I Won't Leave You Alone

by Just Another Introvert

After arriving at Alexandria, Carl feels like an outsider. Ron never had an easy life, and the apocalypse just made it worse. I'm awful at summaries, I'm sorry. Follows basis of season 5 with a few major changes. Contains Ron/Carl. Rated for violence and gore because it IS the apocalypse after all.

8. Shadows and Scars

Thank you all for leaving me such wonderful comments and continuing to read this (: It means a lot to me and your support is greatly appreciated.

Christa: I hope you feel better soon ): Hang in there
-

DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Walking Dead, so none of the characters or original plot line used are mine

"That looks like it could be a lopsided jellyfish," Ron mutters, pointing to a group of stars off to the right with his free hand.

"I don't see it," Carl says, squinting at the bunch of stars Ron claims resemble a jellyfish and trying to correctly connect the stars to see it.

They've been sitting out on the roof for almost an hour now. Since neither of them knows any constellations, they've decided to make some of their own. They've already made 'Dog with Eagle Wings' and 'Lumpy Watermelon Holding an Umbrella' and 'Ninja Wearing a Fedora'. It's complete and utter nonsense, but it's extremely entertaining to see what crazy and peculiar things they can make by connecting the stars like a big messed up game of Connect the Dots in the sky. They're still holding hands, occasionally giving the others hand an affectionate squeeze. Neither has any desire to let go. Ron quickly decides that holding Carl's hand is much better than holding his wrist. He loves that feeling of completion he gets by feeling Carl's fingers filling in the spaces between his own. It feels like they're meant to be there, like the spaces between Ron's fingers are there for the sole purpose of being filled in by Carl's fingers. He doesn't get that sense of finding his other half when holding his wrist.

"See, those are the tentacle thingies and that's the bulbous body head thing," Ron says, cautiously leaning out and using his finger to illustrate.

Carl narrows his eyes and stares. "Oh, ok, I can see it now. It looks like the jellyfish has a kite. You see it?"

Ron squints and stares. "Oh yeah, you're right. I can see the kite and it looks like the jellyfish is holding the string."

"Lopsided Jellyfish Flying a Kite," Carl murmurs with a relaxed smile, feeling Ron's fingers gently dance across his knuckles.

Ron smiles. "Lopsided Jellyfish Flying a Kite it is."

They both admire their new creation in silence for a moment.

"That one over there looks like a swan," Carl mutters, pointing to the left.

Ron looks over and nods in agreement. "It does, it looks like a swan...with a backpack."

"Oh yeah, you're right! That trail of stars sorta make a hump over the back."

"It's a School Swan," Ron mutters with a dorky smile.

"School Swan?"

"Yeah, it's got a backpack because it's going to school."

"Oh, so just because it has a backpack on you assume that it's going to school? Well, what if the swan is actually an extremely successful lawyer or businessman and just happens to carry around all of his important files and papers in a backpack?"

Ron starts to crack up and shakes his head. "Sorry I never thought of it that way!"

Carl smiles and gives Ron's hand a squeeze. "You should be sorry. The swan is pretty pissed off and thinks it was degrading of you to make an assumption like that."

Ron's shoulders shake in silent laughter. "If the swan wants to come off as professional, he should ditch the stupid backpack and get a briefcase."

Carl starts to laugh hysterically too. "W-watch your mouth, Ron!" He tries to mockingly scold, but there's absolutely no conviction to his voice and he can't stop wheezing out breathy laughs. "You're talking shit on the president of Swan Inc."

Ron laughs harder. "Wh-what the fuck is Swan Inc?!"

"It's a Swan Company where they make swan products," Carl says with a snort of laughter.

"Swan products?"

"Yeah like... feather toupees for molted patches and scarfs to keep their long necks warm," Carl replies seriously like its a well known fact that Swans produce feather toupees in large scale factories.

Ron laughs and squeezes Carl's hand. "You're the only person I know that can make up shit like that so easily and on a whim. I believe the proper term is 'creative'."

Carl just shrugs with a shy smile and wipes tears of laughter out of the corners of his eyes. "Thanks."

Ron hums a laugh in his throat and looks over at Carl with an affectionate grin. "I apologize to the swan, it was wrong to make an assumption like that. I make dumb assumptions all the time and I need to learn to stop."

Carl quirks an eyebrow in curiosity. "What kind of dumb assumptions do you make?"

Ron blushes a little and shrugs, momentarily forgetting the pain in his shoulders. They make sure to harshly remind him. "Well, this is really embarrassing, but I assumed that the hat you wear is a cowboy hat because it sort of looks like one, but I have a feeling that it's not. You don't strike me as the Clint Eastwood type."

Carl laughs and pulls his hat off with his free hand. "You're right it's not a cowboy hat. You have no idea how many people think it is though... Glenn and Daryl jokingly call me a cowboy all the time. It's actually my dad's old sheriff hat."

"Your dad was a sheriff before this whole thing started?" Ron asks curiously. He's always interested to hear about where Carl's been, what his life was like, and what he's been through before arriving at Alexandria. All Carl's told him is that he is originally from Atlanta, Georgia.

Carl nods and looks down at his hat. "Yeah, he was a sheriff back in Atlanta. He gave me his hat a long time ago, a few months after the shit hit the fan. This hat has been with me through almost everything. It's been through hell and back. As weird as it sounds, it's almost like... Like it's a part of me at this."

Ron looks down at the worn hat in astonishment. That hat has seen everything, and knows all about everything Carl's been through because it was there too. It's patches of worn fabric, frayed edges, and bent brim seem to tell stories of the insane and horrific adventures that it's wearer has endured. Ron wishes he knew about it all, he wishes he could see the bruises and scars he knows are there but can't because Carl covers them up and hides them. 'Sort of like when my mom covers her bruises with concealer,' Ron thinks with a sad sigh.

Carl smiles sadly down at his hat and runs his fingers over the brim. He sort of wishes that his hat could talk, because then it could tell Ron everything for him. A part of Carl wants to open up and show Ron everything and be completely honest and open, but a bigger part of him is terrified that once he shows Ron the dark side that he'll run for the hills. And the really sad part is that Carl wouldn't blame him. There are some days when he wishes that he could get away from himself because he feels like a filthy animal or a sniveling pathetic lowlife.

"The hat sure looks like it's been through a lot," Ron observes aloud.

Carl laughs a little and nods. "Yeah, it's definitely worn in at this point."

"It suits you."

"Thanks," Carl mutters with a small smile. He sets his hat back on his head and tilts the brim up, away from his eyes. "Even though I don't look like Clint Eastwood?" He jokingly asks.

Ron smiles and squeezes his hand. "Yeah. You wear it just like Eastwood, brim cocked down over your eyes like a cowboy, but you wear it better."

Carl grins and takes another look up at the sky. "You know... when I was younger I didn't wear it cocked down. A friend of mine got me into wearing it that way."

"Really?" Ron asks curiously, hoping for another bit of insight into Carl's past.

