Hey, Walking Dead fans! I've been watching the show for a long time, and I've learned not to get attached to characters. At least I thought I did, until Patrick came along. He's definitely a favorite of mine, but I love so much about the show that I hope to give all the characters in this their moments to shine.
Just a WARNING, this will have some dark points, touching on topics I haven't written about before. As I've said with another story of mine, I don't want this to be triggering for anyone. Even my post-apocalyptic fanfics are about finding the bright side.
This chapter is dedicated to DistrictsandWizards. If you ship Carl and Patrick (or enjoy their relationship dynamic either way, like I do) then I definitely recommend you check out What Lies Beneath: A drabble series. GREAT stuff!
Enjoy!
I do not own The Walking Dead
11/18/13
The newcomers' wrists seemed to make toothpicks look thick by comparison. Measures were taken to remedy the sad sight, and some had to be reminded to pace themselves when eating. The foursome had gotten along fine for awhile, but a sudden shift of luck-or lack of hope, or slip of sanity-changed all that. A chance encounter was saving grace, and in a matter of miles the group found their new place.
The crowd by the fence had the new arrivals more unnerved than the spikes near the gate. It was easy to forget, though, with an army around them and a little of life's lost luxuries ahead. When what felt like a feast was laid out in front of them, it was impossible to mind that they'd be sleeping in cells.
The youngest of the bunch hadn't gotten much of an introduction. He was instructed to catch up on sleep. The boy lied there, not comfortable but acclimated. He tried to comply with his orders, urging drowsiness his way. He didn't seem invited to sleep, no matter how much he let himself relax. He didn't feel rebellious. Just tired of not being tired.
His restless brown eyes flickered open, and found home in black frames the way they had countless times before. The ground was unfamiliar, and walking it served two purposes: to learn the lay of the land and waste energy. No too much energy, as the weapons he had in easy reach reminded him. He knew better than to be without protection. Being in a more comfortable setting didn't change what lurked just outside.
The energy wasting only lasted until he reached Cell Block C. The glow from a flashlight caught his attention, and he realized he'd been relying on his calculated footing to guide him in the dark. He would've offered a polite greeting, but the boy with the flashlight was focused on the comic book in front of him. So, he went to walk on, only managing one more silent step before he was seen. The sensation of being stared at-though a misconception-led to a somewhat icy whisper of "What are you doing?"
Responding with 'walking' seemed harsh, despite the treatment the comic reader had given. The wandering boy was not the type to have a sharp tongue. He met the eyes of the other boy.
A brilliant blue shining through the darkness, still seeking out an answer.
"Taking in the scenery." It was an attempt at a joke, said while squinting from the focus of the flashlight beam.
An eyebrow raise accentuated those blue eyes briefly sparked with amusement. The edge was gone from the other's tone, and he sounded more casual, although he looked confused by his own words. "You like it here?"
For a simple question, it stunned. A memory resurfaced-that caused him to look amused as well-but the thought was pushed to the side by another one. Not many people started conversations with him, much less tried to keep them going. It only felt fit to reciprocate the courtesy. "Yes, everyone's been very welcoming."
That slight spark was replaced by guilt that the stranger was unable to read the signal for. In an effort to fix any possible damage, the cell door was opened. For a second, the newcomer's eyes shifted to the ground. A nervous habit he'd forgotten about. The other seemed to be searching his mind for the formalities of a life left behind. Those mechanics had never been as natural for him. "Good." He found himself saying, hoping other people's kindness outweighed his initial attitude. "I'm Carl." The words didn't flow well, but the elder boy paid no mind.
Instead, he smiled faintly, extending his hand. "I'm Patrick."
Their handshake was more awkward than Carl's conversation, but both boys ignored that. Another question scratched at the back of the younger boy's throat. It felt odd to have so much to say, when minutes ago he was content to just read and annoyed to have his concentration broken by the passerby. He spoke anyway, keeping quiet out of consideration for his sleeping father and sister. "So, where were you before this?"
'Where'. Not 'how'. Asking how in a world worse off than normal was cruel coming from a stranger. Asking where even felt out of bounds.
Again, Patrick seemed sideswiped by what he heard. He needed clarification. "Do you mean where was I before all this?"
Carl hadn't, but the question made him think. "I guess." He put the ball in Patrick's court, allowing him to decide where the conversation would go. He hoped that was clear, and that the other boy didn't feel pressured to open up.
"Where would you like me to start?" Patrick had seen a lot of places in his life, and something in his voice said he was offering the entire story.
With how dark the world had turned, Carl could only hope the beginning was bright.
The light stayed on for comfort. The boys kept distance between them. As much distance as possible in a relatively small space. They'd moved to Patrick's cell, so they wouldn't have to keep as quiet. The effort seemed to have backfired, as silence settled in. Neither of them were known to chat.
