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Sometimes Carl really hated his dad. 'Bond with him' he had said, 'you need more friends' he had chastised. Carl had Sophia and Enid, and that's all he needed, he didn't need Ron and all his stupidly floppy hair and shit aim to be his friend. He didn't need to interact with Ron, period, sure he had apologized profusely, only a couple hundred times every day it feels like, about shooting his eye out, had practically begged his dad on his hands and knees for forgiveness, and in the end, Carl chose to keep him alive, because he's trying to be nicer, and now he's beginning to regret ever trying to be nice to this kid at all.
Now he's stuck out in the middle of nowhere with fucking Ron, and it's all his goddamn fault. Ron who had dragged him away from the herd out of fear, away from his dad and Glenn who they were supposed to be on the run with, since his dad would never let him leave the walls alone or with anyone that wasn't a trusted member of the 'inner circle.' But now he's crouched down in a locked closet in some grocery store with Ron's bony knees stabbing into his back as he shakes behind him. Carl had told his dad that Ron would be shit out here, he could barely fire a gun despite his training, and he was scared of shooting walkers, he was practically useless, but Ron demanded to be let out of the walls, wanting the practice.
There's no one to tell him no anymore. His dad is dead, and his brother and mom too. He had no one left and Tara had to be the one to reluctantly take him in after Carl chose to spare his life, thinking that Ron would never do something like that again, and he hasn't, he doesn't ever talk to Carl unless it's to apologize or make amends, but he does stare at him like he wants to say something, a lot. It's unsettling. Carl hates it and Carl hates him, hates his knees digging into his spine and the sound of his harsh labored breathing after he got them stuck in this situation, after he pulled Carl away from the herd and his dad and protection from people who loved him and would protect them both.
"Ron. For the love of Christ, get your knees out of my back," Ron startles at Carl's harsh tone and flinches, he moves awkwardly to try and free himself from the wall and Carl's back, and he gives the other boy some relief by scooting forward, shoving some boxes as hard as he can until they move and they have more space. They're facing each other now, their boots touching each other on the linoleum tiles.
"Where even are we?" Ron asks suddenly, and Carl levels him with a glare that has Ron quickly looking away. Carl hates this fucking guy. He pulls off his sunglasses and rubs the scar above his eye, he didn't need bandages anymore, hadn't for a long time, and he didn't want to waste the bandage supplies just covering his eye, but he also didn't like the idea of an eyepatch as it reminded him too much of the governor. But one day Sophia had come back from a run with Rosita and brought him about 20 sunglasses to choose from, and he picked an oversized pair and popped out the lens that covered his good eye. Now they just cover the missing eye and scar decently well, but nothing covers the scarring on the side of his head and the fact he's missing an ear, and Carl doesn't really want to anymore.
"Grocery store, guessing their janitor's closet," Carl smacks a hanging mop and watches it tilt back and forth unsteadily, he slides his glasses back on, ignoring the way Ron was unabashedly staring at the scar. He supposes he should be angrier, he should hate Ron, resent him, and want him dead for the things he did to him, maybe even take out one of his eyes as some form of revenge. But Carl's not angry, and he doesn't know if he ever was, at least not at Ron. Maybe he's angrier at himself, for trusting Ron in the first place, for teaching him to use a gun, for not realizing that Ron's petty hatred of him would grow into something more serious after his dad killed Ron's.
"When can we leave?" Ron asked.
"I don't fucking know Ron. You were the one who led a whole herd to the store by firing your gun at them twenty fucking times," Ron's gun is out of bullets, and all they have is Carl's small gun and the red-handled machete that his dad lets him use now. Carl's not that good of a shot anymore, not like he used to be, but he'll never admit that and he thinks he has too much pride to ever let Ron touch his gun and fire for him.
"I'm sorry, okay. I freaked out," Ron ran a sweaty hand over his face, sighing deeply. Carl only felt a little bit guilty about being so mean.
"At least this time you didn't shoot somebodies eye out," Carl deadpanned, and they both looked at each other, and Ron must have detected a hint of amusement on Carl's face that he didn't know was there, because Ron snorts.