Carl slowly nods, as if debating whether or not to share his story. "Yeah. I used to be...really afraid. Afraid of dying, afraid of the walkers, afraid of losing people... afraid of what I was. But I could hide that fear. I have a brave face, I've always had a brave face, so I'd just...put on my brave face and act like I was ok. But...I wasn't. And then...I lost people and my fear changed from fear of dying to fear of losing...I was in a lot of emotional pain and distress, but I hid that behind my brave face too. I wanted to look ok, so I did... but I couldn't actually fix myself or make the pain go away. I was a torn-up, terrified kid but the image I put out made me look like I was fine, maybe a little sad and stoic, but fine. No one saw the fear or the hurt behind the mask; not my dad, not Daryl, not Glenn, not Carol...but my one friend saw right through me."

Ron nods, shifting slightly so that he can look at his friend as he talks. Carl avoids eye contact, the brim of his hat lowered down to cover his face. Ron gently traces his fingers over the grooves between Carl's knuckles, silently encouraging him.

"One night I was sitting by myself and stargazing out a window," Carl says quietly "The day had been awful. Something...really bad happened and I ...did something even worse. I was just trying to clear my head, I wanted to be alone and go off to my happier place for a little while. My friend came up and sat next to me. She started off by talking to me about the stars, telling me about the view she used to have from her bedroom window and talking about all of the shooting stars she'd seen and made wishes on. It was just chit chat, small talk to help me relax. I'd already known that she was really there to talk about something else, something more serious...probably about what I'd done earlier. We eventually started talking about Johnny Cash for some reason, I don't totally remember the conversation, I think she switched the subject from actual stars to 'stars' as in celebrities. She told me that I made her think of the Johnny Cash song 'God's Gonna Cut You Down'. Do you know that song?"

"You can run on for a long time. Run on for a long time. Run on for a long time. Sooner or later God'll cut you down. Sooner or later God'll cut you down," Ron sings quietly, answering Carl's question.

Carl laughs a little and smiles. "Ok, so I see you're familiar with it. Anyway, she said I reminded her of that song. I asked her why, and I vividly remember that she told me that it was because I run and I run from my problems by not dealing with them. That I store my emotions away in a box and pretend that they don't exist and that I just go through the motions. That I needed to stop running and hiding and that I needed to open up that box full of emotions and sort them all out. I had been shocked and a little scared that she'd seen right through me, so I rolled my eyes at her and told her that she was wrong and that I was fine. I told her that she could be an emotional mess if she wanted to, but that I was above that. I said it with a straight face so I thought she'd believe me, or just let it go or that she'd be insulted and go away. But she was persistent, and she told me that I was full of shit."

Ron listens intently and nods. He wishes the details weren't so vague, and that Carl would tell him about the backstory, but he won't push Carl to share any more than what he's comfortable sharing. He can't help but have a few questions though. What awful thing happened the day that the story takes place and what terrible thing did Carl do? He wonders what horrible things Carl went through that convinced him that emotions weren't a luxury that he could afford. He wonders who this friend was and why he doesn't use their name.

But most of all, it makes Ron seriously wonder if Carl still hides things behind a face and acts like he's ok when he's really bleeding.

"She tried to get me to talk, telling me I was lying and that ignoring my problems wouldn't make them go away and that the more I stored away my emotions, the stronger and scarier they'd get."

"Your friend's right," Ron says quietly.

Carl thickly swallows and nods. "She was. But...I was really just... in a bad place at the time. I told her again that she was wrong, and to prove my point, I looked her in the eyes as I said it. My dad always told me that the best way to seem sincere and trustworthy was to make eye contact. I thought that she'd believe me then...but when I looked her in the eyes, she started to cry."

"She started crying?" Ron asks in confusion.

Carl nods. "She started crying. I felt bad and apologized, but it just made her cry harder."

"What'd you do?"

"I sort of froze up. I didn't know what I did wrong, so I just sort of watched her. I didn't know what to do. After a few minutes she collected herself and she stared at me with watery eyes. I apologized again, not sure what the hell I'd done wrong. And...she pulled me into a hug and held me like someone was trying to yank me away from her."

"Then what happened?"

"It felt weird being held, sort of nice but like...everything I thought I had to support myself vanished and her arms were suddenly the only things holding me up. Part of me had wanted to collapse and let myself shatter in her arms, but I quickly tried to reinforce my supports and after she let me go and tried to coax me into telling her about what hurt, I just brushed her off again and told her that nothing hurt and that I was fine and I said some other...kind of shitty things to her to try to get her to leave me alone. But I knew she wouldn't believe me and that she knew what was going through my head. She told me that I could say whatever I wanted to her, but that she wasn't going anywhere. And she called me a shitty liar."

Ron looks at his friend curiously. "Really? I mean, Glenn is a terrible liar and so is Sam, but you seem to be a good improviser."

Carl laughs hoarsely. "Yeah, I am, so I was pretty stunned that she saw behind my brave face and saw...all the bad stuff I had hidden under there. I stopped trying to lie, realizing it was pointless, and asked her how she knew. No one else knew, my own dad didn't see it...But she did somehow. She told me that I had a good poker face, but that my eyes gave me away. She said my eyes told a totally different story than my face... that when she looked into them that she could see...fear and sadness and pain. She said I had a sullen, brave, honest face, but the saddest eyes she'd ever seen."

Ron looks at him with a mixture of sadness and sympathy. It's then that he realizes that as Carl is telling his story, the brim of his hat is tilted down and covering his eyes. He has a feeling that it's not coincidental.

"So you started to tilt your hat down to hide your eyes so that people couldn't see you were hurting?" Ron asks quietly.

Carl's silence answers his question.

"Why do you still wear it like that?" Ron asks, his voice so quiet that it's barely audible.

"Same reason I did before," Carl whispers.

Ron feels his heart sink as he gives Carl's hand a gentle squeeze and leans closer to him. Carl keeps the brim over his eyes and Ron feels his hand start to shake.

He wants to hold him and make it all go away. He wishes he knew how to exorcise whatever demons are lurking around inside of Carl and tearing him apart. He wishes he could see the ghosts that haunt him and the fear and hurt in his eyes. Sometimes Ron can pick up on hints of underlying emotion hidden in Carl's voice, and sometimes his eyes flicker or dim with something that Ron can't quite decipher.

But he WANTS to know what it is. He WANTS to understand. He wants to help Carl, like how Carl helps him. He knows he can't fix it, but he wants to make it better. He wants to lessen the pain. He wants to open all of those boxes of emotion shoved away in the back of Carl's mind and sort through them.

He wants to lean down, pull the hat away from his face, and look him in the eye to see the emotion hidden there. He wants Carl to tell him everything, completely open up and unfold. He wants him to show the scars and bruises and explain how he acquired them. He wants to assure Carl that he won't get scared off by what he learns. He won't abandon him because of past decisions or experiences. He won't leave him in the dark by himself.

He can tell Carl is afraid of opening up to him and showing him everything. When telling stories, he always seems to conveniently leave out people's names, specific details of events that happened, and how things turned out.

But he knows it probably takes a lot out of Carl just to tell him the things that he does. Ron has a hunch that a lot of the scars and bruises backstories are extremely painful and upsetting things for Carl to discuss and think about. Ron completely understands, there are some things that he prefers not to think about or act like they never happened because they're just to hard for him to relive.

Ron is rather impressed with how much insight he's been given tonight. Carl's actually told him a lot in the past few hours. He told him about his happier place, mentioned his mom and acknowledged that she's dead, somewhat told him about a friend that's obviously no longer around, hinted at doing something unspeakable and living through something awful, and admitted that all of his sadness and pain may seem non existent but is very real can be seen through his eyes.

