that ruled what jobs I was allowed to part take in and what missions I could help with.

"I don't... know.." I spit the words slowly and quietly, but she just nods. "Well, do you remember your birth date?"

I nod. "July 28th, 2000." A smile spread her lips as I shuttered out the date, and she nodded.

"Well, Carl, If my dates are correct, which I'm sure they are, you turned 16 about a month and a half ago."

I should feel something. What, I'm not sure, exactly, but I shouldn't feel as indifferent as I do now. My age does not matter, but I can't help doing the math for Judith's age. I do not know the date she was born, to the day, but I remember the heat of the Georgia sun that seemed to sizzle our skin, and turn her milk bad before she had to chance to finish it. She was a July baby, and if Deanna's math was correct, that pegged Judy at about 3 years old. I look down at the toddler for a moment, but I can't smile. That was 3 years she spent outside these walls, where all these people were hiding and cowering.

Deanna clears her throat. "Do you have any hobbies, Carl?"

I can't stop the sneer that crosses my face, and I look back up at her with a gaze that I know will burn. She seems embarrassed.

"I'm sorry... I know there mustn't have been any time to have any-"

"Reading," As if it matters. It doesn't. There's hardly time to read anymore, yet I don't ditch my comics or books. I just keep them in my bag, collecting dust. I don't think I could bear to let that part of my humanity go.

"Reading," She seems dazed, glad that she hadn't actually insulted me, or, further more, angered me. She gestured around the library that surrounded us. "Well, have I got reading material, or what? You're welcome to borrow them anytime. Literacy is quite important, you know-"

I cut her off with a snark that borderlines a snarl. "Can I leave, now?"

She stops her impending speech, and after a moment's hesitation, she nods. I'm on my feet as quickly as I can, and the large wooden door slams behind me. The sidewalk waves with heat as I walk it, Judith on my hip, my incredulous thoughts on this place swooping down to claim every corner of my mind.

"Apple," Judy says, patting my cheek and she blabs about the fresh fruit she had eaten earlier that evening.

"Soon," I reply, not exactly paying attention, now distracted by muffled talking and laughter. Slowing to a stop, a keep my gaze trapped on Judith's rosy face, straining to hear the conversation. It's coming from the house across the street. One of the second-floor windows is open.

"Enid, look! It's dirty dan!"

I don't look yet. I just stand, pretending to fuss over Judith.

The laughter continues.

"He's coming from Deanna's-"

"Where's his hat?"

"He cleans up nice.."

"He's kind of scary, though, don't you think? Look at that guy. Look at the baby! How many people do you think that baby's killed?"

"Mikey-!"

I can't take it anymore, my curiosity has gotten the better of me, and I glance up quickly. I stare at the 3 kids my age, all crowded around the window that they must not have realized was open.

"FUCK, DIRTY DAN SAW US!" They duck as quickly as possible; all three of them.

"THE WINDOW IS OPEN!"

I just return my gaze to Judith with a shake of my head, resuming my walk back to our assigned house, just around the block. I'm not sure how I'm going to get used to this place. It's all so strange.

Chapter Text

Carl unceremoniously pushed the rifle into Ron's arms, turning away from the now armed teen without batting an eye. The gun was heavy in the Anderson boy's arms, and he looked less than pleased to be trusted with the deadly weapon, let alone carry it.

"You've got my back, right?" Carl asked over his shoulder, sifting through the leaves for dry wood to bring back to Alexandria. Ron hefted his full backpack and the gun, screwing up his face in a hopeless attempt to get his friend's undivided attention (which ultimately failed).

"Of course I do, I just-"

Carl cut him off, tossing the few sticks he'd found, that weren't already rotting, into his half full duffle.

"Good. It's getting dark and we're not near finished."

He straightened up, hoping a fallen tree with a bounce and the help of his free hand, his left clutching the bag's shoulder strap. He disappeared over the large trunk, leaving Ron nervous, trudging through the grass clumsily as he called after Carl, knowing if he didn't keep up with the sheriff's son, that he was sure to fall behind.

"I don't know how to use this!" He yelped, holding the rifle stiffly.

Carl helped him get over the log, grip hard but eyes soft. Ron staggered a bit, but Carl made sure he was kept upward, despite the weight of the bag on his back.

"Don't you want me to carry this?" He asked the boy, whom he was ever so fond of.

His reply was a curt 'no', as he hitched the heavy bag up once again, giving Carl a quick smile. Carl returned it, leaning in to give his lover a soft kiss on the mouth, rifle trapped between them.

Ron let the gun fall clumsily and left it abandoned on the muddy ground as his arms slid around Carl's neck.

Ron was a few inches taller than Carl, and he found it cute how his boyfriend stood on the toes of his mud caked boots to capture his lips. As the kiss deepened, bodies flush against in each other, their bags slid to the ground.

It was a good spot to rest, anyway. The woods was quiet and the sun was just setting, chilling the air with its absence.

