DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN THE WALKING DEAD

Oak: *mild slash*

"This is my favorite tree," Ron says quietly with a content little hum, running his fingers idly through Carl's hair as they sit huddled together up against the thick oak tree.

Carl snorts lifting his head up to look at Ron's face. "You have a favorite tree?"

Ron nods, face serious as the grave. "Yeah, and it's this one right here," he says.

Carl laughs a little again, shifting his position to sit up. "Why this one? There's a t least like...twenty other trees here. Why the hell is this one so special?"

Ron smiles sheepishly, looking down at his knees. It's always amusing to him how much more sentimental than Carl he is, he always thought it'd be the other way around since Carl went so long without anything to hold onto long term. It apparently had exactly the opposite effect and Carl finds little merit if any in being soppy about places, dates, or physical possessions.

Carl watches Ron's cheeks slowly burn up into a dusty pink and knows that something's up. He scotches closer to Ron, smiling at him and bracing both of his hands on the taller boy's knees to lean closer.

"You actually have a reason for this particular oak tree being your favorite?" he asks, quirking his eyebrow up playfully.

Ron's blush darkens and he let's out a timid chuckle. "Um...yeah."

"What is it?" Carl asks curiously.

"Nothing…"

"No, what is it?"

"I said it's nothing Carl," Ron insists, leaning further back into the trunk of the tree.

"It's obviously something."

"No, just drop it."

"No, c'mon, you can't even look me in the eye!"

"Shut up, Carl."

"No, is it your favorite because….it's the tallest and when you climb up you can see all of Alexandria?"

"I'm afraid of heights, dipshit."

"Is it because the trunk is sturdy and nice to rest against?"

"I'd prefer napping on the couch."

"Is it because….Jesus, I don't know,... because the leaves are like….really really green?"

Ron let's out a laugh at his friend's ridiculous answer and shakes his head.

Carl huffs out and sits back on his haunches. "Ok, asshole, why do you like this tree? Why this. Tree. Right. Here. And not one of the other twenty some trees in Alexandria?" Carl asks, emphasising with curt little nods of his head.

"Just drop it Carl," Ron says with another little laugh, this one more forced and less breezy than the previous, his facing flushing horribly again.

Carl groans and playfully punches him in the arm. "No, c'mon, why?"

"It's stupid."

"You're stupid, c'mon, tell me."

"I like this tree because it's where I first saw you," Ron admits, still staring at his knees.

2.) Deal: *slash*

"Why won't you tell me?" Ron whines playfully, currently splayed out on Enid's little twin bed, covered in an odd assortment of patched up quilts, candy wrappers, dirty laundry, and Ron's lanky limbs.

Enid blushes and shakes her head. "It's embarrasing, ok?"

"I promise I-"

"Don't!" Enid snaps, cutting him off. "Everyone always makes dumb promises like that, swearing they won't laugh or make jokes. Just. Don't."

Ron sighs, rolling onto his stomach and looking over at his friend. "Come on, please? I already know half of it."

Enid freezes in her tracks, ceases her pacing and looks at Ron with wide eyes. "Wait, what? Wh-what do you know?"

Ron chuckles and shakes his head. "Mik told me this morning, all in a fit of nerves, that he tried to kiss you and that you knocked his fucking block off. I just wanna hear it from you, hear what really happened. It was kinda hard to tell what Mikey was saying through the tears."

Enid's eyes widen further and a look of remorse creeps onto her features. "He was crying?"

Ron nods sullenly. "Yeah. He was pretty upset. Can't you just tell me what happened from your perspective?"

Enid sighs and walks over to flop onto the bed next to Ron. "I didn't even mean to punch him...not hard anyway," she mutters. "It just...caught me off guard, ok? That's all you need to know."

"Do you like him?"

"That doesn't matter," Enid mutters, rolling herself up in one of the various quilts like a roll of sushi and flopping onto her side, back facing Ron.