"The stars are amazing," Ron mutters offhandedly in an awkward attempt to change the subject and help Carl relax. He scoots closer to Carl so that their sides are touching and rests their conjoined hands in their laps.

Carl smiles and nods. "Yeah. They are."

"I'm glad you took me up here and showed me this. I've never really just...admired the night sky before."

Carl smiles. "The night sky is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen and I just...wanted to share it with someone...Well actually..."

Ron looks over at him curiously. "What?"

"I've never wanted to share it before. It was my...private place where I blocked everyone out. I still don't want to share it with just anyone. But I want to share it with you because I don't want to block you out. I want you...close."

Ron smiles at him. "I want you close too."

Carl squeezes his hand and points up at the moon. "The moon is in its waxing gibbous stage, so it'll be full soon," he mutters. "When the moon is full, it's beautiful. I like it best when it's full because it looks like a gleaming silvery pond in the sky. Hopefully you'll stay awake and see it."

"I knew the moon had phases, but they're named?"

Carl nods.

"Where'd you learn that?"

"A friend."

"Is it...the same friend who read your eyes?"

Carl shakes his head and stares off absentmindedly at the moon. "No, different friend."

Ron looks sadly at the stars and wonders how many friends Carl has lost. He's not brave enough to ask though, afraid that asking will upset Carl and cause him to shut down, and Ron doesn't want to be blocked out.

"It's getting late, we should go inside," Carl mutters, letting go off Ron's hand and starting to slide off of the ledge. He stares back up at his friend, waiting for him to descend from the ledge and follow him back inside.

Ron follows him down, slipping awkwardly off the ledge (not letting go until his feet are touching the roof), shakily walks across the side of the roof (keeping his hands pressed flat against the wall for support), and crawls back inside through Michonne's bedroom window.

As he climbs through the open window, Carl hears soft breathing and a quit rustling noise. He looks over to see that Michonne is home, splayed out in her bed with her head shoved under her pillow, and sound asleep.

"Looks like whatever freaky terrorist group she created with Carol and Daryl has adjourned for the night," Ron mutters as he crawls through the window and sees Michonne's sleeping form.

"I wonder when she got back," Carl mutters.

"We were out on the roof for at least an hour, so who knows," Ron whispers.

Carl nods, cautiously tiptoeing across the bedroom to Michonne's bedside. He carefully tugs the sheets further up to cover Michonne's shoulders, tucking her in. He tilts the pillow away from her face, stoops down, and places a quick kiss to her temple before awkwardly setting the pillow back on her head.

Ron smiles. He finds it funny and sweet how Carl is cold and distant with just about everyone, but if you're one of the few people that manages to wheedle their way into his affections, he REALLY loves and cares about you and would do anything for you. He has what some may call a sweet, devotional, almost childlike affection for those that he loves. Once he's latched on, he's loyal to a fault.

"What time is it?" Carl asks as he and Ron quietly creep out of Michonne's bedroom and close the door behind them.

Ron pokes his head in the nursery and looks at the clock. "It's about 1:30 in the morning."

Carl laughs quietly. "That's funny. It doesn't feel like 2 AM, you know?"

Ron nods in agreement. "Yeah, it feels like 10 PM, 11 at the latest."

"So..." Carl drawls, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall. "What do you want to do?"

Ron shoves his hands into his jean pockets and looks at the ground as he thinks of something cool for them to do at 2 in the morning. He really has no ideas until he starts to think about being up on the roof with Carl and knowing that that's his place. His secret place with secret personal meaning that no one else knows about but them. And then Ron gets an idea, quickly thinking of a place of his own that he has yet to let anyone else into. "Well...you showed me something amazing and meaningful tonight. I think I should return the favor."

Carl looks at him with intrigue and his eyes light up. "You want to show me something?"

Ron nods. "Yeah, but it involves taking a 2 AM walk. You up for it?"

Carl nods. How the hell could he not be up for seeing something that's obviously extremely meaningful and secretive to Ron? Besides, Ron just wasted almost two hours of his life listening to him awkwardly and unsuccessfully try his best to open up and tell an extremely personal story. Going to see whatever secretive and most likely personal thing Ron has to show him is really the least he can do to return the favor.
"Yeah, let's go."

They quietly descend the stair case and slip out the front door.
-

They walk silently down the empty streets. It's dark and both boys have to squint to see the stretch of cement in front of them and avoid tripping over themselves. It's eerily quiet, the only sounds are their footsteps, the quiet whistle of the wind, and a faint rustling of the grass and leaves being gently blown.

"It's kind of creepy with no one else around," Ron mutters.

Carl nods. "It's weird walking in the streets while everyone else is asleep."

"Feels like a ghost town."

"Well, we'd be the ghosts then, wouldn't we?"

Ron looks at him in confusion and pulls his jacket around him closer with a shiver. "We would?"

Carl nods, burrowing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie for warmth. "Yeah, we would. Everyone else is asleep, and we're still up and walking around. Like two ghosts roaming the empty streets of a seemingly lifeless and sleeping Alexandria."

Ron smiles and looks over at his friend. "And we roam because of the restlessness buzzing around inside of us and thrumming in our heads like a shitty 80's disco song. The restlessness prevents us from resting in peace. Both literally and metaphorically."

Carl laughs quietly and nods, following Ron down the street. "Yep... I wonder what it feels like to be a restless disembodied spirit."

Ron can't help but laugh and shake his head. He doesn't know anyone else other than Carl that would try to rationalize their own figure of speech. "Well, what's it feel like to be a restless embodied being?"

Carl shrugs. "It's hard to explain how something feels. I guess being a restless embodied being...sucks."

"Sucks. That's the best you can do?"

Carl laughs and shrugs. "Uh...it feels itchy, like your skin is crawling and itching, like your bones are trying to shed the skin off of them but the skin is sticking to them like glue. What does restless feel like to you?"

Ron bites his lip as he thinks. "Eh...kind of like a weird and annoying buzzing; like a mild and constant electric shock in your chest and legs and head. Restless feels like there's something uncomfortable and heavy in your stomach that's trying to squirm through your muscle and skin tissue to break out."

"That still doesn't answer my question."

Ron raises an eyebrow. "Sure it does, if feeling restless as an embodied being feels like-"

Carl shakes his head. "But spirits don't have bodies. We both said that being restless physically FELT like something. Spirits don't have skin, so they can't feel like they're skin is crawling and they don't have muscles or flesh to feel something heavy and uncomfortable squirm through. So it would have to feel different, wouldn't it?"

"I guess so. I don't know what it feels like to exist without a body, sorry. I'd assume that it feels weird, like...like you're drifting maybe? Like how your lower arm feels when your elbow is broken; like it's not really attached to anything yet still supporting itself."

"You're elbow's been broken?" Carl asks, looking up at his companion.

Ron's face flushes and his gaze drops to his feet. "Um, well, yeah...yours hasn't?"

Carl shakes his head. "I got my wrist broken once, but not my elbow. How'd you manage to break your elbow?"

