follow you into the dark - carl grimes

XII

xii.

the very thought of you
"and i forget to do what i'm supposed to"

♱

I try to settle into life in Alexandria.

But that's the thing.

Life.

Life and I are not exactly compatible.

I have the urge to hide. I shrink behind Carl everywhere we go. Head down. Mask on tight. I get a lot of looks at first. Confusion, at first. And then sympathy once they hear I had an accident.

I'm given chores. Carl isn't. I know this upsets him because he's clearly more than capable and yet they treat him like he isn't. They treat him like he's broken, like he's helpless. It kills him. He was a prideful boy before all this. It's like they've stripped him of every last inch of his dignity.

So, when I cut firewood, he stacks it. When I wash dishes, he dries. We fold laundry together and peel potatoes for dinner and it's like the weight lifts a little. When his hands are busy, it's like he forgets he can't see what he's doing. Muscle memory, maybe.

It's funny how when I first met him, he liked to pretend to be annoyed with me. But now he encourages my stories and my chatting. Doesn't mind that it's muffled behind the mask.

I watch the way his jaw moves when he chews dried fruit, the way his lashes flutter when the wind shifts. He's so breakable. And he never flinches when I touch him. Never asks why my hands stay cold, even by the fire.

In the evenings, after the sun has sunken behind the trees and all the day's work has been done, he puts his head in my lap while I read to him. This isn't a favorable sight for his father but Carl can't see the glares Rick gives us and maybe Carl wouldn't even care if he could.

And at night, I slip into his bed after everyone else has retired to their own. His fingers trace my skin and pull me close, wrapping me up with his warmth. He breathes against me, nose against my collarbone, a tangle of limbs. And we fall asleep that way.

His skin's so soft in places. The curve of his neck, the inside of his wrists. I can smell salt and sugar on him. It's fucking delicious. My stomach knots with it. Not hunger. No, not that. Something more sacred. I want to put my mouth against his throat and listen. I want to press my ear to his chest and hear the ocean of his life crashing against bone. Just press there. Feel the blood thunder. Pretend it belongs to me.

Once, he bled, some tender accident getting into bed, the edge of his foot slit open. I had to turn away. The smell of it lit something behind my ribs, something cruel and red. I dug my nails into the sheets and bit down on my own knuckles just to taste something that wasn't him.

I used to think hunger was a thing you could satisfy. But this? This is the kind that lives behind your eyes. The kind that follows you into sleep and wakes you with the taste of someone else's name in your mouth.

We spend almost every second together. But somehow it sort of feels like it isn't enough.

More and more, I feel like I'm slipping.

More and more, the guilt that's been like lead in my gut builds.

More and more, I think there's something about Carl Grimes I don't even have the words to explain even if I tried.

And as he dreams, the rose hued flesh of his sweet skin presses closer to the lifeless dead silvery white shade of mine. Like he doesn't mind the cold. Like I'm worth the trouble. Like maybe he thinks there's something about me, too.