Ellis could deal with pain. He hardly seemed to register it actually, as he had an irritating habit of running right into the thick of things, swinging his chainsaw back and forth, regardless of whetehr this particular mass of undea was in their way or not. If limbs, brains and entrails were obscuring his view, then Ellis was right at home.
On a few occasions, the country boy had left his moud of mangled zombies sustaining a few dangerous-looking gashes or bitemarks, and while the other survivors had to suppress dry retches, Ellis was simply twirling on his heel, exclaiming how this was "Jus' like that time me'n Keith went swimmi' in a waterhole near Keith's uncle's place, but couldn't qui' rea' the sign sayin' 'KEEP OUT, ALLIGAT'RS'!".
He was simple-minded... but there was something complicated about him, and this was why Nick found himself slouched against a cold safehouse wall, eyeing the young boy with a look of such intensity it could have born through steel.
Ellis lay spread out comfortably over a few layers of moudly cardboard ("Jus' like when me'n Keith went campin' in mah cuzzin's ol' famshed!", Ellis had chimed as he'd flattened out the boxes), bloodied chest rising and falling gently. Coach and Rochelle were sleeping abehind a few old wire shelves on the other side of the safehouse, Coach's snores contributing to Nicke's insomnia.
Just how did the boy soak up so much damage? And he managed to look as young and naive as ever...
Nick groaned inwardly, forcing himself to unclip his medipack from his shoulders and lie down on a ratty planket beside Ellis. His eyes stayed open, his brow furrowed as the redneck breathed calmly as ever, as though he were in a soft feather bed, rather than on some wet cardboard and a concrete floor, with only a t-shirt and jeans to cover him and the moans of the living dead rumbling outside like rain.
As Nick's eyelids began drooping at last, there was a rustling sound, and Ellis shifted onto his side. He was now facing Nick, and was close enough for the older man to feel his hot breath beating at a spot on his cheek.
There was silence, but for the quiet breathing of his comrades, and Nick slowly raised a hand to cup the younger man's chin. As slow as he could without waking him, Nick lifted Ellis' face, eyes scanning his features. There was nothing... no twisting of his lips while tying to suppress a laugh, no confused furrow of that wounded brow. It was simply Ellis; ruffled hair free from the confines of his cap, a sprinkling of bristles on dirt-smeared cheeks, and puffy lips, open slightly to let some sleeping air in.
It was those very lips that Nick was now bending his neck to meet, those lips that were spicy and warm despite the freezing surroundings.
And there there was a flicker of movement behind closed eyelids, now becoming open eyelids, and Ellis was pressing back against Nick's kiss because that's what felt good and felt right.
They stayed that way for a few minutes, mouths pressed hotly together, tongues swiping lazily at open lips... before Ellis pulled away, giving Nick an odd look.
"Now don't be gayin' up on me, Nick..." He murmured groggily, eyes sliding closed again and his mind and body returning to rest.
What an enigma..., Nick thought tiredly, before letting himself be consumed by the sleep that had eluded him for so long.