Ron makes a face, looking hesitant and uncertain and some other negative emotion that seems to cloud over his face. He starts to bite his inner cheek and chew on it, an unintentional action of his that serves as a signal that Carl has learnt means he's uncomfortable. Carl quickly realizes that Ron has most likely had several bones broken during his lifetime, and that most of his injuries probably aren't caused by typical dumb kid stuff like trying to jump over three trash cans on a skateboard or trying to do a slam dunk backwards while jumping off of a trampoline.

"Sorry," Carl apologizes quietly, hoping he didn't brush any sore spots.

Ron shakes his head. "No, it's ok, it's just...not something I've ever discussed with anyone."

Carl nods. "I get it. It wasn't any of my business asking, I'm sorry."

Ron let's out a weak chuckle and shakes his head. "Don't apologize, you didn't do anything wrong. If someone mentioned breaking something strange like their elbow I'd probably ask too. It's a weird thing to break. Besides, I impede on your privacy and ask shit that I shouldn't all the time. So it's totally fine."

"You don't impede on my privacy, you're just...curious and concerned."

"But I ask you things that make you uncomfortable. I can tell because you get...quiet. I used to think you were naturally just quiet, but now that I know you, I know that you being quiet either means that you're in deep thought or that you're uncomfortable or sad...or all three."

Carl has no idea how to respond to that. It's true. Ron's completely correct. Carl finds it amazing that the taller boy is able to have such a good understanding of him and how he works. Almost everyone else is always confused by his actions or unable to gauge his reaction or emotional state of mind, but Ron has picked up on how Carl operates and has picked up on most of his body language in a very short period of time. It's almost like he has a Carl Grimes Manuel or something. Or maybe Michonne has secretly been giving him 'Carlese' lessons.

"You don't have to be...scared of telling me things. I promise that no matter what you tell me, I'll still be here beside you," Ron says quietly, nervous that what he's saying is too brash.

Carl swallows thickly and feels his heart start to hammer in his chest. 'No you won't,' he thinks sadly. 'Not after hearing about everything. You'll either see that I'm a killer and run off in fear or disgust, or you'll see that I'm fucked up beyond repair and run away because it scares you or you'll waste your time trying to fix me.'

Ron watches Carl's posture go rigid and his hands clench the fabric of his hoodie. He can faintly hear a weird and steady thrumming noise, like a drum being beaten in time miles away. He quickly realizes that he's hearing Carl's heart pounding. He looks over at him in slight concern, not entirely sure that it's natural and/or healthy for hearts to beat that hard and fast. He then realizes that his heart pounding a million miles a minute means that he's scared. Carl Grimes is scared. And Ron can't help but feel his own blood start to run cold.

"Carl?"

"Yeah?"

Ron looks over at him. "You don't have to wear a brave face for me either. You can open those boxes crammed full of emotion...I'll help you sort through them."

Carl tilts his head further down and let's out a forced and bitter sounding laugh. He wants to explain that he DOES have to wear it, that Ron WILL either start to treat him like a victim and waste his time trying to piece him together or run away in fear. That he wants to tell him everything and let him in, and that he really is just scared to tell him about all of the truly horrible things he's lived through and done. He's come to terms with it himself, but he doesn't know if another person who doesn't know and wasn't there will be able to.

Ron watches Carl continue to walk in a bizarre too stiff manner. His ears feel like they might start bleeding as the silence between them stretches on. He opens his mouth to say something, but can't think of anything to say and just ends up gaping like a fish.

What is he supposed to say? Does he try to reassure him again or will that just cause him to totally shut down? Does he change the subject or will that just make it worse? Does he just let the silence stretch on? Once again, Ron is reminded of a Rubix Cube, feeling like he's anxiously turning and twisting around the rows of colors in hopes of lining it all up, or at least lining parts of it up to get some idea of what Carl's dealing with.

"Where are you taking me?" Carl asks, trying to shift the subject from his own messed up life to Ron's.

Ron turns the corner, leading Carl further down the street. "My house. Well, my garage to be more specific. You've been in my garage before, right?" Ron asks with a little smile.

Carl nods and feels his lips turn upwards. "Yeah, it looks like an abandoned art museum with all of your mom's artwork all over the place."

Carl's only been in the Anderson's garage once, and it's a fucking mess. Jessie stores her art down there, so it looks like a run down art museum with several sculptures pushed into the corners and covered with dusty tarps, paintings stacked up on top of cheap lawn chairs, and pottery balanced precariously atop the piles of paintings. Books of her sketches also lay in piles stop the unused old ping pong table along with an intricate mosaic tile picture of a little girl and a tiny dog. Cardboard boxes full of what Ron refers to as 'abstract and unique' pieces of her art sit untouched atop of a filing cabinet, which is also full of little ornaments that she's designed out of household items like bottle caps, string, glitter, Legos, and mismatched earrings. Carl seriously wonders what Ron has to show him that's in his basement. Some of his mother's art most likely, that's all that's in the garage.

Ron laughs. "That's a nice way of putting it. I usually just say that it looks like a tornado blew through and that it's a goddamn mess. But sure, we're going to go browse through an abandoned art museum."

"You wanna show me some of your mom's artwork?" Carl asks as they round a corner.

Ron shakes his head. "My mom doesn't call what I'm about to show you artwork. I believe she calls them Shadows."

Carl looks at Ron in confusion. "Shadows?"

Ron nods and smirks. "Yeah...you're about to wander through an abandoned art museum to look at Shadows. Exciting, right?"

Carl smiles up at him. "Can't wait."
-

As Ron quietly lifts up the garage door just high enough for Carl and he to duck under it, he thinks about how weird it feels sneaking into his own home. Ron knows that if he gets 'caught' there really aren't any major consequences. Well, besides his dad's full blown wrath if he wakes him up. So yeah, maybe there are some consequences. Major ones that involve black eyes and broken ribs.

Carl finds himself wandering through moonlight lit rows of paintings stacked on top one another and sculptures hidden behind heavy tarps and blankets. He's always blown away by Jessie's artistic abilities.

"So...how do I tell the Shadows apart from the regular art?" Carl asks as delicately shifts a stack of paintings.

Ron smiles sadly as he ducks under the garage door and softly closes it. "My mom hides the Shadows. She doesn't like them and she REALLY doesn't like other people looking at them. To be totally honest, I think her Shadows are way better than any of her artwork. They're more...down to earth. Her normal artwork are paintings and drawings of animals, generic scenes of nature, and the occasional portrait with a smiling face. Her Shadows are of...other things. She claims that she doesn't make Shadows anymore, she always insists that she try to stay positive. I think that's bullshit. Self expression isn't always positive because what's going on around you and shaping you isn't always positive. What's wrong with a little bit of angst or depression? I think a hint of melancholy makes anything ten times more realistic and relatable. Positive 'it's all good, and happy, and perfect' is bullshit and it makes me gag."

Carl nods, following Ron through the aisles of artwork. "Yeah, overly happy ignorance and obliviousness is annoying. No matter how positive your mom tries to be, her problems are still going to be there and being positive isn't going to help her come to grips with it. Maybe it's how she copes? The whole 'if I'm ok and can keep breathing everything is perfect' mindset might be what keeps her going," Carl mutters.

Ron nods, gently pushing a sculpture of the Eiffel Tower to the side. "It is, and I guess I should be happy that she has a way of coping and doesn't just shut down on me, but the 'I'm okay' bullshit pisses me off. That's why I like her Shadows so much. Because they prove that she's not okay and that she expresses her pain, as awful as that sounds."

