Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly.

The Hunter launched himself at the Smoker, knocking him to the ground. He shifted, straddling the others chest, legs clamping down over his arms, pinning them down. Panicking, he wrapped his hands around the other's throat. Digging his claws in, and squeezing as hard as he could.

The Smoker struggled beneath him but with the toe of the Hunters shoe digging into the wrist on his strong arm, the other couldn't get it free. He was able to free his non-tumor ridded arm, though. He gave a few scratches at his face, before grabbing his wrists. Trying to pry them away and restore his airflow.

Still panicked, the Hunter tried to figure out why he was doing this. Hadn't he just spent the last who-knows-how-long stalking him? Watching over him? Curling up beside him as he slept?

This wasn't right, wasn'tright. But he was protecting himself from an attacker, from someone who wanted to bring him harm. It was for the better, really. He could find another to Infect. Or another to play with. His grip tightened and he ignored the coughs and hacks from the other.

"B-Barthol-tholomew."

He froze. That name sounded familiar, but he didn't know why. He needed to know why. OhGod. Why couldn't he remember that name? Why couldn't he remember anything but following the other? Why couldn't he remember himself? He was Bartholomew. Wasn't he?

His body laxed during his mental breakdown, making it easy for the Smoker to flip their position, with the Hunter lying prone on the ground, and him crouched above him. The two tongues that weren't in his mouth shot out, wrapping around the other's wrists and holding them still. He hacked and gasped, simultaneously trying to get more air into his blacked lungs and trying to get that crushing feeling out of his trachea.

Bartholomew didn't even try to fight the other, just let himself be held down, waiting for the other to catch his breath as he pushed all the questions in his mind back. This wasn't the time to freak out. Nope. The others breath was starting to regain normalcy, and Bartholomew grinned.

"What's your name?" Yes, just make small talk as if you hadn't just tried to kill him. Pretend that he hadn't tried to do the same before that human showed up.

A fist landed harshly on Bartholomew's chest, making him gasp and his legs to jerk. The hand pressed harder, and Bartholomew started to panic again, his ribs bowing under the pressure and threatening to fracture. He felt one snap as warm breath washed over his face. He barely caught the words over his own shriek.

"It's Frankie, bitch."

Bartholomew hated moving. Just fucking hated it. He had to leave all his friends behind just because his father had to relocate for his job. Fucking. Lame. Not only that, but they didn't even move into a neighborhood with kids his age. Only younger and adults. Sure he was as tall as the kids that were his new 'buddies'. But they were four years his junior and still had doubts about girls/i not ihaving cooties.

School wasn't that bad though. He met some new people who didn't seem to mind that he was so short. Dammithehatedthatword. And the football team was still holding tryouts. Same with the track team. Maybe moving at the beginning of the year wasn't so bad after all.

Then Bartholomew met him.

The guy who would come to be his tormentor, his living nightmare, his sleeping nightmare. The wigger boy who thought he was so fucking gangster, despite being a stupid white boy with, what seemed to be, learning disabilities.

Or, at least, Bartholomew thought so.

The meeting hadn't started out bad. It was like meeting any one new. Bartholomew accidentally bumped into him in the hallway, causing Bartholomew to drop his books and an open bottle of water. The water bounced off the other's chest, dousing the front of his black hoodie. Bartholomew apologized quickly and even offered to walk with him to the infirmary to get him another shirt.

But all he got as a reply was a hard stare from the brunet as he pulled off his wet sweater, revealing his bare torso. Bartholomew was ever optimistic though, and simply stuck out his hand, grinning, and introduced himself, stating that he was new.

A cruel grin pulled across the boy's face now. That's when Bartholomew knew he needed to get away. Just leave the books and get away, but as he stepped back, a hand caught the front of his own hoodie.

"Where you goin'?" Using the grip he had on the white fabric, the brunet pulled Bartholomew around and slammed him against the lockers. "I thought we were just starting to get along." Hands slid down Bartholomew's sides, and to the hem of the hoodie. That's when the panic set it.

He struggled to get away, but the taller boy just pressed closer, trapping him. "Oh no, bitch, you're not leaving now. You owe me." The hands pulled up, and despite the little space between them, pulled the hoodie off.