"Yeah it does!" Ron insists, sitting up and rolling her back over to face him. "That's the million dollar question, idiot!"

"It's none of your business, Anderson, screw off," she retorts, sticking out her tongue and trying to roll back over.

"Aw, c'mon E. You punched the guy in the face, you should at least acknowledge your feelings towards him, ya know? It's only right," Ron says with a sigh.

"Either shut up and put on the next Friday the 13th movie or go away," Enid mutters, finally succeeding to roll herself back onto her side.

"If you tell me I'll put on the movie," Ron promises, trying to strike up a deal. "I'll get off my ass and put in the VHS so you don't have to AND I'll go to the kitchen to get us some chips."

"No," Enid replies flatly. "Not good enough."

Ron sighs, throwing his head back. "God, what else do you want me to do? I'll….I'll get us some Swedish Fish too."

"No," Enid says. "No….I'll tell you if…."

"If what?" Ron asks, raising an eyebrow.

"If you say aloud that you have a boner for Carl Grimes."

"What?" Ron asks, thinking he must've misheard her.

"You heard me, asshole," she says, rolling over to face him, face lit up with a demonic little smile. "Say you like Carl Grimes and I'll tell you if I like Mikey. It's a fair deal."

"Why do you think I like Carl?" Ron asks, trying to figure out how the hell she knows about his feelings harbored towards the other boy. He thought he kept them pretty well under wraps….apparently not.

"It's obvious as fuck," Enid replies, squirming around in her quilt cacoon. "Anyone with eyesight can tell. That's actually what me and Mick were joking about before he...you know."

Ron's face falls and he slumps over. "Wait...so...so everyone knows?"

"I'd think so," Enid says, still smiling like the cat who caught the canary. "I heard Daryl say something about it the other day."

"Oh Jesus…" Ron groans, burying his face in his hands. "Oh shit…"

Enid laughs at his discomfort.

"Well, it's not like your feelings towards Mik aren't almost always out on display," Ron replies edgily. "EVERYONE suspected you two and it was just confirmed this morning….well, up until the part of the story when you pull a right hook on him."

Now it's Ron's turn to laugh and Enid's turn to moan pitifully and shield the shame on her face with her palms.

"Ugh," she mutters. "I fucked up, ok?! Do….do we have a deal or not? I'll admit it if you do."

Ron sighs, suddenly not finding his friend's predicament funny since he's sort of in the same boat. He nods and extends his right hand. "Ok, deal."

"Deal," Enid says, shaking his hand. "On the count of three. One….two….three."

3.) Tongue: *slash*

"Can I have a kiss?" Ron asks, batting his eyelashes and pulling the most mock-darling face he can.

Carl rolls his eyes and lowers the brim of his hat to hide the blush on his face.

Ron chuckles and gives the shorter boy's hand a squeeze. Embarrasing Carl will never get old or cease to amuse him. It's not hard to do so either, only further enhancing the enjoyment factor of it all.

But in all seriousness, Ron really would like a kiss, even just a quick peck on the cheek. He knows even that, an amish little display of affection as that, is a long shot. Carl is none too fond of PDA, not in the least bit. It's taken Ron two months to convince his boyfriend to even hold his hand while walking down the streets of Alexandria, and that took lots and lots of puppy-dog eyes and whining on Ron's behalf. It's not that Carl doesn't love Ron, it's just that...well...he feels uncomfortable displaying it in front of everyone. He's always afraid that while they're walking down the street, hand in hand, they'll stumble across his dad and he knows how his dad feels about their relationship….he's accepting but he's still a little ooked out by the thought of his little boy being kissed and having his hand held and having other things being touched….His dad has talked to him about it and made it very clear that he's ok with it but that doesn't want to see anything too psychical.

"Well?" Ron prompts, tilting his head to the side.

"Well what?" Carl asks, stopping to look up at him.

Ron smiles, a big goofy grin that makes Carl's heart hammer almost painfully against his ribs. "Can I have a kiss?"