"You said she doesn't like them, so I'm guessing they're hidden?"

"Sort of. She hides them among all of the other art work down here. They're scattered around here everywhere, so you just gotta dig around a little bit to find them," Ron explains as he starts shifting through some of the paintings.

Carl nods and begins looking through a sketchbook. "So, will I definitely be able to tell when I find a Shadow?"

Ron nods. "Yeah, you will. I'll let you know if I find one."

Carl continues flipping through the sketchbook. There are several little drawings of birds and flowers. But nothing negative or dark or even remotely sad. He flips through two more sketchbooks, both which are filled with drawings of different breeds of dogs and trees and skylines. None of the drawings seem out of the ordinary.

Carl is about go over to Ron and see if he's found anything when he notices the edge of a painting's frame sticking out in the stack. Carl carefully pulls the painting out and holds it up to look at it.

"Hey, Ron, I think I found one," Carl mutters softly.

Ron looks up from the stack of paintings he's flipping through to see what Carl has. His lips press into a thin, grim line and he nods. "Yeah, you found one."

Carl admires the painting. At first glance it seems like a normal picture of a young woman sitting in a kitchen chair with a big smile on her face, but the more Carl examined it, the more uneasy it made him feel. Upon closer inspection Carl noticed that the woman's ankle was hand cuffed to the leg of the chair, there were tears in her eyes, the black lines that he originally assumed were her teeth are actually a zipper, and the black eyeshadow around her eyes seems to look more like bruising and swelling.

"This one always made me sad because I wondered if she really felt like she was trapped here and unable to say anything. She made this one a few months ago."

Carl nods, gently setting it back on the stack. "Does she know that you look through her artwork?"

"Probably not. I only started doing it a year ago."

Carl nods, continuing to shift through the stack. "Does she make names for her works or not?"

Ron shakes his head. "She doesn't, but I do sometimes for fun. I called that one 'Trapped'."

Carl looks over at him sadly. Ron looks back at him, mouth still set in a straight emotionless line.

"I think my favorite is 'Bruises'," Ron mutters as he starts looking through a sketchbook. "I'm not sure where it is down here though...oh hey, here's another Shadow," he says. Carl steps beside him and peers at the notebook page to see a drawing of a broken beer bottle, the shards covered in blood and arranged to look like an eyeball.

"Whoa. Does your mom know that you know about her Shadows?"

Ron nods. "I first saw one as a little kid, it was a painting of a crying man with green glass stuck in his palms and the blood was pooling down his arms. I wasn't supposed to see it, but I had been looking for my sled in the attic and stumbled across it. I remember that it had confused me and scared me a little, so I took it downstairs to show my mom. I knew she must've painted it since she paints and draws all the time no one else in our neighborhood sold art. I remember when I showed it to her that her face went white and she told me to put it back in the attic. I was stubborn, so I refused to and kept asking her to tell me why she painted it and what it was supposed to be. She eventually gave in and gently told me that she painted it because she was 'upset and sad' and that I wasn't allowed to tell Dad about it, that the painting was our secret. She also made me promise not to go in the attic by myself anymore, probably because she didn't want me finding anymore paintings like that. I asked her why I couldn't tell dad about the painting, because I was seriously confused at that point and thought it was just a creepy painting. That's when my mom told me that she didn't like that painting, and that the painting wasn't even a painting because it was 'dark' and that she had painted it to reflect what she was going through. At the time I didn't understand what she meant because I was only 8. I guess my confusion showed because she told me that they were like her shadow. That sort of made sense to me then, so I went with it. I didn't poke around her Shadows again for awhile, not until last year when she moved all of her art to the basement. I'd helped her move her shit, and I noticed several darker paintings and drawings. That got me curious about how many 'shadows' she had, so I started coming down here some nights and looking around...I've learned she has a lot of them."

"Enough to fill an abandoned art museum," Carl mutters softly, watching Ron continue to flip through the sketchbook.

"I used to not understand these paintings, but now I understand them so well that I know the message that my mom's trying to convey in each one of them. They help me understand my mom better too...I used to think that I caught her smile flickering and saw her eyes get glassy. Now I know."

Carl looks up at him, feeling extremely sorry for him. He once again wishes that there was something he could do to help Ron. He wishes he had a cure to alcoholism almost as much as he wishes he had a cure to the zombie virus. He finds it heartbreaking that Ron spends his nights shifting through his mom's artwork just to find paintings that prove that she's not as happy and grounded as she seems to be and that she's actually extremely upset and maybe even a little bit depressed.

Carl wonders if seeing that his mom's not okay makes Ron feel a little better because it assures him that he's not the only one that's dispirited and broken by the situation.

"Hey, there's one," Carl whispers, pointing to a drawing of a two baby owls, staring wide eyed with scenes of violence, like a man pointing a gun and a house on fire, in their eyes and bandages over bloody stumps where their wings should be.

"Yeah, I've always liked this one because her subliminal messaging isn't so subliminal."

"That's you and your brother, right?" Carl asks quietly.

"That's what I think," Ron mutters. "Eyes full of violence because they've seen awful things-"

"Clipped wings because they've been permanently damaged," Carl mutters. "It could mean a lot of different things except there's two of them and they're small..."

Ron nods. "Yeah, that sort of gives it away."

Carl looks up at Ron, trying to read his facial expression. He doesn't look uncomfortable, but his head is bowed and he looks sort of tired and really, really sad. Like, 'first grader that just watched his puppy get hit with an ice cream truck' sad. He can't imagine how hard it is to look through your mother's twisted and disturbing paintings and drawings that show just how damaged and sad she is. It probably hurts even more since she's always forcing smiles and acting like she couldn't be better just to give everyone else a false sense of hope.

"I don't think that there's anymore Shadows in here," Ron mutters, flipping through the rest of the sketchbook.

Carl nods and starts looking through the paintings again. "How long has she been making Shadows?" He asks

Ron shrugs. "The first time I found one I was 8, so 7 years at least. She claims she doesn't make them anymore, but I know she's lying because at least once a month I find a new one."

"Do you ever ask her about them."

"Yeah, when I'm especially upset and want her to drop the facade I ask about them to be a shit. She always gets defensive and claims she doesn't make them anymore, but I found a new one three nights ago," Ron mutters, pawing through a pile of paintings behind Carl. "And if I remember correctly it's in this pile...here it is."

Carl turns around as Ron yanks a painting out and sets it on the floor for him to look at.

It's a painting of a typical living room that looks inhabited. But it's very off and Carl can tell right away that it's not as serene and average as it seems. The flowers in the vase on the coffee table are dead and wilted, the paint on the walls is peeling and chipped, the windows are all broken and the shards are scattered along the floor, and the coatrack in the background is knocked over onto the floor. The coffee table is covered with empty wine and vodka bottles and dead flower petals. A pretty red box with silk lining that holds a single silver sobriety chip is also set on the table. Instead of a family seated on the sofa, there's an empty bottle of beer, a crow, and an orange kitten with its fur all ruffled that looks frightened and sickly. There's what appears to be vomit on the floor mixed in with the glass shards.

"Holy shit," Carl mutters, taken aback.

Ron just nods. He doesn't trust his voice, knowing that if he talks his voice will break off unevenly and he'll choke on the lump in his throat.

