Ron thinks insensitively-- and selfishly, for that matter --that the bandage isn't doing its job well enough, that it should be bigger as to make this strange feeling of guilt pooling in Ron's gut fade away.

The guilt gets about 100 times worse once Carl's remaining eye, watering from the ache, catches Ron's. They both immediately look away from one another, it's awkward. Ron couldn't fathom it Not being awkward.

He ultimately decides that, despite everything, he feels eerily numb. He feels a whole lot of nothing, something must be wrong with him. Fundamentally, that is. All that was left of his family had just been wiped off the map and Ron couldn't seem to spare any more than a few tears.

He thinks he will once he leaves the infirmary, once it clicks that he doesn't have anything to come back to. Denise says that tomorrow he's gonna be staying with Maggie and Glenn, she says that they've already set him up a room to stay in, that some of his stuff has already been moved into it.

For some reason, this just made Ron feel worse, he'd grimaced as Denise had kept a smile on her lips, like she'd been trying to inspire hope.

Anyway, what Ron was mulling on now, strangely enough, was how he was going take care of this ginormous wound on his back-- of course, it was stitched closed and clean, at least for the time being, but Denise said he was going to have to clean it and put this antibiotic on it every day until its healed.

Ron wasn't exactly able to do it on his own, which was fine, because he could just ask his Mom---Suddenly this dreadful feeling washed over him when he was reminded that, no, actually, he couldn't.

Ron can't ask his mom, because she is dead. She wasn't coming back, and now he was alone.

...

It's been a week since both Ron and Carl were dismissed from the infirmary, which Ron had spent avoiding Carl as best he could, he'd been doing a pretty decent job, in his opinion, he hadn't had to look at the pathetically sized eyepatch over carls poor, mutilated face more than thrice now.

Ron expects to be able to keep up this scheme of evading Carl, of course, that's because he doesn't expect Carl to come to the Rhee(plus, now, an Anderson)'s residence, which he does, randomly, unexpectedly! one day.

Carl came over to the house when Ron was watching Transformers in the living room, trying to distract himself from the gnawing pain that has steadily grown in his back since last week, probably due to his failure to take care of his injury-- at all.

He'd tried to clean what he could reach, which wasn't much considering the lesion's less-than-convenient placing between his shoulder blades. He contemplated maybe asking Enid to help him, but that would just be awkward. Her being his Ex-girlfriend and all.

The front door had opened, to which Ron paid no mind, keeping his attention locked on the flashing colors in front of him, then he heard Carl's voice and Ron literally thought he’d given himself whiplash from how quickly he'd spun his head towards Carl-- then back around, before sinking as far down into the sofa as he possibly could, hoping that Carl somehow hadn't seen him.

Ron listens to Carl talk to Maggie about watching Judith while his dad goes on a supply run, which explains why he's over here.

Carl wasn't here for him, Ron breathed out in relief.

Given Ron's current run of luck, it doesn’t take very long before Carl is plopping himself down on the sofa right next to Ron, whose temporary bubble of relief was popped like a balloon. He tenses up and goes out of his way not to spare the other boy any sort of acknowledgement.

Carl has always been more polite, “Hey,” it’s mumbled and lame which makes Ron wonder why he even sat down here, he didn’t seem to want to chat anymore than Ron.

“Hi,” Ron blinks dumbly at Carl. He’s never felt so unable to speak properly in his whole life.

“Transformers 2007?”

“Think so.”

They fall quiet again.

“Uh,” Carl clears his throat uncomfortably, “How’s your back been?” he gets out slowly, Ron can tell he immediately wishes he hadn’t asked. Ron wishes he hadn’t either, embarrassment likely showing on his lips as they fall lopsided.

Ron's eyes flicker to Carl for a moment before they find the latter’s shoes, which Ron only now notices are mismatched. After a tick of silence, he realizes he’s been asked a question, which he’s also not too keen on answering honestly.

“It…could be worse,” Ron hopes the way his gaze lingers on the patched-over disfigurement goes unnoticed by the other boy. He figures it doesn’t when he catches Carl’s lips twitch the faintest bit.

Clearly, it could be worse. Worse was right in front of him, and it was kinda totally his fault.

He sorta wants to go back in time and force his back further into Michonne’s sword before she has time to pull it back.

Instead of moving on or dropping it, like Ron expects— or at least hopes Carl will do, he asks for a follow-up. Or a skeptical reinforcement.

