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“Get the hell away from me.” Ron snapped, pulling away from Carl’s touch to raise his arms in front of himself like an injured stray. Biting and snapping for no reason other than fear.
Carl didn’t say anything back, there was nothing he could say that would change Ron’s mind. Why did he even care? Ron shot his eye out trying to kill his dad, he should hate him, why didn’t he? Why was he here, trying to tend to his wounds?
He hated that he cared about the blonde bastard, but he knew he wouldn’t — rather couldn’t — stop himself.
Carl slowly grabbed a rolled up bundle of gauze and snag resistant pads from the first aid kid, not breaking eye contact. Moving so precise and careful like someone trying to feed a beat up alley cat by hand, showing Ron he’s not here to hurt him. He’s not a threat.
Carl nodded subtly, trying to convey that message as he placed a hand on Ron’s lifted one, covering his face. Slowly and hesitantly he let it be dragged down and placed by his side.
Carl slid his hands down to Ron’s waist, gripping at the hem at the bottom of his off white t-shirt — his usual second layer of a severely unwashed brown button up flannel forgotten on the floor already — lifting it inch by inch until he managed to pull it off the blondes torso. On instinct Ron wrapped his arms around his chest and stomach, trying to protect himself. Ironically, a look of pain flashed across his face as he grit his teeth. The wound on his chest bending at an odd angle from his laced arms.
Carl wanted to say something, anything to lighten the mood, but jumping into a sense of comfort — even if it was false, no, especially if it was false — would do nothing but scare Ron away, make him shrink back and hold his hands up in defense at the falsehood. It made Carl sick to see him like that. He knows why. The thought of anybody — especially Pete — his dad, the man that was supposed to protect him, hurting Ron, made him unreasonably angry. He is still in shock at the fact he cares. He should be at home changing his own bandages, or practicing PT, to try and live whatever kind of normal life he could have now after what Ron did, but instead he was here. For god knows why. Cause Carl sure didn’t. Neither did Ron for that matter.
He grabbed at the frayed edges of the bandage, with Jessie gone, there was no one to look after Ron, no one to remind him to change his bandages, or to eat, sleep, brush his teeth, change his clothes, shower, what time to start getting ready for bed, Ron had no one. And maybe that’s why Carl was here. He could relate to that — being all alone in the middle of a god damn apocalypse. Maybe that’s all it was.
Back to the task at hand. The reason he was there in the first place. Pulling back on the bandage, slowly at first, he realized ‘slow’ definitely wasn’t the way to go. The blood and puss had dried, crusted itself against the gauze, gluing itself to Ron’s skin, both injured and not.
Carl looked around hastily, settling his eyes on a rolled up towel. It wasn’t the best thing he could have used, but it was the bathroom, so there weren’t exactly a lot of better options.
“Squeeze it,” he said, grabbing the fabric and handing it to Ron “this is gonna hurt.”
Ron complied, grabbing it with a small nod, noticeably hardening his face and squeezing his eyes shut to prepare for the pain.
And Carl wanted to get it over with, too. But with Ron’s eyes closed he could study him without a “what the hell are you looking at”. And obviously he had virtually no choice other than to take advantage of that. He stared, they were sitting in what was the Anderson’s, now only Ron’s bathroom, so it’s not like there was anybody around to question his most definitely questionable action.
Even with his face scrunched up, still dirty, and hair greasy and all over the place, Ron Anderson was still gorgeous. Unreasonably so. He had a few freckles here and there — if he had gone out in the sun more lately he would have a whole galaxy of them — and a small mole just below his left collarbone. His hair had gotten shaggier, now almost back to how it was when they first met with the lack of haircuts. He had a pimple or two, likely from the dirt and grime that had built up on his face, and some acne scarring from past ones he probably couldn’t help but scratch and pick at. His jaw had a little bit of stubble on it, not much, but enough it would stab Carl if he touched Ron’s face, which he wanted to do horrendously bad.
His train of thought was snapped in half in less than a second as a previously squinted hazel eye peeked open, sending Carl back into autopilot and ripping the gauze clean off.