Carl looks over at him, looking totally blown away and shocked. The other Shadows are disturbing, but so far this takes the cake for being the most fucked up. Ron looks down at the painting, an almost pained expression on his face.

"They do say alcoholism is the cure for marriage," Ron mutters dryly.

Carl looks over at him, wishing he knew what to say. He honestly isn't sure what to tell Ron. He could say that he's sorry, and tell Ron that he doesn't deserve to be in the shitty situation he's in, but Carl feels like he's said that at least 100 times before and it still hasn't helped or changed anything. He could say that none of this is Ron's fault, but he knows he could scream that until his voice box bled and Ron still wouldn't believe him.

Carl quickly decides that like in most situations, words aren't going to help, especially his awkward jumbled up spiel. He's never been good with words or saying the right thing, but he knows how to handle a delicate thing like this properly. You handle it silently, because from personal experience, Carl has learned that silence is better than saying the wrong thing. And that in a weird way, silence can be comforting. Sometimes. Other times, it consumes you and makes you feel empty and hallow.

Carl doesn't say a word and reaches out, grabbing Ron by the hand. He likes holding Ron's hand, it makes him feel secure and like he's not alone. He hopes that Ron gets the same sense of comfort when they hold hands, because that's all Carl feels he can do to help him.

Ron tightens his grip on Carl's hand and looks over at him with a smile. It's not a happy smile though, it's a sad smile. A secretive 'between you and me' sort of smile. A bitter sweet smile that makes Carl's heart sink and soar at the same time.

"You know, these Shadows are sort of like your Happier Place. I never wanted to share it with anyone else. It was my burden. My secret. But...I want to share it with you. I want you here. I don't want other people poking around in here, I actually flipped out on Mik once because he started looking through a sketchbook and I was scared he would find one of my mom's Shadows, but I feel like you should see it. When you shared your place with me, I figured I should share a place of mine with you. It's not a happier place, but it's...a relevant place."

Carl smiles at him. Not a happy smile, but a sad, secretive 'between you and me', bittersweet smile. He leans closer to Ron and gives his hand a squeeze. "I'm really happy you trust me enough to show me. This," he motions to the painting below them. "And the rest of the Shadows are really...incredible. This is amazing, I'd never guess that your mom expressed her negative emotions. I thought she just bottled them up."

Ron shakes his head. "She expresses it but she tries to hide it. She just...wants to be strong for Sam and I. It's honorable. But I actually have more respect for her when I look at these, they make me feel like...like she's not just plowing through and like I'm not the only one suffocating."

Carl looks over at him sadly. "You're not. She's just better at playing it off and hiding it."

Ron closes his eyes and nods, giving Carl's hand another squeeze before letting go and picking the painting off the floor and putting it back in the stack. "I forgot to show you this. I mean...I've thought about it but I never knew when because if I took you down here during the day my mom would be awake and would see and might be suspicious. I don't want to stress her out, I know she doesn't like her Shadows, but...I embrace them."

Carl smiles at him and continues looking through the paintings. "Are you good at embracing people's dark sides?" He asks meekly.

"Since I know everyone has one, yeah, I am pretty good at it. Some are darker than others, but I'm good at it."

Carl still looks uncertain and just continues looking through the artwork. He pulls out a painting of a woman's pale arms that are littered with big, ugly, purple and grey bruises. "Hey, Ron, I think I just found the one you mentioned being your favorite earlier. I think you called it 'Bruises'?"

Ron looks over at him and smiles faintly. "Yeah, this is 'Bruises'. This is my favorite because I actually saw my mom paint this one. One night after she took a shower and all of her concealer came off, she glanced down at her arms, and then she painted what she saw."

Carl looks at the painting sadly. "Are her arms usually this bruised?"

"Uh...I honestly don't know. She wears concealer all the time, and when she takes it off she makes sure to wear long sleeves, so I never really see her arms. I'd assume so though."

"Do your arms look like this?" Carl asks quietly.

Ron awkwardly bites his lip. "Uh, well, I mean, sometimes, but not all the time..." He stammers, self consciously tugging at his jacket.

Carl looks at him, feeling guilty for asking as the question seems to have sparked a bit of anxiety in Ron. Carl watches him awkwardly stammer and his face flush.

"I'm sorry, this is the second time tonight that I've asked you something that I shouldn't have. My bad, I'm sorry," he apologizes.

Ron smirks at him and shakes his head. "It's fine. Besides, if you want to keep up with me in the 'asking personal questions that shouldn't be asked' contest you need to ask me 4 million more personal questions."

"Hey, you don't ask me THAT many questions that make me uncomfortable."

"I feel like I do, and I'm seriously really sorry about it. I know that I ask you too many questions and-"

"Ron, man, you really don't," Carl insists as he puts the picture back where he found it.

"Seriously, don't spare my feelings here, I know I do. I don't even try to, but it just...slips out. Like a few days ago when you accidentally said something about sleeping in a cell and I asked like three questions about it in a row, and when you mentioned someone named Sophia and I asked a few questions even after you showed clear signs of discomfort. I DO ask too many questions. If I were a cat, curiosity would've killed me by now."

Carl can't help but laugh and playfully give Ron a shove. "Stop beating yourself up over it. I do it to you too. I notice your bruises I can't help but ask. You mention a broken bone, I ask. You briefly talk about the abuse and a bazillion questions pop into my head. It's like word vomit. I'm just as bad as you are."

"No you're not. You keep most of your questions in your head but I just impulsively ask," Ron says, going back to looking through a stack of paintings.

"Maybe that just means you're a better communicator than I am," Carl mutters, walking over to the filing cabinet. He eyes the cardboard boxes full of 'abstract' art curiously. He looks over his shoulder to see Ron busy shifting through a pile of paintings, so he precedes in his attempt to reach the box and get it down. Even up on his tiptoes he's not tall enough to reach it, so he carefully moves a few sketchbooks off a lawn chair and onto the floor, carries the chair over to the filing cabinet, and climbs on top of it. He still has to reach, but he manages to grab the box and get it down.

He sits down in the chair and opens the cardboard box up. It apparently hasn't been touched in quite some time, because dust flies off of it as Carl opens it up and it goes up his nose and down his throat, causing him to cough.

"You ok?" Ron asks, peering up from the painting he's inspecting.

"Yeah," Carl wheezes with another weak hack. He dusts the dust off his hands before looking into the box.

He's surprised to see a totally bizarre assortment of items inside of the box. There's a weird figurine cow, a sock puppet, a few sheep that seem to be carved out of soap, and a few drawings. Carl picks up a drawing to look at it. He quickly realizes that it's not drawn by Jessie, but by a young child.

It's a drawing in crayon of a family. The dad is drawn rather large and he looks mad, a frown etched onto his face. The mom is much smaller than the dad, and she has a baby in her arms. She looks happy, but her one arm is in a sling and she has a black eye. There's a little boy standing far away from the rest of them. He looks extremely sad, frowning. There's something scribbled in the lower right hand corner in blue crayon. It's barely legible, but if Carl squints and tilts his head he can read it:
Mrs. Lindy's 3rd Grade Room
Ron Anderson

Carl feels his heart beat faster. He picks up another drawing to look at. It's very similar to the first one, drawn in crayon and by a young kid. It's a picture of Jessie, she's smiling, but there's purple scribbling on her face that looks like bruising. Written in the lower right hand corner in green crayon is a sloppy signature: Ron Anderson. Carl looks at the last two drawings. One is of Pete, he's frowning and his eyebrows are knitted. Ron Anderson is written in the corner in red crayon. The last picture is of Pete and Jessie together. Pete is drawn noticeably larger, and neither is smiling. Ron's Anderson is written in purple crayon across the top.