"Yeah, well. Let's call that progress. I'll tell Denise about it in fucking therapy," Ron scoffed. Carl raised an eyebrow at him.
"Therapy?" He asked.
"Uh yeah. That was part of Denise and Tara's agreement for me to live with them, I have to go to therapy once a week to work out my 'deep-seated issues'" He put the last bit in quotes and Carl rolled his eye.
"Don't say it like isn't true," Carl remarked.
"What? That I have deep-seated issues?" Ron asked.
"Obviously."
"You're one to talk," Ron scoffed and Carl rolled his eye again. Carl knows he has issues, he murdered his mom for Christ's sake, he shot his godfather, and watched countless of his friends die. But he's not as fucked up as Ron, he's never shot out anybody's eye.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Carl snarled.
"That you have issues! We all do, and if you say you don't you're a fucking liar 'cause I know you do," Ron shrugged like it was just life, leaned up against the wall, and pulled out his gun. He popped the chamber and checked for bullets like they would magically appear before popping it back in and setting it in his lap.
"Yeah, Ron? What are my fucking issues?" He spits.
"Well. You have mommy issues worse than me man—" Before Carl can help it he finds himself halfway across the room, hand balled in the collar of Ron's stupid fucking sweater, the fabric itching his skin as he shoves him against the wall, his legs falls around Ron's awkwardly.
"Do not fucking talk about my mom," Carl snarls into his face, and he sees that Ron is actually afraid of him, his eyes wide and lips parted in a small 'o'. Carl doesn't know what he's doing, shoving him into walls and threatening him, but Ron just breathes shakily in his face, and all he can smell is that damned orange juice they had this morning at community breakfast that Carol's hand squeezed for the 'kids'.
"I'm sorry. Really. I'm sorry," Ron says hastily, and he sounds genuinely apologetic, so Carl leans back a little, hand still gripping his shirt, and finds himself unsteady, he's half leaning on Ron's still crossed legs, and he feels his right leg slip from where it was, banging into the floor and sending Carl right down onto Ron, their skulls collide loudly and both of them curse wildly, Carl let's go of his shirt and slumps down on to the floor. But he realizes quickly he's not on the floor, he's on Ron's thighs, his hand on one of Ron's shoulders to steady himself, and when they both look up from their loud cursing their eyes meet. They had been this close just a second ago, but now it feels different, Carl isn't threatening him and Ron isn't flinching away in fear. It only occurs to Carl then that the reason why Ron was flinching away from him wasn't that he was necessarily afraid of Carl, but afraid of violence.
"You—" Carl chokes out. "You shouldn't be out here," Ron scoffs at him.
"And why is that Grimes?" He asks, tilting his head back as far as he can go, but it's not far at all from Carl's face, they're still mere inches apart, their hot breath on each other's faces, and they both smell like oranges and the vanilla shampoo that everyone uses.
"You're a shit shot," Carl says worriedly. "You don't like violence, you don't like firing and you don't like when my dad teaches you how to fight because you don't want to be violent, because you don't want to be like your dad," Carl is saying the first thing that comes to mind, as he realizes it all for the first time. Ron hadn't apologized hundreds of times to try and prove he was sorry, but because he felt he had to, because when his dad was around Ron had to apologize for everything, for every little thing he did wrong to avoid punishment, and even then he couldn't escape it sometimes. He didn't beg his dad for forgiveness out of fear of death or being exiled, but for fear of being hurt like Ron's dad had hurt him.
Carl never realized it, how Carl's hate must've felt to Ron like his dad's, how the way everyone shoulders past him or glares at him for hurting Carl and calls him violent under his breath must make Ron feel. How everyone avoids him must remind him of his dad, how the way everyone treats him, and how Carl treated him like a ticking time bomb just reminds him of how he's prone to violence, just like his dad.
"Carl..." Ron says sadly, and he moves up and goes to push Carl away by the shoulders, by Carl catches his wrist in his hand, he's thin, too thin, like Carl before he got to Alexandria.
"No. You're not... you're not violent Ron," and he scoffs.
"You and I both know that's not true," Ron remarks, staring at the place where Carl's ear should have been.