They pulled away for only seconds at a time, to breath, before continuing with their hands trapped in each other's hair.

It was the little things that made surviving worth it.

Chapter Text

"I'm gonna beat the holy hell out of one of you," Negan had said, voice dripping with obvious pleasure at seeing them at his bat's mercy.

It was a lie. Two people were dead now, not just one. Abraham's skull was split, red hair matted with blood, while Glenn was simply unrecognizable. Maggie kneeled by him, sobbing uncontrollably. Negan didn't bother her; he knew she was harmless in the state she was in.

"Woah!" He howled into the crisp night air, his being the only voice apart from the choking cries of the Alexandrian people. "Ain't that fun?!" He grinned, turning full circle to look at the tear-stained faces of the group, pearly whites bared in sickening joy.

"Two for one!"

No one laughed, not even the Saviors. They simply watched, hoping to witness one more bloody decapitation. Carl's eyes were stinging with tears he wouldn't let fall, eyes focused on the dirt as he listened to Ron retch beside him, unable to stomach the scene before him.

"Come on Blondie," Negan said, boots crunching gravel as he sauntered his way over to the teens, eyes narrowed in pride at the reaction he could get out of the weaker stomachs. "Grow a pair."

Ron choked up the last of the bile in his stomach, coughing as he raised his gaze to meet Negan's. Carl silently begged him to stay quiet, begged him not to say anything that would get him killed, end with him on the ground like his family.

"You're..." Ron shuttered, spitting the sick taste from his mouth, tears streaming his face. "... A sick bastard..."

The last word hung in the air like a hairpin about to drop, and Carl's whole body seemed to freeze, dread coursing through every part of his body.

And Negan laughed. "Damn, kid! Does Blondie wanna play some fuckin' ball, too?" He lightly gripped his bat with one hand, and feigned a swing at Ron's head, as if lining up his aim.
Carl broke.

The noises that escaped his throat were unlike any other, and they had Negan staring. He cried, and he cried, begging the monster that stood over him to leave Ron alone, to take him instead. Everyone's eyes were on Carl as he uncharacteristically wailed into the dirt.

"Please," He howled, "P-please don't- hurt my baby! Please! S-stop- I-"

Negan tipped his head to the side a little, slowly crouching down in front of Carl, all thoughts of hitting Ron leaving his mind as he took interest in the previously stoic boy having a melt down.

"Wow," He crooned, watching the one eyed boy whimper and sob into the ground at his boots.
"What a show this is. No, I'll leave your precious little 'boyfriend'. This is just way too interestin'." He laughed loudly, making Carl and Ron flinch.

Negan stood.

"Well, on that note, I'll be making my leave! I seem have made a lasting impression on even the bravest, it seems! Come on boys! Pack up!" He roared at the saviors and they sprung into action, loading into cars quicker than they had come.

Carl and Ron just held onto each other, buried in each other's embrace.

Things were changing, and fast.

Chapter Text

Rick Grimes is a fucking bitch.

And as his son, I mean that sincerely.

I'm so pleased that this tiger, this savage, partly wild, 700-pound tigress, could save me when my own father couldn't. I'm so glad that this she-cat, with an impulse control smaller than Michonne when presented with candy bars, jumped out into the middle of a fire fight and ripped a guy apart while my dad sat by and watched me almost become ground meat.

A war hero. Honestly, she is. Her fur is soft. My fingers comb through it like it's silk and she doesn't seem to mind, a faint purr rumbling in her chest.

It's so strange; how she acts like a house cat one moment, and a beast another.

"Shiva" is the name of a Hindu god. He's terrifying, the god of destruction, but also restoration. He's seen as both gentle and ruthless, at the same time. Ezekiel told me about it. He told me about her name sake because he said he thought it'd be important to me. I asked him if he knew what my name meant. He laughed and said he knew a lot of things, but not of my journey.

That bothers me. I don't know why, though.

Shiva isn't allowed out of her cage; not when Ezekiel isn't around. I wish she was, but at the same time, I'm glad. After the close call with Lucille, and witnessing Shiva's claws and fangs at work, I don't think my luck is going to last me much longer.

She's calm now, though, her eyes closed and her breaths even. She snorts a little, she makes little chirping noises. That's good, according to Ezekiel. It means she's being verbal but 'polite', whatever that means.

"Why are you out of bed?" My dad's voice startles us both. I pull my gun and I hear Shiva snarl deeply, on her feet, pacing within the split second.

He stands in the doorway to the cage room, where Shiva is kept, hand on the frame.

"I was petting the tiger," I say softly, but my voice shakes slightly. "You know, seeing as she saved my life and all."

The silent is thick and heavy, the only noise being the padding of Shiva's paws as she paces behind the bars, eyeing my father like the hunk of meat that he is.

I feel like a caged tiger, too. I wish I had sharp claws and a horrible roar that made people scatter. Maybe then my dad would fuck off.