It was gross, disgusting even. Parts of the scab had ripped off and were beginning to leak drops of blood, those drops turned into miniature steady flows of their own. Carl grabbed a roll of toilet paper and unraveled some around his hand, crushing it into a thick pad before pressing it against Ron’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding.
It wasn’t a lot, but Carl didn’t care. He didn’t want Ron to bleed, at any capacity. The excuse for physical contact was just a bonus.
In the background of his thoughts he could hear Ron cursing and groaning — which wasn’t unreasonable considering his current state.
A couple seconds passed, a couple seconds turned into fifteen, which turned into thirty, which turned into a full minute before Carl pulled the wad of toilet paper away, inspecting the amount of blood that seeped into it before focusing on the actual wound it came from. The bleeding seem to have stopped, which was obviously good.
Carl stood up from the bathroom floor he was hunched on and walked the couple steps over to the sink, lathering his hands in soap just incase any blood had made it through the awfully thin toilet paper and onto his hands before doing anything else. Even though it was Ron’s own blood he doubted it would be extremely unsanitary or anything, but one; he never took any chances and two; the idea of Ron’s blood quite literally on his hands wasn’t something he felt like he could stomach.
Ron just sat there, awkward and exposed, letting himself be taken care of — by a boy who should hate him — for the first time in what felt like and probably was literal years.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, not moving his eyes from their blurred state, staring at utterly nothing.
Carl shrugged, before looking over at Ron and realizing he most likely didn’t see that.
“You won’t do it, someone has to.”
“But why? You should hate me,” a pause “Why don’t you hate me?” the tears started to well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over with every syllable he managed to choke out. Why was he getting so emotional?
“I know, I should. Frankly, I don’t really know why I don’t.” it wasn’t comforting, but it was the truth. Maybe Carl should have lied, chosen to comfort Ron over telling it, maybe that’s what he needed.
No, Carl thought, Ron would be more pissed if he had chosen to comfort him. He always preferred the truth, that was something Carl figured out about him early on. They were similar in that aspect.
Ron didn’t reply, just sniffed and wiped away unmentioned tears, both of them knowing he would deny them if they were mentioned.
“I’m gonna put some antibiotics on it, okay?” Carl stated, not really waiting for a response, moreso warning Ron before he squeezed some of the ointment onto his finger, spreading it over the expanse of the wound as best he could before it completely melted against hot flesh.
Anyone could see how hard Ron was trying not to scream and cry. Carl knows that it’s painful, especially with how far gone the wound is and on no pain meds. Ironically, again, he hated seeing Ron in pain, hated even more to be the one putting him through it, but it had to be done unfortunately, or else the wound would worsen and worsen and get infected. And Carl’s rampant, overthinking mind, worried about a wound infection so close to his heart.
“Ouch! Jesus — shit, man. Give me a better warning next time.” Ron snapped.
“Don’t try to kill my dad, next time.” he couldn’t help but retort, literally out of nowhere, god his emotions were fuckin’ everywhere. He knew Ron was in pain, and snapping was just a result of that. But he wasn’t the only one, and Carl’s own made him snap right back. Definitely seemed to shut Ron up, though. Because of instead of snapping at Carl again, his mouth just snapped closed.
After a second though, Carl felt bad. They were both hurting but Ron’s was worse at that moment, not overall definitely, considering he still had his full vision, but with how gorey and gross it was, his pain would naturally be worse over the next couple days.
“…Sorry.” Carl muttered, closing in on himself like Ron always did. Why did he mimick him?
He needed to move on, to just keep going. Get out of his head. So he grabbed the clean gauze and pressed them to Ron’s chest, other hand grabbing a fabric-like wrap and some medical tape. Carl ripped off a piece of tape with his teeth, not practical but it worked. He lined it up with the edges of the clean gauze, starting with the top so it would stay, then to the bottom, then the left, then the right. He looked at it, studied it for a bit, asking Ron to raise his left arm as much as he could manage so Carl could make sure it was completely secure before he moved onto Ron’s back, the entrance wound.