“So it's okay?” He’s staring. Carl does that a lot, but now it's all the more searing. Intense.

He doesn’t trust Ron’s indifference, that much is apparent by how he attempts to subtly lean back and get a good survey of Ron’s condition based on how he’s slumped over, screwing with the material of his jeans.

Ron straightens up, triggering a sharp pain to shoot down his back, its quickly followed by a numb yet somehow painful tingling sensation. He manages a somewhat convincing expression, but the whole display is promptly betrayed by the crack in his throat as he speaks.

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

Carl squints, scrutinizingly.

Ron just shifts against the couch, making an effort to seem unbothered.

“Ron,” Carl starts slowly, listening to the other boy let out a small, acknowledging hum, “You should let me look at it.” but even he sounds unsure as he proposes it.

Ron doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, a familiar burn of defiance creeping up inside him, but it’s too weak to really take root. He wants to argue, to brush Carl off with a sarcastic quip, to deny that anything is wrong at all, but the ache in his back is so persistent now that it’s hard to ignore.

Besides, Carl is still watching him like he’s already made up his mind.

"I don't think that's—" Ron starts, but his voice falters when he sees Carl’s expression shift into something even more determined. Great. Now it’ll be even harder to blow him off.

Carl raises an eyebrow, his stare unwavering. "Come on, man," he says, softer this time but still insistent. "Just let me take a look."

For a split second, Ron imagines what might happen if he keeps resisting—Carl’s going to keep asking, maybe get louder, and he’s not sure he has the energy to spar with him over something so stupid. With a frustrated sigh, Ron finally gives in. His resistance crumbles—not gracefully, but enough to get Carl off his case.

"Alright," he mutters, eyes still fixed anywhere but on Carl.

Carl sits up a little straighter, clearly surprised by the sudden change of heart.

With a reluctant nod, Ron pushes himself off the couch, every movement sending another reminder of his injury shooting down his spine. He can feel Carl’s eye on him, assessing him, and it only fuels his annoyance.

The wooden stairs creak under their weight as they step up them, and Ron wonders sheepishly if blood seeped through his shirt. He hopes not, that would be mortifying.

They both step into the bathroom and Carl flicks the light on before lowering to his knees to dig through the cabinets under Ron’s sink, giving him space to settle himself on the toilet seat.

Carl tilts his chin up to face Ron, narrowing his eyes, “You gonna take your shirt off?”

Ron somehow forgot that was something he was going to have to do.

"Seriously?" Ron doesn't know why he's asking, how else was he anticipating this to go? When Carl doesn't reply, Ron, unable to tolerate the uncomfortable tension flooding the room, decides to keep talking.

"Take me out to dinner first." he tries to joke. It falls flat, not that the joke would’ve been funny in some other situation, anyway. Carl stares at him almost blankly, not even bothering to attempt feigned laughter of any sort.

…Right.

"...Okay," Ron mumbles after a moment, mentally slapping himself in the face before rolling his shirt up his gauze-wrapped torso, then off his skinny arms, now holding the bundled-up fabric in his lap. He's watching Carl dig through his bathroom's medical cabinet, thoughtfully pulling out different medical supplies.

Ron is now stuck with his eyes vacantly focused on the nasty side of the other boy’s face, the swelling seems to have gone down since Ron last saw it, Carl must've been taking care of it, Ron concludes. He thinks Carl doesn't look that bad, even with a quarter of his head blown off, but maybe Ron was coping, aware that he'd done irreversible damage to Carl's face.

Holding a softer washcloth, he looks up to where Ron is sitting on the toilet with his legs apprehensively pushed together. Carl stares for a moment, his face seems blanker than it used to, maybe it's just harder for Ron to read now that there’s less of it.

Ron's eyes flick away toward the plain, boring white wall of the bathroom, surrendering to his guilt.

The more he looks at the guy, the worse he feels.

Carl's knees pop as he gets back to his feet, taking a small step closer to Ron, and vaguely gesturing with his hands for Ron to turn and face the flower-patterned shower curtain.

Ron takes a short, subconscious breath in, puffing his cheeks out before tossing his legs around the toilet. When he turns his back to Carl, he slowly lets the air out of his cheeks, visibly deflating. For some reason, he’s still stuck on if Carl will notice it— as opposed to when —, like the guy’s not gonna be fixated on his back for the next who-knows-how-long.