"Ron?" Carl calls softly, splaying all of the pictures out across his lap.

"What's up? Did you find a Shadow?" He asks, walking over to his friend.

"Yeah, but they're not your mom's, their yours," Carl says as Ron stoops down next to him to look at the pictures. "You drew these didn't you?"

Ron picks up one of the pictures to look at it. His face falls and his lips twitch into a sad smile.

"Yeah, I drew these...I drew the family portrait in 3rd grade, we had this assignment in art and we were supposed to draw our families. The teacher saw my portrait and sent me to the guidance counselor's office with my picture. I guess it didn't fit in with the smiley, happy family pictures that my classmates drew. The counselor got all worked up over my picture too. She asked me why my mom's face was purple. I told her that that's how her face usually looks. She asked me how my mom broke her arm. I told her that I wasn't sure because mom had me locked up in the bathroom when it happened."

Carl looks at him sadly. "What did the counselor do?"

"She kept asking me questions, but I got scared and refused to answer her. I didn't want to get my dad in trouble, so I just kept quiet. She called my parents. I remember getting home and my mom crying and hugging me and fussing over me like she'd just learned I had leukemia. She sat me down and asked to see the picture. When I showed it to her she looked...sad. So sad. She asked me if I really thought of our family that way. I told her...I told her that I wasn't thinking, that alls I did was draw us. She started crying again and I tried to make her stop by hugging her, but she just kept crying. The counselor had scheduled to meet with me the next day and meet with me and my parents. I was so uncomfortable each time that I met with the counselor. She was nice and all with a calm smile and clean cut look, but I was honestly scared. She sat with me at a table and talked to me about stupid stuff, like baseball and math class. She gave me some crayons and a piece of paper and asked me to draw my mom. It seemed like a simple command, so I drew my mom. The counselor asked me about my picture. She asked me again why her face was bruised, and I told her that I drew her how she looked. She asked other questions, but once again I got scared and refused to answer. She moved on and made me draw my dad. When I finished she asked me why he looked so mad, and once again, I told her I drew him how he looked. She made me draw my parents together. I did and she asked me why they both looked unhappy and why my dad was so much bigger. I didn't say anything. She asked me if I was happy. I started crying and ran out of the room."

Carl looks down at the pictures sadly. "What happened when she met with your parents?"

"I don't exactly know, I wasn't there. I guess they must've lied about how mom broke her arm and just told them that dad was an alcoholic but left out all of the stuff about the abuse. They probably mentioned that it was tough and that I was unhappy, but made it sound benign enough to leave CPS out of it. But...the counselor still hung around me all of the time. She always stopped me in the hall to 'chat' and made me eat lunch with her in her office once a week. It was so...uncomfortable. I hated it. The kids in my class thought I was even weirder. It fucked me over more than it helped me."

Carl looks at him sadly and watches Ron look at his drawings. He sighs and puts his pictures back in the box.

"I'm sorry," Carl says quietly. He really has no idea what else to say, and once again, knows words won't be enough. He helps Ron put the drawings away and watches him put the cardboard box back on top of the filing cabinet.

"Why are you apologizing? You don't get drunk and best the shit out of everyone."

Carl shrugs. "It's not just your mom's Shadows that decorate this abandoned art museum," Carl mutters. "Yours do too."

Ron looks at him, and let's out a sad and shaky sigh. "I don't know why my mom kept those drawings, I wanted to throw them out."

"Maybe the same reason you like to look at her Shadows," Carl whispers.

Ron looks at his feet. "Maybe." Even with his face half hidden in the darkness, Carl can see that he's hurting. Bad. Carl suddenly lurched forward and pulls him into a tight hug. Ron just sort of slumps against him, resting his chin on Carl's shoulder and closing his eyes.

"Let's go. We've been poking around in the dark for too long. Some light will do us good," Ron mutters, feeling Carl's fingers run up his neck and brush against his temple.

Carl nods, pulling away, grabbing Ron's hand, and walking towards the garage door. Ron lifts the door and they sneak out and walk off into the night.
-

There's a stretch of silence between them as they start to walk. They don't seem to be walking back to Carl's home, or anywhere in general. There is no designated destination, they're just walking.

"You know," Ron mutters "everyone has Shadows. Not just my mom. Not just me. Everyone. You can ignore your Shadows during the day, it's easy to because you're surrounded by people and you're occupied with other things. You can even pretend that you don't have any during the day because the sun keeps them away. But at night, when the sun sets and leaves you in the dark and you're alone, just you and your mind, they come back. Your shadows always come back. No matter what, at night, they always resurface."

Carl nods, understanding what Ron's saying all too well. He can't help but look off to his right to see his and Ron's shadows inky black shadows stretch out behind them on the cement.

"And you know, it's better to hide them. It's easier to pretend they aren't real. But they are. And...I feel better hiding them from people. Except for you. I want you to see them. I really fucking want you to see them because they're part of me. They're part of who I am. I want you to know everything, see every angle. Don't think that I'm sane or stable or anything. Because I'm not. But...that's me, you know? And I don't show other people that. I don't want them to think I'm crazy or weak. But I want you to know. Because I want you close."

Carl feels his heart stop and he looks over at Ron in amazement. "Man, because of what you just told me, you're one of the bravest people I know. I'm honored that you want me to know...I'm glad you want me to see you, the REAL you that's chipped and fucked up. I know everyone has Shadows. I think it's incredible that you...embrace them. I can't do that, I hide from mine...I always say I can deal with them. I always act like I can live with them. But I can't. I...I cried myself to sleep the first night I got here."

Ron stops in his tracks and looks over at his friend. "Why?" He asks quietly.

"Because out there...out there its survive, fight, sleep, scavenge, repeat. You don't PROCESS anything. You just...keep your head down and trudge on. But I got here, and I saw my new house, a nice, clean house. And I saw civilized people who haven't...done the shit I've done and ruined themselves, and I...I realize everything that's happened. I remember everyone I lost, I see their faces, I hear them...I lose it. I remember after that dinner party with everyone... Everyone smiling and laughing and TALKING to me like I'm normal, like I'm not a fucking psycho...I lost it. I sat on my floor, and I cried. I cried for myself, for every other broken soldier in my family, for my mom, for...for Beth and Tyreese. For Dale and T Dog and Sophia and Shane and Hershel and everyone else who deserves to be here. Because I don't deserve to be here. I don't. I should be dead. I should be gone. Not Beth, not Hershel, not Sophia, not Patrick, not my mom. Me."

Ron feels his heart stop as he watches Carl lower his head and watches his shoulders hunch forward. He can't see his eyes because of the brim of his hat, but he knows his eyes are probably watery. He doesn't know who any of the people he just listed are, but he knows that they must've meant something to Carl. He knows that they're probably ghosts that keep him up at night.