It was basically a repeat, ripping off long soiled bandages, stopping a little blood flow, putting on antibiotic ointment, and covering with gauze. Though there was far less comments this time around. Which Carl couldn’t decipher if he was grateful for or not.
“Okay, keep your arm raised, and lift your other one too.”
Ron just nodded, again.
Carl unwrapped the bandage, now. It’s full length being about three and a half feet. He placed one side in the middle of Ron’s chest, so if it ever came undone or shifted it would be easier for him to fix, and worked his way around the blonde’s torso.
It was an awkward angle, with Ron sitting on the toilet seat, but Carl didn’t want to ask him to move, so he stood up and walked around Ron in a sort of half-circle, reaching around in an awkward almost hug when he was stopped by the toilet bowl, there were definitely better ways to do this. He hooked the end, and once again, studied it for a minute or two, asking Ron to move his arms up and side to side to make sure it wouldn’t fall off. Surprisingly, he seemed to have done a good job.
“Alright, done.” he said, a sense of finality in his voice as he collected the trash. He didn’t want to leave, not really, but there was no excuse anymore, no logic, no reason behind that want, and if Carl couldn’t explain it then he figured it would be easy to ignore it.
Unbeknownst to him, Ron didn’t want Carl to leave either. He had been by himself for days, probably weeks. Sure it was weird being around someone again, but he craved human interaction, especially if it was Carl’s. He shouldn’t crave him like he does. Especially not after what he did. But he does, and he’s miserable with it.
If he could, he would travel back to when they first met in a heart beat. When it was so simple, when they were able to sit and read comics together or rewatch old movie DVD’s found on runs and laugh at them no matter how many times they already saw it. When Ron’s only problem with his and Carl’s relationship was what they were. Not whatever the hell it was now. Carl wasn’t here anymore to read comics and watch movies, to hang out with a friend, or whatever it was they were. He was here out of pity. Just like he said, no one else had come to check on Ron, so Carl did, because that’s the kind of person he is, even though Ron literally crippled him Carl took fucking pity on him and crouched on his knees on a dirty bathroom floor taking care of his wounds.
Ron hated pity. He was given it his entire life, people pitying him for what his father was like, for what his father did. But now he couldn’t bring himself to hate it, at first he did, when he saw that all to familiar look in Carl’s eye when he first opened the front door earlier, he wanted to scream. But now, he knew it was all he deserved, nothing more than thoughtless pity. Carl was likely the only one who would show him even that, he knew damn well what was left of the residents in Alexandria wouldn’t show him anything short of hatred. Especially Rick, even moreso Michonne. If Enid was there she probably wouldn’t even spare him a glance.
He didn’t want Carl to leave. He craved to be alone, to drown and suffocate in his own misery, but another part of him, a louder part, craved Carl. His presence, his laugh, his smile, his scowl, his scarily bright blue eyes, he wanted it all. Needed it, even. Possibly more than he needed his damn bandages changed.
And Ron Anderson wasn’t weak, far from it, but the way Carl looked up at him almost made Ron believe there was some sort of god out there that didn’t fully hate him yet. Ron Anderson was strong, but for Carl motherfuckin’ Grimes of all people, for Carl Grimes he was weak. Pathetic even. He sure felt like he was after;
“Hey… hey uh, Carl?” he inquired, only to get no response. Ron almost swallowed the rest of his dignity and would settle for silence. But Ron was stubborn, he wasn’t giving up that easy.
“Carl?” he questioned again, tilting his head to the side and a little bit closer, a look of concern, almost panic, maybe. Thinking maybe Carl had finally come to his senses and realized Ron wasn’t worth any of this, that he was going to get up and leave, never coming back. Ron couldn’t blame him, honestly.
“Huh, what?” he seemed to have ‘snapped out’ of whatever state he was in “What’s up, man? You alright?”
Moment of truth.