"It can be. You don't have to do this, I can tell you don't want to. You don't have to." Carl says earnestly, because he doesn't. Ron can work in the stables or the farm or just exist like any normal teen and do nothing all day. The group doesn't need any more people on runs, they have plenty.
"Yes, I do," Ron grits out.
"Why?" Carl asks feverishly.
"Because how else can I prove my worth? To anybody! To your fucking dad! Your dad isn't gonna think I was worth saving until I pull my fucking weight around here," Ron rambles, and it's so insane that Carl feels sick.
"You have nothing to prove. There's no weight to pull, no people you need to impress or make forgive you," Carl says softly.
"Except you," Ron closes his eyes, leaning his head back.
"I already forgave you," Carl whispered, and Ron's eyes snapped open, staring at him in wide-eyed confusion.
"Why?"
"Because you apologized," Carl said simply. "Because you've apologized every single day since it happened and you haven't shot anyone else, haven't gotten into any fights, because you didn't mean it, because I know what's it like to be so scared you do things you probably shouldn't do, to be so angry you just snap." He thinks of Shane, of his mom, of Dale on the ground, of everyone else they had lost along the way, of how he could've saved Tyreese if he had been just a little bit quicker. Ron's hand moves to his arm, holding it gently as he looks up at him, eyes a little glossy.
"I didn't know that," he says softly, and Carl huffs quietly, he's only holding himself up by his legs, still in Ron's lap, one hand still wrapped around his wrist, and he drops it softly, Ron's hand falling between them.
"I didn't want you to," Carl says honestly. It's quiet for a few moments, save for their heavy breathing, as they just stare at each other, something has shifted, but Carl doesn't think he knows exactly what it was, maybe it was Carl's hatred for him slowly fizzing away.
"Why do you do it then? You don't like violence, you don't want to be violent, why come on a run? Why risk your life trying to prove your worth?" Carl asks him seriously, and for the first time in what Carl realizes is a while, he sees Ron smile, nods a condescending one, or a mocking one, but a genuine soft smile up at him.
"Your dad wasn't the only person I was trying to impress," he whispers. Carl feels himself stiffen at the admission. Him. Ron was trying to impress him, prove his worth to him, prove he was useful to Carl.
"Why me?" Carl asks hastily.
"Because you're you. You're the most badass kid in this whole damn town, you survived out there. You're... you're just you, you know?" Ron asks sheepishly, and Carl shakes his head.
"I don't know. I'm not that impressive. No more than anyone else," Carl explains.
"Well you are to me," Ron admits, "you're impressive because your my age and you're so much... better at me than this. At first, I was jealous, because Enid found you cool and Enid doesn't find anyone cool, but I realized it was never about Enid, I just wanted to be like you for a little while, I wanted to do what you do without flinching when I hear a bullet or glass breaking or see someone fighting. I don't want to be you anymore, I just want to be... with you, want you to find me important enough to keep around."
"Fuck, Ron, no. You don't need to prove yourself to me. I already forgive you. You don't need to shoot guns and go on runs for me to think you're worth a damn, everyone is. You are worth it, without needing to be whatever you think of as useful." Carl explains. "Whether or not you farm or help build new houses or don't do anything, your still worth it," he says earnestly, and he doesn't know where it all came from, where all the care came from. Carl thinks of Ron pulling him away from the Herd out of fear, pulling Carl away instead of just running, in his most panicked moments, when he was probably remembering his mom and brother's deaths, he thought of Carl, of protecting Carl.
"Thanks for that. I don't... I don't want to go on runs. Staying inside doing nothing... sounds like exactly what I need right now?" Ron wipes at his eyes harshly, and it's only then Carl realized he was crying.
"No need to cry. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, man. Just live, alright, that's all any of us can do," Carl says, and he leans down between their legs to grab Ron's gun against his better judgment and he tosses it behind Carl, and Ron chuckles lightly.
"I didn't know you knew how to be nice Grimes, I don't know why we weren't friends sooner," Ron says cheekily, and Carl drops fully onto his lap this time just to listen to him groan in pain.
"I can think of quite a few reasons for that," Carl remarks. Ron snorts.
"I gave you a sick-ass scar. If anything that's more of a reason to be friends with me, really."