"We're outside," Carl mutters, looking around him to see if anyone's nearby.

"No one's really around," Ron points out. He slowly leans down and nudges his cold nose into Carl's cheek bone, his lips barely making contact with the shell of his ear. "No one will see us," he whispers. "I promise." His breath ghosts across Carl's neck, causing goosebumps to pop up on his skin and make him shiver like a rabid chihuahua.

Carl pulls back a bit and looks around them again warily, just to be sure. He still doesn't spot anyone milling around. "Ok," he mutters, eyelids sliding half closed and breath hitching. "Ok."

Ron smiles like a child being promised candy and quickly inches his mouth from Carl's ear to his lips.

It's soft at first, their lips barely touching. It's really just a brush of flesh, sweet and timid as a first grader kissing the love of it's life in the school hallway on Valentine's Day after presenting them with a crappy cardboard Hallmark card. Ron leans further in after a few seconds, their mouths mushing together a bit more intensely. Ron sighs out through his nose, a happy little noise that makes Carl's heart beat even faster, if that's possible. Ron snakes his free hand around Carl's waist and pulls him flush against him. Carl, never knowing exactly what to do with his hands when kissing, awkwardly weaves his arm between them and over Ron's left shoulder. Ron tilts his head to the side for a better angle and manages to slip his top lip between Carl's lips, like a divider, and suckles Carl's bottom lip in his mouth like rock candy. Really bruised up and chapped rock candy that's ten times as sweet. Carl makes a little noise of surprise in his throat, caught a little off guard, but he rolls with it and let's it happen, enjoying it. He kisses back, catching Ron's upper lip between his teeth on accident once in his clumsy haste. Neither of them is very experienced. At all. And it always proves to be an interesting experience since neither of them have any.

Carl makes another noise of surprise, this time a little louder, when he feels Ron try to dart his tongue into his mouth. His eyes fly open when it happens again less than 2 seconds later. He hastily pulls back, their mouths making an odd wet noise sort of similiar to the noise of a body hitting water, and stares at is boyfriend.

"Were you trying to slip me tongue?" He asks, face still flushed, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Uh...yes?" Ron replies uncertainly, face just as red. He goes to lean in again, slowly this time as he expects resistance of some sort. "Um, was I not supposed to?" He mumbles once their so close that their noses brush and their sharing breath.

Carl shrugs and closes his eyes again with a little smile. "No, I just wasn't expecting it."

Ron grins, tilting his head to the side and pressing their mouths together again. Before he can so much as begin to slither his tongue into Carl's mouth, he has Carl's tongue pressed up against the seam of his lips.

4.) Sign: *slash*

"Is this a sign that you like me?" Ron asks teasingly as he pulls the sheriff hat onto his head. "Cuz, I mean, this is like, your most prized possession and I've never seen you let someone else try it on."

Carl smiles and gives him a shove. "Stop being stupid and be glad I let you try it on, because I never will again."

Ron laughs, tilting the brim down and making finger guns. "I look cool right? Like I belong in one of those awesome shoot-em-up black and white cowboy movies?"

"No, you look like Sheriff Woody from Toy Story," Carl says with a snort, crossing his arms over his chest and snickering.

"Hey!" Ron says with a laugh, shoving his friend and pretending to shoot him with one of his finger guns, slowly and dramatically blowing off the smoke. "I bet you're just saying that because I wear it better than you."

Carl smiles and looks away to try and hide the blush on his face. "You look good even without my hat."

Ron's smile widens. "Ok, now that was totally a sign that you like me, right?!"

Carl neglects to answer him and instead continues marveling at the cement below them like it's something of beauty to be enthralled in.

5.) Slice:

Carl's knees ache as he kneels on the hard wooden floor, brow furrowed in frustration and arms numb from the cold. But he refuses to give up. He's NOT going to give up until he finds it because he's CERTAIN it's in here. It HAS to be, he wrote his goddamn name on it for fuckssake!