All Bartholomew could think was that he needed to get away. And get away right away. Because this was not going to end nicely. But, surprisingly, it did, at least compared to what was to come. A door to their right opened up and a teacher called out.

So, the other just pulled the dry, slightly too small, hoodie on and leaned in close, scowling now. "The name's Frankie, bitch. Remember it."

A knee was brought up sharply, catching Bartholomew in the stomach, making him double over and gasp. As he panted, he glanced up to see Frankie grab his own wet hoodie along with Bartholomew's books and walk away. Leaving Bartholomew half naked and, literally, breathless.

Bartholomew screeched again as the pressure worsened, cracking a second rib. Then it was gone, leaving him panting and whining at the pain. He whimpered and struggled against the restraints still holding his wrists down.

"No." Frankie growled from above him. He felt a sudden draft on his stomach, and remembered the fight from before. Frankie must be checking his wounds. That was a nice thing to do. Bartholomew liked that Frankie was worried about him. He liked it a lot.

Bartholomew wanted to hug him. He wanted to hug Frankie, and get hugged back. Surely Frankie wouldn't object to that, he was checking on Bartholomew's wounds after all. But, his arms were pinned down still, and that made it hard to hug the other. He would just have to wait a little bit. Till Frankie released him, then he'd get his hug.

Something warm and slippery slid over his stomach and he screeched, straining to free himself and get whatever it was that was on him, off.

"Thop!"

He stilled at Frankie's hiss, and fell lax again. That was new. Usually when he was told to stop, he kept going. But something about Frankie made him listen. Bartholomew wasn't sure if he liked this or not.

Probably not.

The slithering wet thing kept moving, and after a moment Bartholomew realized what it was. It was Frankie's tongue cleaning his wound. Giddiness washed over him again at the realization. Frankie cared. Hecaredhecaredhecared. He had too, if he was cleaning Bartholomew off.

After a few moments, Frankie sat back, and slowly released Bartholomew. Instantly he jerked up and wrapped his arms around Frankie's neck, catching him off guard and causing him to tip over, landing on top of Bartholomew. But Bartholomew didn't care, he was just excited that he was hugging Frankie. Cause Frankie cared.

The blow to the side of the face was completely unexpected, and it jarred him badly. Enough to make it possible for Frankie to scramble back a few feet away from the smaller Infected.

Bartholomew whined at the loss of contact and clutched the side of his face. He knew that Frankie was still close, but he wasn't close enough.

"NO." Frankie growled out, slapping at Bartholomew's out stretched hand. "None of that! No touching, bitch!" But Bartholomew just whined again and attempted to crawl forward. Frankie stood, kicking him in the side, where his ribs had cracked, and pointed down at the whimpering Hunter. "Fucking touch me again, and I'll kill you."

Bartholomew just gave in, for now, and pulled himself into a crouched position by Frankie's feet. "Okay." He said, tipping his face up so that it would appear like he was looking at the other. "Okay, Frankie." It felt wrong to say him name like that. With affection and longing. It was so wrong, and yet so right.

Frankie scoffed. "Where's my jumper?" It took Bartholomew a moment to remember what Frankie was talking about, but then he perked up, grinning widely.

"It's at the place I sleep." That's right, Bartholomew had found a place to stay when he wasn't following Frankie. It was a house, that much he knew, and it had a couch and a pantry full of water. Which is really all he cared about. It also seemed to be free of other Infected. Which made sense, seeing how Bartholomew had to climb through the chimney to get in and out, due to there being no broken windows or doors.

"I can show you." This was exciting! Bartholomew got the Smoker he turned to come find him, and he was going to show him to his house! Nothing could be better. Except, maybe, not having two fractured ribs and a sliced open stomach. But those would heal up by tomorrow.

Frankie didn't answer at first, and, for the first time since he'd clawed his eyes out, Bartholomew wished he could see his expression, just so he could figure out what he was thinking. But, before Bartholomew could get to worried, Frankie replied with a simple: "Fine."

Bartholomew bounced on his toes a couple times, his grin only getting bigger. "Awesome!" He started clawing on all fours towards where he knew his house was. "You're going to like it!"

Frankie snorted behind him, but followed along.

And that made Bartholomew very happy.