"Oh really?" Carl asks sarcastically, a small smile on his face.
"Yes really. Now every girl in Alexandria will be fawning over you," Ron says exaggeratedly, laughing to himself, but Carl sees something like hurt flash in his eyes, and Ron cocks his head to the side.
"I'm not interested in every girl in Alexandria." Ron hums in question. "Not interested in any girls at all actually."
He hadn't told anyone that, not even Sophia, but he feels like for some reason he can tell Ron. Who gaps at him like a fish before closing his mouth and smirking.
"Well that makes a lot of sense," Carl slapped his chest in offense.
"What the hell does that mean?" He responded.
"Nothing, just knew you had ulterior motives for all these times you pushed me into walls," he says cheekily. Carl can feel a blush covering his freckled face and he scoffs as quickly as he can, trying to play it off, but Ron is blushing too.
"You're easy to push up against walls," Carl remarks, hoping he doesn't sound as flustered as he feels, and Ron just smiles up at him again, all crooked.
"Oh, I am?" He grins.
"Yeah, man, see?" Carl shoves his shoulders just hard enough for Ron to really be pressed up against the wall, Carl still on his lap, pressing into him, their faces just centimeters apart. "That easy," Carl says breathlessly, and he feels his lips brush against the bridge of Ron's nose.
Then Ron is leaning up, and their lips are practically touching at this point anyways, so Carl thinks 'fuck it' and barely moves forward for them to be really kissing, just a press of dry lips to each other before Ron's hand immediately slides into Carl's hair at the nape of his neck like he had been just waiting to do that, and Carl sighs into his mouth as Ron deepens the kiss. Carl had never kissed anyone before, and he doesn't think Ron ever had either, but it was nice, sliding their lips together and running his hands over Ron's scratchy sweater and his soft cheek.
They pull back for a second, not needing the air bud needing to see each other, and Carl barely realized he had closed his eyes until he's opening them again and seeing Ron looking directly at him, holding him by the back of the neck to make Carl look at him.
"Can we keep kissing?" Ron asks sincerely.
"You need to take the sweater off," Carl deadpans.
"Excuse me?" Carl feels himself blush again and he throws his head into Ron's neck as Ron laughs above him. "If you wanted me naked just ask."
"You're disgusting," Carl mumbles petulantly into his neck before pulling back just a little. "Pervert."
"You're the one who said I needed to take my sweater off, Grimes," Ron laughed.
"Because it's scratchy, asshole!" And they're both laughing then, and Carl can't help but kiss him again, it's awkward and messy as they kiss between laughing at their own stupidity, but it's nice, and it makes Carl feel more normal than he has since the apocalypse started, it's the only thing that's made him feel his age in years.
"You hate it that much?" Ron asks when he pulls back.
"Yes. Now take it off I'll give you mine," Carl slides off his legs awkwardly and scoots across the floor to his backpack to retrieve a hoodie he packed just in case, whether he has a meltdown and need it or they get trapped out there he needs it for the night. He watches as Ron tears the sweater off of him, leaving him bare-chested in front of him, and Carl feels himself blush again.
"Here," he tosses the sweater at Ron and looks away, right at the wall as he listens to Ron laugh at him as he puts the sweatshirt on.
"This is your favorite sweatshirt," Ron observes, and Carl looks back at him. The sweatshirt was big on Carl as it was, it was his dad's sweatshirt he used to steal all the time as a kid and use as a blanket, it was something he took with him when they first left home, something he had made sure to always carry with him.
"Looks good on you," Carl chokes out, and Ron grins.
"Does that mean we can keep kissing?"
It does not mean they can keep kissing, as mere seconds later they hear his dad yelling their names in a panic, followed by Glenn also yelling for them, and they both yell back for them, and within seconds the door is being ripped open and Carl is in his dad's arms like he's a kid again, getting checked over for wounds even though he swears he's fine and he is, and they're all leaving together, Carl's legs aching as he walks back home, bud he doesn't really care as he shares knowing looks with Ron, a promise of many more kisses to come.
If his dad notices Ron wearing Carl's sweatshirt, he chooses not to comment.