"Carl, we've been having problems with the electricity and such around here already, it's probably not so smart to keep the fridge open like that for twenty minutes straight," Michonne comments, glancing over at him from her spot on the sofa.

Carl just grunts and continues shifting through the same items over and over again: a head of soggy lettuce, a dozen eggs, a carton of half-drunk milk, a loaf of wheat bread, a bag of slightly yellow carrots, a pan of leftover lasagna, and several bruised up apples. He's been sifting through this food for almost 30 minutes now and he's sick of it but he REFUSES to give up searching.

"Carl, did you hear me?" Michonne asks, a little louder this time, looking slightly agitated. "Carl?"

"I'll close it in a minute," Carl mutters in reply, continuing his search.

Michonne quirks an eyebrow in interest and gets up to go see what he's looking for. "You know, most people are able to pick a snack in about 30 seconds, right?" she jokes as she pads across the room.

"I'm not looking for a snack," Carl replies stiffly. "Not just any snack anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

"My cake. It's gone," Carl says curtly. "We had a leftover slice of chocolate cake that Carol made. I put it in a baggie and wrote my name on it in pen and stuck it in the fridge. Now it's gone."

"Tough luck, kiddo," Michonne says with a laugh. "That kind of stuff happens around here, your food is in just as much danger of being stolen inside these walls as it is outside them."

Carl frowns, slowly clambering to his feet and closing the refrigerator door. "But I wrote my name on it, that signifies that it's MINE."

Michonne just laughs again and shakes her head. "Not really, it was still a piece of cake and that's what someone saw when they looked through the fridge, not your name."

Carl looks over his shoulder at her, his frown deepening and his eyes narrowing into a semi-glare. "You ate it, didn't you?"

Michonne raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest defensively. "Why do you think I ate it?"

"Because you just very calmly explained to me how the jungle rules of the kitchen work and it's making me pretty suspicious," Carl says, slouching over, his glare intensifying.

"I told you how it works because you seemed pretty naive about it, despite living with Daryl, who eats food off your plate every night at dinner when you turn your head, for almost 2 years now. I thought you knew, but you didn't so I enlightened you. I didn't eat your slice," Michonne says, pursing her lips and giving Carl a stony face of apathy.

"See?!" Carl exclaims, jabbing an accusing finger at her, full out glaring now.

"What?!"

"You don't even CARE that someone ate my cake! You don't care at all! That proves that you did it!"

"I don't care because it wasn't MY slice of cake!" MIchonne retorts.

"Now you just sound like a sociopath!"

"What, because I don't care that someone ate your cake?!"

"YES!"

"Oh, so you'd be a weeping mess of tears and...and emotions on the floor if someone had eaten my slice of cake?!"

"I'd at least say that I'm sorry for you!"

"I'm not sorry for you because it's a goddamn piece of cake and it wasn't mine!"

"You're not sorry because you made it yours and ate it!"

"I. Did. Not. Eat. Your. Stupid, Cake."

"Just admit it!"

"I didn't! I swear I didn't eat it!"

"You did! I know you did!"

"I didn't! God, Carl! What can I do to prove myself?! Just...vomit up everything I ate in the last 24 hours?!"

"Ahah! There you go! You just said last 24 hours! How'd you know I put my cake in the fridge within the last 24 hours if you didn't eat my slice?! Huh?!"

"Because Carol brought the fucking cake over last night after dinner! How the hell else would you have it before then?! You aren't cool enough to time travel!"

"I am too cool enough to time travel!"

"Nu-uh!"

"Yes I am!"

"What the hell are you two yelling about?!" Rick asks as he pops his head into the kitchen, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn up in annoyance.

"Michonne ate my-" the accusation falls dead from Carl's lips and falls to the floor with a splat like roadkill when he sees his dad holding a plate with a piece of half eaten chocolate in his left hand and a fork in his right.

Michonne turns to Carl with a little grin on her face and jabs her finger to her chest mouthing, 'not guilty'.

