f o n a

he hates sweet flavors, like genuinely hates them- they feel too overwhelming and just wrong to him

he's kinda judgy af about it too, like if you like sweet flavored vapes he'll take it as a personal offence lmao

he's also super brand-loyal (only uses like 1–2 specific brands and if it’s not those he just won’t use it at all)

he uses his vape constantly like- he basically always has one on him. it's one of his main ways of regulating himself, so if it's missing or empty he gets really on edge and irritated pretty quick

he keeps it in bed with him too. he'll wake up in the middle of the night, take a few hits, and go right back to sleep like that's completely normal

why is komodo lowk-

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his ass is not listening

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Bobby's been sleeping for a while now. It's been days, or maybe even weeks? Cal doesn't keep track anymore. He sometimes moves Bobby around so he won't get a stiff neck when he wakes up.

Cal brings him food but Bobby doesn't seem too hungry. Cal leaves it out for him for a while but he can't help himself and snacks on it. The guilt when the can is empty eats him alive. He brings more food each time. Somehow his own hunger only grows, while Bobby's seems to have disappeared entirely.

He doesn't like leaving Bobby alone for too long. Pesky little things crawl all over him like they're home. He flicks them away as much as he can.

He sometimes brushes Bobby's hair. His curls need extra attention, and Cal's got all the time in the world.

Laying around for so long also means a putrid smell might creep up sometimes. But Cal's always on it. He bathes Bobby every other day, a wet cloth wiping all the dust and dried blood on his body with care.

Some places are harder to scrub, like that arm Cal keeps changing the bandages to. The wound looks strange these days. The skin around it has darkened, and the edges feel soft in some places and stiff in others. No fresh skin has grown over it yet. Cal wonders why. He cleans it carefully anyway.

"Bobby I think we should move"

The broken window creaks in the wind.

"It's not safe here anymore."

A fly keeps buzzing around shamelessly.

"I know it's nice here, I like it too"

Cal brushes a strand of hair from Bobby's face.

"But I can't stand their noise anymore. The others moan in pain at night. I wish they'd stop."

He chuckles to himself. "I think I prefer the sound of the ocean as ambiance" Bobby's always been a funny guy.

"We'll go by morning."

He squeezes his shoulder and it feels like it cracks a little.

"Don't worry Bobs, I got you"

_+_

Cal hoped Bobby would wake up today. He didn't.

And that was...a lot.

Even if he's shorter than Cal, he's still heavy.

"Please wake up" Cal whispers. It sounds more like a plea.

He already knows the answer won't come.

He lifts Bobby carefully, but the man's shoulder still hangs weirdly out of place. Cal could try to put it back, but there's no time now.

_+_

It's already past noon when they stop under a willow tree to rest.

"Here." He lays down Bobby to rest against the cracked bark. "Now, let's fix that."

He grabs the shoulder. It moves, but not right. It slips back into the same wrong position every time.

Cal tries again. Same motion. Same result.

"There."

He lies there next to Bobby. It's quiet. He can feel his heartbeat. Slowly, he rests his head on the other man's shoulder- careful, like it might break. Bobby feels fragile.

"I'm hungry."

The words feel out of place as soon as they leave him. Like they were said by someone else.

He looks up. Bobby's eyes don’t meet anything.

Cal closes them. He usually only does it at night- but Bobby should be resting as well.

"Bet you are too."

_+_

He should stop himself before it’s too late. But the urge is too strong.

It's never just once. It never is.

Last time, Bobby's finger. Before that, his neck.

Cal hesitates for a moment- then doesn’t.

Spoiled flesh should not taste this sweet.

And just like always, regret comes a second too late.

_+_

Cal's hands are trembling while he's wrapping the last bandage around Bobby's shoulder. His eyes feel puffy, his jaw feels stiff, his knees are weak.

He notices his own fingers have started to darken at the knuckles, a dull purple spreading under the skin.

He tightens his grip a second too late, like his hands don't want to listen.

They might not be his anymore.

He keeps wrapping.

When there is nothing left to wrap, his hands do not understand that as an ending.