The story Patrick thought he was prepared to recount had been told to him a record amount of times. At this point, repeating it should've just been like playback. Suddenly the tape seemed blank, even though he'd forgotten none of the details. Fear was the only thing to blame his reluctance on. Fear had caused enough loss already. It was time he gave something instead, though he figured the story wouldn't leave nearly as much of an impact on Carl.
"High school sweethearts." It was a rough start, as evident in Carl's lost expression. "My parents; that's what everybody called them. Even though they broke up at graduation. It's hard to say if people were more shocked by that, or how the most popular kid in school 'settled' for such a nerd in the first place." He paused in case Carl had a question, and to reflect on how he was trying to adopt his father's manner of speaking. It felt effective, to speak with the voice that guided him through so much.
"What, was your dad a star athlete?" It was a logical guess in the stereotypical sense, for the most popular student to be a jock. Patrick's head shake in response was paired up with something of a smirk.
"My mom ran track."
Carl gave another guess, despite feeling like he would be wrong again. "And your Dad was on the honor roll?"
Patrick thought about that for a second. "He might've been if his math grades weren't so atrocious. " The rather random addition of that three syllable word just seemed to drive the next point. "He was just really into English. He used to write her sonnets and leave them in her locker. After awhile, she started skipping meets just to be with him. And then she quit altogether. Girls weren't offered sports scholarships back then, so she didn't see the point in staying on the team At first, nobody supported them as a couple. Even they didn't understand why they dug each other so much; they were complete opposites." It had never crossed his mind before, but maybe others' criticism over the odd couple is the reason they didn't stay a couple. "It probably doesn't make any sense, but it happened. Twice. I'm proof."
Patrick had to gather his thoughts again, but he was thinking as he spoke and only paused for a breath. Carl laughed silently-to his own shock-but that went unnoticed by the storyteller. "He went on to study abroad in London. He would've stayed there, too…"
"Why didn't he?" Carl asked, seeing Patrick trail off. The older boy seemed to be debating something, but he kept that to himself.
"Another bad breakup."
"So bad he left the country?" Carl couldn't help but counter. It seemed so cowardly.
"When he was younger, he was good at that. Distancing himself. He would rather be happy alone than feel miserable with someone. Which is respectable, but his approach…" Not so much. "He mistook being safe for being happy most of the time. It's why he broke off his relationship with my mom . Too many people didn't approve. And she let him go on believing that. The way she let him believe it didn't hurt to lose him." Patrick felt he was getting too emotional, though he spoke in a steady tone. He thought he talked too much, but he hadn't gotten to the end of the story. (And his voice hadn't had so much use in months.) He looked up-to see if Carl was even still interested in hearing what he had to say-as guilt sank in. He wondered how long he'd been avoiding eye contact with the other boy, as if that would make him forget his place. The look in Carl's eyes was one of disapproval, and it had Patrick nearly convinced he should just stop talking.
"So, who had the guts to be honest?"
Patrick outright laughed, instinctively biting his tongue for volume control . The question was so blunt. Not something he was used to from someone Carl's age. Not something that needed to change, either.
"She did. But not to him. Not directly, anyway. My mom buried herself in work to try to forget him. She traveled anywhere the money she managed to pull together would take her. Soon enough, the only trouble was finding new distractions. She got really successful, especially when she started publishing books. She was channeling this passion he'd put on the shelf." One quick glance caught eyes tempted to roll on account of the pun. "Take a wild guess at what she wrote." It felt strange to say that so smoothly, especially with how sarcastic it sounded. Though that meant it was the first guess of the night that Carl couldn't get wrong, since he'd already been told the answer.
"Sonnets."
Patrick nodded. "My dad told me that she said every single page was fourteen lines of sorrow, even if it didn't look like it. Once he saw her writing, he couldn't help but plaster it all over the walls of his office. "
"And he didn't get fired for that?" The second flat-out question led to another smirk, and a simple shrug.
"I guess track coaches are allowed to decorate their offices however they want." He seemed to relish in the incredulous look he got in response to that revelation, but only for a moment. Ironically, it was then that his voice seemed to break. "Did I leave out the part where he went to school for P.E. after getting back to Colorado?" Carl held back another eye roll. "It helped that no one else wanted the job, but I think the best part was that he was overworked."
"Why would that be a good thing?" The younger boy didn't see how it could be.