Carl groans and slouches back against the fridge. "Dad….can't you read?"

6.) Cold: *mild slash*

Cold. That's all Carl has felt in months.

Cold.

He wonders foggily if any other feelings will ever come back to him, flood through his veins and spread warmth through his joints and make his heart beat again without feeling like it's being pierced further by the thorn plunged inside of it.

Cold.

His hands shake all the time anymore, his eyes are always redder than the blood in the dreams that make him scream and cry like he's a scared a child again. No one says anything to him. No one knows what to say. He's lost so many people, they all have, but this is by far the biggest blow, the deepest wound in quite some time and words will only rub salt into it and make it fester.

Cold.

His father looks at him with pity, having had once experienced similiar heartbreak. His own heart shatters as he watches his son sit there like a corpse, staring at nothing and rubbing at his tear-stained face with scabbed hands. He tries to think of something soothing to say, but draws a blank every time. Rick has never been a man of words.

Cold

Everyone else looks the other way when they see Carl sitting at the little grave plot. They don't say anything. They know the kid has always been best off on his own, a lone wolf howling his grievances alone. Only Michonne and Enid ever come sit with him for awhile and try to comfort him in the best way they know how; by being there.

Cold.

Carl never cries over Ron. He can't bring himself to. It's too sudden, all of it. He still sometimes wakes up, expecting to roll over in bed and see him laying there, eyes closed and a peaceful smile spread across his face, hair toussled and sticking to his forehead in a matted mess. It makes Carl want to throw up now when he wakes up alone.

Cold.

Sometimes Carl still turns to tell Ron something and is greeted with air and a constriction of his throat. Sometimes he goes to grab his hand and is once again greeted with air and a pang in his side. It never ends. It never ends. Air becomes his friend and the pangs and pain become the outcome.

Cold.

Some days Carl pretends to believe in God and heaven again like he did when his mom died because it makes him feel again to think that Ron was reunited with his mom and brother again. He likes to envision in his mind's eye Jessie's beaming face as she holds her oldest son close to her and strokes his hair and Sam's excited laugh as he clings at his brother's legs and begs for him to teach him how to build bottle rockets and set them off. He likes to think Ron's happier now, in a better place where he doesn't have to miss his family anymore like the way Carl misses him. He wonders if it'd been him instead if Ron would sit at his grave every night and talk to him the way Carl does to him.

Cold.

Carl watches the sun rise alone now, but sometimes he still hears Ron's voice, commenting sadly on how the colors in the sky remind him of his mom's paintings. That's always when the mirage is ruined because Carl remembers that Ron doesn't get to be sad about his mom anymore. Carl sits alone and watches the sun set too. The first time he cries is when the sun goes down and he's sitting in front of the poorly constructed wooden cross alone, and he swears if he closes his eyes tight enough and wraps his arms around himself hard enough it feels like Ron's hugging him.

Cold.

Carl tells the grave he loves it again, tells the grave how much he wishes it were him instead. He still hears Ron's screams some nights and sees his flesh falling to the ground as they rip him apart. He still sees the blood pooling out of his veins and smearing across the remains of his skin like paint crawling across canvas. He wishes he could unsee it. He wishes they'd gotten him too.

Cold.

Carl remembers what it used to be like in the evenings when Ron was there. They'd listen to music so loud that his dad used to bitch at them to turn it down. They'd dance around the shared bedroom like goofballs, doing air guitar like Jimi Hendrix impersonators. Now Carl doesn't listen to music. It used to be fun but now it just hurts his ears.

Cold.

"One day it won't hurt so bad anymore," Carl remembers telling Ron. "One day you'll think back on them and it will sting like hell, but you won't want to knife yourself in the gut anymore."

It's been a year and Carl's still cold all over.

7.) Interference: *explicit content and slash*

"Shh, my dad's gonna hear us!" Carl hisses with a little giggle as Ron continues nipping at his earlobe and fumbling around with his belt.

