of monsters and men - carl grimes

VI

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳✧༚ trigger warning ˚✧₊⁎⁺˳✧༚
slurs that have now been reclaimed
by the lgbtq+ community

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vi.

i remember everything
"strange words come on out of a grown man's mouth when his mind's broke"

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I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, heart pounding against my rib cage as I clutch desperately at my bedsheets.

The nightmare slips away almost instantly, but the feeling lingers—the terror, the helplessness. Images of blood, screams, flashes of Glenn and Abraham's faces, the sound of bones breaking under Negan's bat. It's all still there, hanging in the corners of my mind, refusing to let go.

I sit up. It's the middle of the night, the house is dead silent. I glance at the clock, red numbers glowing back at me. 1:47 a.m. There's no going back to sleep. Not after that.

I need to get out.

I grab my boots, throw on a hoodie, and slip out the door as quietly as I can. The air outside is cool, a little damp, but it does nothing to clear my head. I shove my hands in my pockets, my steps automatically taking me toward the one person I know might still be awake.

Adam.

I can't shut my brain off. He'll get it.

I head to Ron's old house. It's strange to think about, how much has changed. How the people you used to know aren't there anymore. And how someone else just steps in, fills the space they left behind.

When I get to the front door, it's unlocked. Not exactly a surprise. I let myself in and the first thing I notice is the faint sound of music playing. Low, scratchy, like it's coming from an old record player. That, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol.

I find Adam sprawled out on the rug in the living room, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding a bottle of vodka. His eyes are closed, but I can tell by the way his lips twitch when I walk in that he knows I'm here. He doesn't even bother looking up. Just takes a slow sip from the bottle, the liquid catching the light as he tilts it back.

"Must've found Ron's dad's stash. Kept them hidden in the top of the laundry room cupboard." He says, voice loose, like we're having a conversation about the weather. He holds the bottle out toward me without opening his eyes. "You want a sip?"

I hesitate for a second, then step further into the room, kicking the door shut behind me. I make my way over, crouching down beside him, taking the bottle from him. The glass is cool in my palm. I stare at it for a second, then take a quick swig, the vodka burning its way down my throat.

It doesn't help. But the heat of it coursing through me almost feels good.

I drop down next to him, leaning against the couch. Listening to the record crackle as some old song I don't recognize spins lazily in the background. I steal a glance at Adam. He's staring at the ceiling, his expression flat, distant. Then his gaze flicks to me and the bottle settled between my calloused hands.

"Didn't figure you for a drinker." Adam says, a faint smirk on his lips.

"Didn't think you were, either." I reply, handing it back to him and he laughs but there's no humor to it.

We remain in silence for a while, the music filling the space between us. I don't know what to say, don't know how to start. So I just sit there, watching him, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers grip the neck of the bottle. The murky purple hollows beneath his eyes, the chapped edges of his lips.