"Because any time that happened, he'd go to his favorite bookstore to get a cup of an excuse for coffee-" A second silent laugh slipped out as Patrick went on explaining. "and check to see if Mom had written anything new. On that particular night, she was back in town. She wandered in just to get out of the snow." Patrick briefly bit at his gums, to hold in laughter over the part of the story he hadn't gotten to yet. "She saw him before he saw her. And she thought getting frostbite might be better than dealing with him, but basically sprinted over to his table anyway." Apparently, her thoughts and feelings were not in agreement. "To this day I still have no idea what she tripped over." Carl felt just as baffled at Patrick sounded. How did a former track star manage that? "She chipped her tooth. On the drive over to the dentist, they started talking again. Neither of them expected anything to become of it. He was doing her a favor, and she wanted to clear the air. Tell him everything her sonnets only said in subtlety. They ended up talking every day. They didn't leave anything out. They had a lot more fights, but it was a much healthier relationship the second time around."
Carl was still listening intently, but the pause in Patrick's speech seemed to go on too long. He looked over to see the other looking horror-stricken, but not over anything he saw. Over his poor choice of words. "What?" The younger boy probed with impatience. He wasn't going to pass any judgement-no matter the answer-but how was someone who only just met him supposed to know that?
"She confessed why she really quit the track team." The sentence came out in stammers.
Patrick couldn't get into the specifics of his mother's rare condition, for that was something he never understood.
All he knew was that she let it slow her down. Until she realized she couldn't live like that. Being so afraid. "He thought she wouldn't want to be around his work, but she loved it. As long as she could encourage the kids he coached to keep going. Somedays she ran along with them. He still put her writing up in his office, since it was a lot less obsessive once they were a thing again. He recognized her talent and wanted to show it off. Even though her later work didn't sell as well. Apparently it was too happy." The words seemed to echo. That loyal fanbase she built up turned out to be not so loyal. Her change of mood wasn't contagious. "She didn't care." Neither of them could when they were busy getting back to a life they thought was over. They had eight years to make up for. "They weren't looking for anyone's approval anymore." That was something that seemed essential back in high school, even though they were never concerned with keeping up an image. With that trivial burden off their shoulders, it opened their eyes to just how many people did accept their relationship. That was spoken for by the crowd at their wedding, which took place less than a year after they met up again.
Once he got to the day of the ceremony, Patrick's words evaporated into the night air. He knew what the hitch was. He had never been comfortable talking about himself. He thought it odd. (Most people were experts in that area.) Carl saw it as modest, though he didn't say so. What he asked was: "When do you show up in your own story?" He had his head in his hand, and the way his palm was positioned it looked like it could leave a dent in his cheek. It wasn't done out of boredom, but if that would motivate Patrick to shine the spotlight on himself for a moment, then the pose served its purpose.
"A little less than seven months later." The casual tone was countered when his register dropped. "They knew it was risky, but…" He tried to find the most delicate term, while working to fill in the cracks in his voice. "they didn't want to let me go." He struggled to form a smile. "There were so many people in the waiting room you'd think they were there for a concert and not… well, not for me. When it came time to name me, lots of people thought that'd just lead to another major fight. " Carl looked up, as he had been doing every few sentences, to show he was listening and keep Patrick talking. He almost expected to see fog clouding the elder boy's lenses, like a car windshield covered in condensation. "The doctors knew-everybody knew-she didn't have enough energy left in her for that. " Only then did it dawn on Carl where the story was headed. He of all people should not have been so oblivious to that. "It was unanimous. They named me for the day they found each other again. For almost an hour, all they did was lie there and hold me."
"...And then she was gone." Carl said what Patrick couldn't choke out, treading carefully with his word choice as well. When the elder boy nodded, their eyes met again. It was something of a comfort to see-and not have to hear-that he wasn't alone in that. Carl could relate.
Silence surrounded the cell for an agonizing moment. Then, the agony vanished, as Patrick realized what it meant to be able to talk about the memories that haunted him. This secret skeleton was just a story, now that it had been shared.
"Dad told me that if he had to call it anything, he'd call it a trade. One angel for another."
Neither of them could say if they agreed with that. But they didn't have to say anything. That was the end of the story. The beginning that wasn't so bright. For Patrick, it meant that he accomplished his mission. Sleep wouldn't just be a dream that night.
For Carl, it meant when he ran out of comic books, he had somewhere else to turn.
And for the both of them-though they weren't aware-it meant the start of something the world they were thrown into tended to keep out of reach...
Thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW! This is my first time writing something Walking Dead related (which is why it took so long to upload), so any pointers/ideas would be helpful and greatly appreciated. I'm already working on the next chapter (which will be longer. My first chapters are always introductions). Since this is one of five fanfictions I'm working on right now, it's next update will probably be part of an 'update spree'. I will amp up the action soon, and the backstory will be told in different perspectives. (Flashbacks and dreams, for example.) Feel free to let me know if there are any spelling/grammar/phrasing mistakes and ask questions if you have them. I'll update ASAP! =]