But maybe not. If he did this, Carl might laugh in his face. Tell Rick all about how pathetic he is, convince Rick to kick him out already unlike how just weeks ago he was begging Rick to let him stay. So many ‘buts’ accompanied by ‘what ifs’ clouded his head, stirring up all the dirt that had settled at the bottom to make it all murky again. Ron felt like he was going insane, why would he even want that? So much had happened over the past couple weeks, it was all just fucking with his emotions. That was the only logical explanation.
“Dude, c’mon, you make me answer and then you get to go all silent?” Carl said in a strangely friendly, familiar, tone, and looking up for a brief moment, away from the first aid kit he was repacking so intently.
“Nah, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it, man.” Ron attempted to vacate the topic, he shouldn’t be trusted with speaking privileges anymore.
“Don’t lie to me, I’m not gonna offended if the bandages are like, uncomfortable or something, I just needa know.”
Fuck Carl and his stupid ‘I care’ act.
“No, it’s — it’s fine. It feels fine .” he was doomed. Done for. “I was just gonna ask if you like, wanted to read some comics or something. You know, for old times sake… I just mean since you’re already here you know — wouldn’t want you to have come down here for nothing.” he nervously laughed out.
May god strike him down already.
Carl stayed silent for a good, solid couple of seconds. And Ron practically went through the five stages of grief during it.
“It’s fine if not, man.” he started “just forget I said anything.”
He felt that stupid burning feeling in his throat again, it made him choke back tears that threatened to roll down his cheeks unforgivingly.
“Yes — yeah, sure.”
What.
“What.”
Did he say that out loud?
“I mean sure, man, I’ll read some comics with you. Got any new ones?” Carl asked, closing the now reorganized first aid kit and standing up, resting the case on the sink and extending a hand for Ron to Carl.
“Oh — uh, yeah. I got another Spider-Man one, one about Moonknight, and I even found my old Deadpool mutant comic.”
So? Call him childish, god forbid a man has a hobby.
“Awesome, dude.” Carl replied awkwardly.
Ron debated taking his hand, he couldn’t decide if taking the help was admitting he was weaker, or admitting friendship. Before he could decide, though, Carl had already taken back his hand, fiddling absentmindedly with the other one until Ron stood up and shifted around him, out the door and towards his bed room.
It didn’t matter where they were, really. It’s not like anybody was home to interrupt them or anything. Not his mom asking if they wanted snacks, not Sam pleading to be included, not his mom standing next to Sam trying to get Ron to include his little brother. God, if he could, Ron would let Sam share his damn room with him now, never leaving his side. But he couldn’t anymore. Because it was to late. Sammy, his mom, his dad. Everybody. Everybody was gone. His entire family. Things were hard before, but now that he was all alone it was insufferable. Everyday was a miserable reminder of how he was destined to be alone, he didn’t deserve a family, and his mom and brother had suffered because of it.
Ron wasn’t religious, but when things got really bad he would yell up at the sky, talking to some higher deity, blaming it for his miserable life. He would ask why, why it wasn’t him that died that day. Why was the only one spared? He pleaded to swap places with them, give them another chance. Everyday he woke up still breathing just confirmed to him, God was a lie.
“Ron? You good, man?”
Shit. He was crying. Again. Of course he was fucking crying. His dad was right, calling him a crybaby.
“Yeah — no dude I’m good.” he sniffed, going to dry his eyes on his sleeve when he realized; he wasn’t wearing a god damn shirt. Ah fuck.
Score, though. He found his comics. Ron’s room was a bit of a mess, so he honestly didn’t expect to find them so easy.
“Hell yeah, here ya go, take your pick Grimes.” he said, a half forced smile on his face and a sniff as he stuck the bin of comics out towards Carl.
Ron sat down on his bed, Carl on the beanbag chair, he felt it would be to awkward to sit next to Ron.
The two passed comics back and forth, laughing at the shitty or cringey ones, dissing on each others favorites, Ron even let Carl borrow some of his Moon Knight comics.
Ron was hunched over the bed, Carl leaning up on the bean bag so they could read a comic together.
“Do you wanna come sit up here?” Ron asked, very obviously without thinking, because the rooms atmosphere immediately went tense again. Just as it was finally starting to unwind, too. Good job Ron.