Ron giggles too, all giddy and beyond excited. "No he won't, he's asleep!" he whispers with a crinkled nose before sloppily mushing his lips into Carl's cheek bone.

Carl squirms against the wall and laughs again, shoulder blades bashing off the wall like a bird's wings rattling around it's cage bars. His laughing just intensifies when Ron finally manages to undo his belt and unzip his jeans. Carl isn't sure why he always laughs whenever they get intimate, but he does. He always starts giggling like a looney in a funny farm, and to make it worse, Ron does too. They sound more like an episode of Beavis and Butthead than two people engaging in love making.

"I told you to shut up!" Carl hisses again with another crazy giggle as Ron starts tugging down his pants. The fact that Ron's hands are shaking too much to accomplish even that with ease is a little sad.

"I will shut up in a minute cuz it's rude to talk when your mouth's full," Ron replies with a slightly crazy smile. He snorts like a pig, resting his head against Carl's stomach as he chortles at his own joke.

Carl laughs too, biting down on his wrist to keep from making more noise than needed. "Did your mom teach you that, Ron?" he asks teasingly.

"No, my daddy did," Ron replies sarcastically, sending them both into another fit of supressed laughter.

"H-hurry up," Carl says, starting to squirm impatiently again as Ron's fingers rub circles on his hip bones. "Stop laughing your ass off and get a move on."

"Ok, ok, someone's impatient aren't they?" Ron says with a little giggle.

Carl giggles too, burying his hands in Ron's hair and tugging just to get a kick out of watching his boyfriend scowl up at him.

"Don't pull my hair, asshole," Ron says, scowling and giving him stink eye while continuing to giggle like a lunatic.

Carl sticks his tongue out at him and giggles harder. He accidentally let's out a shrieking laugh like a screeching owl when Ron reaches up and yanks at his arms, pulling him down with him. He squirms and kicks up against the wall as Ron starts suckling on his neck rather aggressively, sort of like a vampire. Carl voices the comparison, causing Ron to accidentally bite down too hard when his jaw clenches up with laughter. They sit there, both giggling and snorting on the floor like two hyenas. Tears of laughter roll down their cheeks in streams and Carl shrieks again when Ron's hand wraps around him and starts to move.

"Boys, I don't know what the hell is so funny but I'd appreciate it if you stopped laughing like you're about to piss yourselves at three in the morning!" Rick's voice grumbles through the walls.

Neither Carl nor Ron laugh at Mr. Grimes's interference. It's not amusing to them in the least.

8.) Uncertainty: * mild slash*

"Were you ever...unsure?" Enid asks.

"About what?" Carl asks, taking another sip from his can of Dr. Pepper and giving his friend a sideways glance.

Enid bashfully shrugs and looks down at their feet, dangling over the side of the roof. "You know….about being with Ron? Were you ever, like, a little iffy about it, unsure about it not working out or ruining you or him when one of you gets ripped apart?"

Carl doesn't even hesitate to shake his head. "No," he says with a shrug.

"Not even a little?" Enid questions.

"Nope. I didn't even think about the negatives, you know? I didn't see the end where one of us is being eaten alive or dies in some other horrific manner. I only saw him."

"How? I'm sorry but, how the hell did you not? Everytime Mik tells me he loves me or holds me or kisses me, I just see….see his demise, see myself getting hurt and broken and torn up and broken because I loved him. You've been out there too, you know what I mean when I say I've seen hell. I can't unsee it, it's stuck with me, you know? Part of who I am. How do you not see the end?"

"Because I love him," Carl replies simply, finishing of his can of soda. "I did think about that a little, like you just said, it's part of you after you lived it. But….I love him."

"I love Mik too but it's because I love him that I'm scared to be with him. I don't want him to be hurt when I die and I don't want to be hurt when he dies. It's simple as that."

Carl smiles. "I used to think like that," he admits, smiling over at his friend. "BUt it hurts a hell of a lot more, I hear, when they die without you telling them you love them."