They sit in a stuffy silence while Carl gently pulls the dirtied bandaging off Ron’s back, slowly unwrapping it and revealing the nuisance below. His movements pause for a moment before he continues.

Although Ron can't actually see the mess he’s caused himself, he gets a pretty good idea, feeling how the gauze wetly sticks to his skin as Carl peels it away. Despite how tender Ron can tell Carl’s trying to be, it still stings, and Ron has to suck in a breath to prevent himself from hissing out.

Once the bandages are all off and tossed in the bin, there's silence, not only in the sense that Carl isn't saying anything, but he's also not doing anything. It's a stillness that Ron probably could have made up, with his mind soaked with paranoia, but it goes on just long enough for him to know that he hadn't.

Ron thinks back to the last time he attempted to clean the wound on his back– trying to recall if there was still bruising from before his dad had been killed, but he couldn’t really be sure. Probably because over the years, he’d gotten accustomed to visually tuning out the discoloration across his skin.

What Ron is sure of, however, are the countless scars and his visually (and functionally) fucked up left shoulder. He knew Carl wasn’t dumb or oblivious enough to not come to the likely-accurate, humiliating assumption about how the scars found their homes there, scattered about his flesh.

His stomach hurts, all of a sudden.

There seems to be a flicker of understanding between them, a connection that feels more profound than the surface-level awkwardness of the moment. Ron vaguely recognizes that Carl isn’t judging him. Instead, it’s as if he’s trying to make sense of him.

But still, it pisses Ron off because it's like he's just admitted that Carl was right about his dad being a total asshole. He wonders if that's what Carl's thinking about, as he lightly tends the area around the wound with the cloth, now soaked in something alcoholic.

The sensation is less than pleasant, but again, Ron shouldn't be complaining.

He can’t help but to grind his teeth together, looking around the cramped bathroom for anything to occupy his mind with, then, Carl’s talking to him again.

“Transformers,”

Ron quirks an eyebrow when Carl doesn’t follow up with anything, “What?”

“Who’s your uh, favorite…transformer—?” He sounds unsure of what he’s talking about.

“Optimus Prime,” Ron blinks, “…Obviously.”

“Right.” Carl tries. This is so awkward. “I like the– err… Big yellow one.”

“…Bumblebee?”

Carl doesn’t respond for a moment, “Uh, Yeah?”

Ron quirks a brow, feeling the tension between his shoulder blades build up as Carl stumbles through the conversation. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

Carl doesn’t respond immediately, and the silence hangs heavy in the air.

Ron's just about to roll his eyes when a sharp sting spreads across his back, cutting through the dull ache that had been lingering there. He hisses involuntarily, the cloth biting into the sensitive skin around the wound.

It hits him then—Carl isn’t just making awful small talk. He’s distracting him.

Ron blinks, his mind catching up to the realization. Carl’s awkward, forced conversation about Transformers isn’t because he actually cares about giant robots. It’s because he’s trying to make this whole situation a little less unbearable for Ron.

The thought makes him swell with mixed feelings, the main one being Guilt.

Why was Carl helping Ron again? Probably because he’s actually a good person. Or he was crazy, just like Michonne. Maybe it’s contagious. Or something.

He grits his teeth, forcing his focus back to the conversation, or at least what’s left of it. “Bumblebee,” he repeats flatly, “Of course you’d pick him.”

Carl laughs softly behind him, and though there's still a persisting ache in Ron's back, he feels his shoulders relax just a little. The tension between them shifts, the awkwardness still there but slightly less insufferable now.

Eventually, Carl moves on from the alcohol-soaked washcloth in exchange for a sponge soaked in soap and water. Ron thinks the step is unnecessary but decides not to comment on it.

When Carl decides he’s done a well-enough job at cleaning the wound, he gets a hold of the clean roll of gauze he’d gotten from the medical cabinet, basically swaddling Ron with it as he rewraps the wound.

Ron’s mind drifts, feeling the odd contentment of being taken care of. It’s not something he’s used to. As Carl tucks the last bit of gauze in place, he takes a small step back, allowing Ron to spin back around and face him.

“I’ll be back again tomorrow to help with the antibiotic,” Carl says it so surely, like there's no doubt in his mind about it.

The certainty in his voice catches Ron off guard, but what surprises him more is the absence of dread that he’d expect to accompany such a suggestion.

“Alright.”

Carl looks stunned before nodding.