“Sure.” Carl replied, also very obviously not thinking. He stood up awkwardly, shuffling in his boots over to sit a good foot away from Ron on the bed, stiffly holding the comic back out between them.
There wasn’t anymore laughing or reading back and forth to each other. Just long, uncomfortable silence. Carl hated silences like that, and he knew Ron did to.
“So…” he started, reaching a hand up to fiddle with the front of his dad’s sheriff hat.
“Uh, so…”
God. Why were conversations so difficult.
Carl made the grave mistake of looking over at Ron, really looking at him. Somehow even deeper than when he was changing the blonde’s bandages. He was studying his face like he was seeing it for the first time all over again. Memorizing every little detail, filing it away in Ron’s own corner of Carl’s brain.
Until Ron looked back. Carl should have looked away. Why didn’t he just look away?
Hazel eyes slowly shifted up to meet Carl’s blue ones, they looked like the forest, before the apocalypse, anyway. Green mixing with amber in a combination so hypnotic Carl knew he could stare into them forever and never get lonely.
He moved an inch closer, just a small shuffle, nothing dramatic that would frighten Ron, but enough to let him know he wanted to be there. And also just because he craved to be as close to Ron as physically possible. But that wasn’t important.
What he didn’t expect, though, was for Ron to move closer to. Possibly even farther than Carl had.
Carl broke eye contact, it was to tense to look Ron in the face. Instead, he focused elsewhere. Ron still didn’t have a shirt on. Which would have been awkward in virtually any other situation. Carl had never seen him in anything less than a baggy button up and raggedy, torn up jeans. He wasn’t paying sole attention to the gash anymore, thankfully and unthankfully. Carl noticed his left shoulder, the discoloration on it, the darkened veins.
He wanted to reach his hand out, drag his fingers down it, and apparently he did, because when Ron’s breath hitched he realized his hand was in fact on the other’s shoulder.
Carl looked up, meeting Ron’s eyes once again. He thought he had seen all of Ron’s emotions, but there was something mixed in his eyes that Carl couldn’t come up with. But nothing in it told him to stop, or Ron would have shoved him off or tensed up by now. But no, he was…relaxed? Something along those lines. Had he taken some sort of muscle relaxing pain med? Were those even a thing? Would he even be able to find them? Probably not, actually.
Carl trailed his fingers across Ron’s shoulder, the skin didn’t feel to different, a little rougher, but nothing extreme, not on the outside at least. He made his way down past Ron’s biceps to his elbow to his forearm, almost chickening out when he reached his hand. Almost.
His fingers grazed the back of Ron’s hand that still rest on the bed. Or it did, anyway, until Carl picked it up and flipped it over.
He didn’t really know what his deal was, or what he was even doing. He traced along Ron’s palm, slowly gliding his down to meet it, just barely resting them on top of each other, almost like he were comparing hand sizes.
It felt like an eternity before their fingers interlaced. It felt strikingly similar to how Carl thought it would. Ron’s hands were surprisingly soft, delicate even, though his palm was still barely scratched with the scrapes of the ground when he fell of Michonne’s katana. It felt strangely right. Like holding hands with Enid, almost. But this wasn’t Enid. This was Ron. And for some unknown reason that made it better.
Instead of his fingers this time, he trailed his eyes back up to Ron’s face, who looked just as confused but just as comfortable as Carl felt.
Carl couldn’t help but admire his face again, he was only human after all. His eyes locked on Ron’s lips this time, though. Out of all the things he loved — liked about Ron, his lips were arguably one of his favorite features. He loved the way Ron smiled, how you could always see in his eyes when he was happy, the way his cupids bow curled whenever his lips would curve into that damned smile that Carl thought about for hours. It was evil. More evil how bad he wanted to kiss him. Slightly, maybe just a bit more evil that Ron had accidentally hit his eye of all things, so now Carl had to face a bit to the right to fully capture his face.
“Can I kiss you?” he muttered, breathlessly.
