2: The one walking away
Their relationship was far from simple, that much was clear to everyone.
The worst part wasn't when Merle brought Daryl to some of the most depraved bars of town, only for him to wait at a table, all alone while his brother was getting a bunch of girls to share his STDs with.
No, it was nothing compared to the fact that he just left him to take both their share of punches in the face and belt whacks from their drunkard of a father.
Meanwhile, Merle was getting cozy in Juvie, away from a place that wasn't much of a home.
When Daryl came for his brother when the dead started to rise, he found him on top of a police station, as red as an overcooked lobster, talking crap and shooting cars, wailing with the engine's alarm, as if his brains – If he ever had any – had melted from the heat.
When they were back on the road he found what he always hoped for: some quality time with his brother, only them and a few walking corpses, but this experience only strengthened their bond as they worked as a team. But it all too soon came crashing when, in Atlanta, they met the group. Merle wanted to become buddies and then loot them to the bone. But he was left behind in the city, and this old bastard didn't wait for his little brother to come fetch his ass, he took the car and fled, again.
And then, in Woodbury, they met again, and fought against each other in that big arena full of walkers. They escaped, and Rick decided to be the dimwit, this time around. So Daryl was into the wild, his brother by his side. But they both had changed, and they couldn't comprehend the other anymore.
It seemed like he'd always find a way out.
While Daryl was killing himself to prove his brother's value to the others, this idiot found amusing to kidnap Michone, the trade was going to happen. Her life, and the jail's inhabitants lived. But he finally freed the woman and decided to get to the end of things, himself.
This time, he must have wanted to be the hero, for once.
So here was Daryl, searching through rounds, seeking his brother among the more or less dead people. Maybe he should have walked away, believing the old bastard had headed North and fought for survival like a boar. But it was too late, their eyes met.
Blood-shot, hollow eyes meeting disbelieving, stormy blue.
Everything was blurry as the walker-Merle stood from where it was chomping at a corpse, charging for fresher meat. Daryl pushed him away a few times, but it had to happen.
Taking out his hunting knife, he tackled his undead brother, restlessly stabbing his head, because he never here as a brother, because he left him, all alone, thrice, because he had loved his brother so much, because he was an idiotic asshole, because his heart felt like it broke. He killed him and laid down on the damp grass, his head spinning.
After a while, the sun started to go down, and night was coming.
And, in the end, even if he didn't want to, he was the one walking away.