Enid lets his words sink in, mulling them over and analyzing them under a microscope like a scientist.

"What will you do if he dies?" she asks.

"I'll keep loving him."

"What will he do if you die?"

"I can't really speak for him but I'd hope he'd do the same."

"So, you never were uncertain? Never?"

"No," Carl says. "I wasn't."

9.) Weapon:

"I'm still not a good shot," Ron laments as he watches Michonne practice her aim, shooting at the targets set up on the wall with her handgun.

Michonne smirks and looks over at him as another one of her shots whizzes past the bright red target. Another miss.

"I'm not either and I've been practicing a hell of a lot longer than you," she says, handing the gun over to him. "If that makes you feel any better."

Ron groans, his shot missing the target by a mile. "Not really," he mutters. "It just means that I can practice for the rest of my life and not improve at all."

Michonne smiles sympathetically at him as he passes the gun back to her. "That's one way to look at it," she admits, taking aim, squinting her left eye so tight that her forehead twitches.

Ron sighs, the bang ringing in his ears as Michonne's shot is off again, the bullet burying itself in the wooden peg holding up the target. "I hate that my shot sucks, it makes me feel….defenseless."

Michonne looks over her shoulder at him, her sympathetic smile turning a bit more cheeky. "I can't shoot worth shit and I sure as hell don't feel defenseless. You don't have to either."

Ron looks at her in confusion. "Wh-what? Well, of course you don't you're a survivor, you lived out there for years and are still here in one piece. I...well, I can't shoot and-"

"How do you think I survived out there without being a grade A gunslinger like some of my friends?" Michonne asks, cutting the boy off.

"Um…." Ron trails, not entirely sure how to answer. "You have good survival skills? I mean, I assume so anyway since you're, like, alive and all."

Michonne shakes her head. "I mean, how do you think I defended myself without a gun?"

"Um…..your sword thing?" Ron guesses, remembering the samuri looking sword that he'd spotted hanging over the Grimes's mantel place a few weeks ago. According to Carl, Michonne could wield it better than a ninja and was more lethal with it than one too.

Michonne laughs. "It's a Kitana, but yes. So, maybe guns aren't your thing, no big deal. Sure, you should learn how to work one like I did for do-or-die situations, but you can have something else with you that you have a better handle on. Carol's better with knives than she is guns and Daryl always uses his crossbow when he can. Their are other weapons."

Ron brightens up a little at her words. "You really think I might be better with a knife or a machete?"

Michonne nods. "Sure. Tell you what, let's head down to the supply house and borrow a machete from Rosita and get you some practice with one, see how you do."

Ron nods and takes the gun from Michonne, tucking it back in place in the holster that Mr. Grimes got for him a few weeks back. He follows Michonne to the supply house, trying to keep the excited bounce out of his step. He's really hoping he finds another weapon that feels more natural in his hands.

10.) Tiptoe: *slash*

Carl likes making out, he likes being kissed and kissing and feeling Ron's lips crushed up against his in that awkward way that he passes off for erotic since he has absolutely no frame of reference. He likes running his fingers through Ron's hair and he likes the way Ron's face flushes and the way they both giggle like two little kids stealing pop rocks and cookies from the kitchen. He likes the way Ron holds him close to him and the way Ron's tongue feels pushed up with his, wrestling around in the cavern on their conjoined mouths. He likes the way he can smell Ron and the way Ron nuzzles his nose into his face when they pause to breath like how an affectionate cat nuzzles into it's owner's side/ He likes the way he feels loved and the way he feels when expressing his own adoration.

No, Carl really, really likes kissing Ron.

The only thing he doesn't like is that Ron is so much taller than him, so much that Ron either has to bend down a little and crane his neck over or Carl has to stand up on his tiptoes if he wants to initiate it.

I hope these were half decent. Feel free to leave feedback or tell me which was your favorite and why. Whatever. I might make more.