It felt weird not to ask. Now seemed like the proper time, anyway. Carl didn’t even know why he wanted to, he just knew if he didn’t he would fall to the floor and die.
“Please.” was not the answer Carl was expecting, but he would definitely accept it.
He would have kissed him like in the movies, fast and quick like he just couldn’t wait. And the truth was; he honestly didn’t feel like he could. But he would make himself. He was going to enjoy this. To savor every last second of it.
Carl leaned forward with the same speed of a slug, looking between Ron’s eyes and his lips, scanning for any sign of hesitation, fear, any hint that he didn’t want to be doing this, really. His dad’s sheriff hat hit Ron’s forehead when they got close enough, making them both stop a second to laugh while Carl made use of his other hand and took it off before moving it to Ron’s waist, the burning skin of his torso felt like a hot iron, and honestly Carl didn’t hate it.
Finally, barely a couple seconds later did their lips meet. Carl had read the stories, seen the movies, they all describe your first kiss as the world stopping, or fireworks going off. The fireworks were correct, but the whole world didn’t stop, it spun, faster and faster with each press of their lips against each other, making him dizzy.
Carl leaned back a few moments later, he needed to see Ron’s face, he knew that good or bad this moment would be engraved on the backs of his eyelids — or eyelid — for the rest of his life, however long that may be.
Something he didn’t expect, but welcomed profusely was Ron’s smile. Ron was smiling. Ron was smiling because Carl kissed him. Holy shit. Ron Anderson was smiling because Carl Grimes kissed him. Ron Anderson was reaching a hand up and cupping Carl’s face in it, looking at him with such a soft, gentle expression Carl almost evaporated in that moment.
Now he would let himself be a cliche. Carl practically lunged forward, smashing their lips together again with all the pent up emotions he’d been storing for months on end. And Ron kissed him back just as eagerly, tilting his head to the side to deepen it, even.
Carl was sad to feel their hands separate, but that feeling faded as quickly as it came when it repositioned itself on Carl’s shoulder, the other still cradling his face. He struggled with where to put his other hand for a second, Ron had his hands in separate places, should Carl to? Or would both on his waist be fine. Yeah, that would be fine.
They kissed for what Carl considered to be to short, not that he wasn’t happy to see Ron again, he had just finally realized why he had been so weird about Ron for so many months, and needed to express that. But if Ron wanted to wait, he could wait.
Thankfully, though, it seems Ron didn’t want to wait after all, because one blink later and Ron was sitting up, shifting one leg over Carl’s until he was hovering above him. Carl briefly worried about Ron losing balance and falling, so he tightened his grip on Ron’s waist just a bit, not enough to hurt him. God, he would never want to hurt him. Words could not describe how much Carl loved this. He needed Ron close to him. Needed them to morph into one and all that romantic bullshit, he understood it now. If he ever got separated from Ron he genuinely believes in that moment he would cry.
Carl moved his head up ever so slightly, and Ron got the hint to lean back down and kiss him again, and he did it with a smile, that was what made it so great. How happy Ron was because of this.
The two just kissed and kissed until their lips were kiss bitten and swollen red, it was fucking magnificent.
Carl grabbed onto Ron firmly, rocketing himself backwards to lay down on the bed, careful to make sure Ron didn’t fall as he landed beside him, laughing, fucking laughing. It was a genuine miracle to see Ron so happy.
“Well, I guess this explains why I’ve been so weird about you.” Carl said, a laugh of his own breaking through.
“Ditto.” was all Ron said, and honestly he didn’t really need to say more.
They laid on top of Ron’s covers, without AC it was to hot for a blanket anyway, plus, with Ron basically being a portable heater with how much body heat he produced, Carl couldn’t ever really see the appeal of using a blanket again.
Carl messed and played with Ron’s hair, running his other hand up and down Ron’s back. Said blonde laid close-eyed on Carl’s chest, breathing long and steady with his arms snaked around the other’s torso, holding him like he might disappear if he let go for even a second.
It was perfect. Not in any movie way, but for Carl it was more than he could have ever dreamed of.