Lost Boys

They’ve done terrible things to get here. Ray watched Jake’s sister sacrifice herself for a distraction; he watched Jake put a bullet in her head, right between the eyes, so she couldn’t be used by the gang of Cherrypickers hauling her away by the ankles. Ray himself slit the throat of his first love, bludgeoned his cousin for attempting to sell Jake to the Kingpins for immunity that anyone with a sound mind knew wouldn’t be respected.

He and Jake are Dwellers now, unaffiliated after a raid eradicated their group, holed up in a large manor at the tip of the country. There are a few others, a small cluster of people like them, barely clinging to their humanity but willing to maintain it by pretending the End wasn’t as devastating as it was. These others stop by from time to time, to bring supplies they combed the land for or to ask for simple favors that Ray and Jake are happy to provide.

Blake Enys and his wife are more welcome than most and are Ray and Jake’s closest neighbors. They share a fence to the west and trade vegetables and booze.

No one talks about the meat.

Only twice has an arm of one the gangs successfully reached this far north, and they were dealt with swiftly. Now, there’s a minefield surrounding the area, a fortified fence with regular patrols, and a crank siren to allow for those in their homes to retreat to the tunnels.

No one talks about the meat.

Jake is quiet, pensive as he hasn’t been in many months and Ray doesn’t know how to handle it. Jake doesn’t get quiet. He gets crafty and sarcastic and pretentious. Pensive sometimes, sure, but even then, he’s still loud, Jake’s very presence humming two-hundred watts of energy that Ray can sense from a distance. A symphony of heartbeats and breath and swallows; every shift, every thought, has a sound Ray covets because it means Jake is alive, safe, close.

Quiet is Ray’s gimmick, drilled into him after the First Wave.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Ray asks after the third day.

The uncanny shadow of his lover peers over the back of the couch and makes a face as if he’s not sure how to put together the words to explain. For a moment, Ray is scared that Jake can’t figure out how to say goodbye but is instantly relieved when Jake says:

“It’s almost Christmas.”

The tension in Ray’s body whooshes out from his feet like sand in an hourglass, and he sways forward, palms landing on the back of the couch, fingers denting the cushion where they fasten to keep him upright.

“Jesus Jake, I thought it was serious.”

“It is serious.” Jake insists, features hardening. His jaw twitches, knuckles turning white around the heart-shaped locket he never takes off – the last piece of his mother Jake salvaged from her corpse before the Vultures descended.

Ray can’t help the way his body reacts to the determination Jake levers behind his statement. The passion and singlemindedness Jake possesses has always made Ray greedy to be on the receiving end of Jake’s attention when Jake gets like this.

Jake’s brow furrows when he notices the heat flare in Ray’s eyes, and he scoffs.

“One-track mind.” He grumbles, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and flops back on the couch, releasing the locket to throw his arm over his eyes. “If you can’t even pretend to give a shit, go away.”

“Christmas.”

Ray says it because he needs to be sure. It’s a statement and a question and he needs to confirm the concept of what Jake’s getting at by hearing it out loud, in his own voice. The pieces come together in embarrassingly slow increments as Ray mulls it over, comprehension dawning on him slow as winter sunrise.

They’re bored.

The snow came early this year, forcing them inside to do the same things over and over – wake up, fuck, bathe, chores, fuck, sleep, rinse and repeat – with one or two exceptions tossed in for variety. But Jake’s library is limited to what came with the place and Ray can only do so much whittling before he turns every tree within a six mile radius into a useless figurine.

After two long years spent running, strategizing, killing, to suddenly, all at once, not have to do any of those things felt simpler than Ray supposes it really is. Ray thought they were doing okay, that they adjusted to existing without the paranoia, the fear, the fight or flight.

But Ray recognizes, now that Jake’s shone a light on it, that they haven’t adjusted for shit; instead of trying to be normal, they’ve been trying to be the opposite of what they were forced to become out there which isn’t the same thing at all.

Jesus, even the sex has been stale.

“Christmas.” Ray repeats and Jake purses his lips in annoyance.

“You could just say no.” Jake’s tone suggests he’s rolling his eyes under his arm.

Ray chuckles fondly, drops into a crouch and folds his arms on the back of the couch, resting his chin on his wrist.

Maybe Christmas, weird as it seems, is the answer. Ray could track the buck he saw, the first animal he’s seen since the End aside from crows and rats. He could excavate the attic, find decorations that meant something to the people buried under the perennials.

A celebration to reset their moral compasses, remind them why they endure. There’s hope there, not for the future but for themselves and Ray wants to believe it’s worth a try. For Jake. Because if anyone knows how dangerous boredom can be when left unchecked, it’s Ray.

“Alright.” Ray accepts. His eyes track Jake as Jake sits up, the movement bringing their faces close, noses bumping affectionately. A summer smile eases across Jake’s mouth and dimples his cheeks, something Ray will never tire of seeing.

“Alright.” Jake parrots.

The agreement is sealed with a kiss.