"You're amazing, ok? You ARE. It's not fucking fair that you ended up in a place like this. Your dad...you're an amazing person! I mean it. You embrace the dark, strive for the light, and know what's really important. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Man, you don't deserve any of those bruises or broken bones. Neither does your mom or brother. You're compassionate. You're hopeful with just enough cynicism and it's incredible. You have no idea what you mean to me," Carl stammers, feeling his eyes burn.

"Carl-"

"I want to show you my Shadows, but I can't. You'll get scared. You'll leave me. Ok?! I know it. If I were you, I would. So I don't even blame you. I blame me. It's me. It's my fault. I did it all, I fucked myself up and rebuilt myself with flimsy shitty structures. I'm selfish because I'd rather you not know me than you know me and end up hating me. I WANT to let you in. I really, really do. It's amazing that you let me in. You're brave. You're not afraid of being alone. I AM. I'm sick of being alone but I'm scared to get close. I don't want you to get scared when you see me. I CANT let you hate me, I can't. I want you close but I need to hold you at arms length. I'm sorry," Carl makes a choking sound and Ron feels his eyes get wet.

"Carl-"

"I'm not okay. I'm not good. I'm not alive, I'm not dead, I survived and continue surviving. I shouldn't be alive. I don't want to be sometimes. Sometimes I almost wish it had been me, not Hershel. Not Sophia. Not mom. Not Beth. Me. I can survive but I'm no good for anyone. I can't heal or teach or inspire. I can't help. I can't...I can't even get close. I can't open up. I can't do anything. I'm dead, I'm alive, I'm a walking corpse. I WANT to show you but you'll leave me, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please...You can promise me you won't get scared and run away all you want, but you still will. Everyone leaves. Everyone dies. Leaves or dies, or sticks around long enough to die on the inside. I'm so scared of losing people. Michonne, dad, Judith, Daryl, Glenn, Carol, Maggie, Tara, everyone. I can't open up anymore because losing hurts. The person you love becomes a part of you and when they die, part of you dies too. Please..."

Ron hears his voice falter and watches him bury his face in his hands.

"Carl," he tries to say, but the words won't come out of his mouth. His throat is dry and his tongue won't move. He can't move. He stands, watching Carl curl into himself and start to tremble.

"Carl," he manages to whisper.

"What?" Carl mumbles, keeping his face buried in his knees.

Ron stays beside him and touches his shoulder. "Carl."

Carl picks his head up from his hands and stares intently at the ground with his hat lowered over his eyes. "What?"

Ron, with a shaking hand, lifts the brim of the hat up out of Carl's face. Carl keeps his eyes trained on the ground, his stomach turning and his heart beating faster and faster.

"Carl." Ron mutters gently. "Carl."

Carl slowly tilts his head to the side. "What?" He mutters, voice cracking. He slowly looks up to look Ron in the eyes.

Ron's eyes bore back into Carl's. He licks his lips and feels his heart sink, noticing that the blue eyes looking back into his own look watery. And he can see the fear swirling around in them like a hurricane. He can see the hurt like a pale ghost in his iris.

"Th-there they are," Ron mutters with a weak smile.

"What?" Carl asks, sounding confused.

"Your Shadows. They're in your eyes. You saw mine earlier and now I'm looking at yours."

Carl sharply inhales and his gaze drops back to the ground. He swallows thickly and blinks away the tears in his eyes. He doesn't cry. But he can't stop shaking.

"You're not okay," Ron says matter of factly, feeling his own eyes burn with tears. "But that's cool. Because I'm not either."

Carl let's out a wheezy laugh and looks up at the stars. "I know you're not. But that is cool. I know broken people. It's the normal ones that confuse me."

Ron laughs and pulls Carl into a hug, nuzzling into his neck. Carl hugs him back, laughing again. It feels great being held. Like you're connected, like you're not alone.

"Here," Ron mutters, letting him go. "You asked earlier...what my arms looked like. I wear jackets for a reason."

Carl watches as Ron shrugs his jacket off to expose pale arms. There are fading and fresh bruises all over them and a few faded scars. Carl stares at them sadly, but he smiles. Not a happy smile, a sad secretive 'between you and me' bittersweet smile.

Ron smiles back at him before he starts laughing uncontrollably, throwing his head back as tears stream down his cheeks. 'I'm insane,' he thinks. 'I've gone off the deep end and then dug even deeper.'

"You wanna see something?" Carl asks, voice higher than usual. Ron watches as Carl lifts his hoodie and t shirt up to expose his stomach. There's a nasty looking deep scar on the left side of his stomach. Not a 'my cat scratched me' scar, a legit nasty 'holy shit where'd you get that?!' scar.

Ron stares at it. "Holy shit dude," he breathes.

Carl starts laughing, and Ron starts laughing again too. And they both just stand there laughing hysterically with tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks. They shake as they laugh and stare at each other with big dopey smiles. Big 'isn't it great to be broken' smiles.

They both start to run, laughing hysterically and running and shoving one another. They race down the street and run through the park. Their legs burn from exhaustion, and both boys collapse under the giant oak tree. They lay there, side by side, calming down and giggling, stray tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks.

"O-oh my god! Oh my god! Where'd you get that scar?!"

"Where'd you get all of those bruises?" Carl asks, turning his head to the side to look at him. His eyes are alight.

Ron smiles at him, scotching closer to him. "You know what? I just got an idea."

"What?" Carl asks.

"You have a bunch of questions for me. And I've got a bunch of questions for you. Both of us are afraid to ask but both of us want answers, right?"

"Right."

"I think," Ron whispers excitedly, "that each day, we both get two free questions. We can ask whatever we want, and the other has to answer. Sound like a good idea."

"It sounds like an awesome idea," Carl mutters with a big, tired smile.

Ron smiles back at him and yawns, scootching even closer to him so that their foreheads are pressed together.

Carl smiles at him. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

"For what?"

"Being a weirdo," he mutters, closing his eyes and pulling his knees up to rest against his chest.

"No need to apologize to your fellow weirdo," Ron mutters, awkwardly laying an arm over Carl's waist and piling him closer.

Carl let's him pull him closer. He enjoys the warmth that seems to practically radiate off of Ron's body. "I'm also sorry about everything else."

"Once again, not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I like you, you're great, ok?"

"I like you too," Carl mutters, feeling Ron's breath tickle his nose. He can't help but smile. "I like you a lot."

"Thanks for looking through my mom's abandoned art museum with me," Ron whispers with a snort of laughter.

"No problem. It was...really insightful."

"Carl?"

"Mmhmm?"

"You know, I said this earlier, but you don't have to be afraid of showing me your Shadows or scars. You don't need to be scared of me getting scared. I won't. I promise."

Carl frowns faintly and sighs. "Whatever, man. Mine are...darker than most people's."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not going anywhere."

"You have no idea what you just signed up for. Man, I don't want...to drag you down with me. I don't want to scare you away. I don't want to chase away the one person I've shown everything. I don't want to be alone, so I don't want to scare you away."

"You didn't run away from me and I've shown you done fucked up shit. I won't run away from you when you show me fucked up shit," Ron mutters, closing his eyes, feeling exhausted.

Carl smiles. "You mean it?"

Ron nods, shifting slightly so that he can pillow his head on Carl's chest and listen to his heart beat. "Yeah. I won't leave you alone."