"Why, are you suddenly involved in my survival?"

"Carl-" He starts and I know he's already prepared a speech to throw at me, about how it was all about tactic and he wouldn't have let anything bad happen to me.

"No, eat shit, Rick!" Shiva spits a deep growl behind my words, as if pushing me forward in my anger.

"You were ready to watch it happen! You were ready to sit by, just like you did with Abraham! Just like you did with GLENN."

He's just staring now, watching me with his cold blue eyes that match mine. It's sickening to see the dead look, gazing back at me, knowing my eye looks the same.

Blue, cold, unfeeling.

"If Ezekiel hadn't shown up, if THAT tiger hadn't shown up when she did, I'd be DEAD."

"I wouldn't have let him," He says, but I shout over him.

"HE WAS SWINGING! HE WAS MID-FUCKING-SWING," but he's leaving, he's walking away. I don't care. I turn back to Shiva. I watch her pace.

I'm a caged tiger. I toy with the lock. Her flat, broad, nose bumps my hand. I stop.

Behind me, Ezekiel speaks, and Shiva doesn't roar this time.

"'Carl' means 'Strong Man'," he says.

I laugh.

That's painfully stupid, a stupid name for a stupid kid.

Chapter Text

To think that less than 48 hours ago, the boy had been numbly staring at this same TV, watching cartoons and drinking his hospital regulation sized juice box, was little more than unimaginable as the woman on the new's voice shakes while she lists off the city's that are on the evacuation list.

He could hear his mother in the bathroom, making phone call after phone call, trying to purchase any tickets to anywhere, but it was no use. Out-of-country airlines had been shut down weeks ago.

Yet again, he attempts to rouse his father from his comatose state by squeezing his cold hand, trying to give warmth to the fingers that dwarfed his own.

"Dad," He croaks, voice cracked from having not drank from the tap in a few hours, due to the fact that the prices of bottled water had skyrocketed overnight, and the hospital plumbing had been turned off. "Dad, we gotta go now."

There's no response. There hadn't been since the day the man had been injured in the line of duty.

"Baby," He feels his mother's warmer hands on the back of his neck, soothing his tremble of anxiety. "We've got to go home and pack now. We're going to go stay with Grandma and Grandpa. Would you like that?"

But not even the promise of his grandmother's cooking or his grandfather's amazing stories of adventure could stop the tears that flowed at the thought of leaving his dad.

"No," He begs, those blue eyes, like his father's, leaking tears of fear; fear that Lori had never wanted to see in her little boy's eyes. There's nothing she can do.

_

They had stayed too long here. Far too long. The boy realizes it when the gun is pointed at the innocents, and the man hidden behind the barrel demands they line up, facing the wall with their hands behind their heads.

They are stripping people of everything they own. Jewelry, wallets, stray coins and watches. It doesn't matter what it is, it is going in their bucket.

"Listen," his mother tells him, "do as they say, Carl."

So he takes off his plastic Spiderman watch he'd gotten, only 2 months ago, for his birthday, and drops it in the bucket.

His throat aches with unshed tears, but his hands find their way to the hair on the back of his head, and he doesn't dare remove them until the men with the guns say he can.

_

Shane comes. Oh, how he loves Shane as he shoves through the crowds of army men with his officer's badge, and guides them away, away from all the chaos.

But, dad's still asleep. It's time to go.

_

Knowing his dad is dead doesn't hurt very much the moment he hears it, but the more he sits in the back of Shane's truck, settled beside bags of clothes and photo albums, the more it sinks in, and the more he starts to cry.

They haven't moved in traffic for ten minutes now, and people are getting out of their cars and yelling, shouting. A few cars ahead, a fistfight has broken out between two young men, but he tries not to look at it.

Everyone's acting like animals, running for Atlanta, for the city with the bases and the camps set up in the streets, ready to help people.

The radio told everyone to go to Atlanta, go to the city, and everyone does as they are told, being herded like sheep.

_

Carl smells it first, a new smell he doesn't think he'd ever smelt before, but he recoils from it nevertheless, clapping his hand over his nose and mouth to block it out.

"God, what is that," His mother says, but Shane's already turning the car back on.

It's smoke with a bad fuel. No, he has smelt it before, hasn't he? Vague memories of a camping trip surface in his mind, when one of his cousins, who'd been playing with matches while the adults weren't looking, had singed his hair.

A gag rises in the back of his throat as the smell grows more pungent. Cars are pulling away, off roading to go back, to get away from the stench. They are honking, and people are running away from the source of the fire; the city.

The first bomb drops on Atlanta at that moment, illuminating the dark, dusk sky, before their very eyes. Someone to their left rear-ends another car. People begin to scream and run. Shane revves through a gap that forms between two cars, and the bump of the gutter bounces the car roughly, jarring Carl into a silent panic.

The city is burning, and so are people.