Breathe your life, hold the line, there's more than monsters on the outside

[jae_w]

Title: Breathe your life, hold the line, there's more than monsters on the outside
Recipient: cool_rain_kiss
Author: maryangel200
Band: My Chemical Romance
Pairing: Mostly Gen (onesided Frank/Ray)
Rating: R
Wordcount: 6157
Summary: WW2 AU with zombies.
Warnings: violence and gore



Days were starting to bleed into each other and Ray couldn’t remember if it was their fourth or fifth day in the same hole.

They were running short on everything, bickering over stupid things like who would get the last packet of biscuits or what was left of the chocolate (Frank won both, probably because the others spoiled him).

Ray was starting to think the rest of their unit had forgotten about them, stuck as they were in their little outpost in the middle of the forest, so close to the enemy lines that Ray could hear the screams of the German soldiers at night, the wounded, the dying. There was also the distinct smell of burning flesh, decomposing only a few feet away from their position.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Ray sure didn’t sign up for this kind of operation. They were supposed to be in and out; defeat the Nazis, maybe help with the reconstruction, and go home. Ray hadn’t seen his family for more than two years now. It had been so long that he was starting to forget his mother’s face, the sound of her laugh and the taste of her home cooked meals.

This war was supposed to be over. They had all hoped the German army would surrender. There were rumors that Hitler was dead, that he had shot himself. The coward had probably taken the easy way out and left everyone else to clean up his mess. There were other rumors saying that Hitler had turned into a flesh eating monster. Ray wouldn’t mind shooting him himself if that was really the case. Ray always kept a bullet in his overcoat pocket, just in case he ran into him.

It was just the five of them now. The replacement that came after James got one of his legs blown off by the German artillery, a kid named Johnny or Tony - the replacements rarely stuck around long enough for Ray to care about their names - managed to get himself shot and killed two days into their assignment during one of their recons, leaving them short a man.

Ray didn’t use to hate snow. When he was just a kid, back in North Jersey, Ray played for hours in it with his brother until he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. He loved watching it fall outside his window, slowly covering the streets and the rooftops in the neighborhood with a thick white and cottony layer.

Ray didn’t hate a lot of things back then.

Now, his brother was dead - Lou’s plane was shot down during D-Day - and with him, most of the happy memories Ray had of home.

On the long list of what Ray hated now was the sound of footsteps in the snow, the way Mikey snored, the fact that his stomach never stopped growling, that look of hopelessness on Gerard’s face and the feeling that none of them could ever be warm again and that they would never leave this place; that they were sitting in their grave.

It was their fourth or fifth day in this damp hole, puddles of melted snow under their feet and only a tiny tarp to protect them from the snow that was still coming down, heavy and endless.

Ray was curled up in a ball in a corner, cold, hungry, his breath coming out as a cloud, with Frank snuggled up against him, desperately seeking some warmth.

Frank was a little paler than usual. He was probably coming down with something. It wasn’t the first time Frank gotten sick.

Ray had given him his last pair of dry socks because Frank’s were soaked. He had a hole in his left boot, big enough that Frank could poke a finger through the sole. Bob had brought them a few pairs of boots he had harvested from the rotting corpses around their post, but none ever fit Frank’s ridiculously tiny feet.

Frank was really short. He was also very fast and very strong, which were definitely the best qualities to possess during these hard times. He was also a great shot, although he had a tendency to brag about his body count a lot and he also had a twisted sense of humor that could be mistaken for arrogance.

Ray knew it wasn’t really arrogance. Frank liked to antagonize people. Maybe he needed this to prove to himself he was alive.

Contrary to his reputation, Frank wasn’t an asshole. He was very smart and well read, probably the most bookish person Ray had ever met besides Gerard. He spent the dullest hours of the day reading. He’d snuck in quite a few books in his pack: Emerson, Thoreau, Fenimore Cooper, Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker. Frank would devour them all with the same avidity, making the best use of the few hours of sunlight to escape into other worlds.

Ray liked watching Frank read. He always looked so peaceful, so carefree. He could almost make Ray forget that there was a war going on around them.

Ray also enjoyed watching Frank just being Frank. Ray liked him a lot, probably more than he should. It felt inappropriate, especially where they were now.

Frank was younger than anyone else in the unit, just a couple of years younger that Mikey. He was funny (a special kind of funny), affectionate and always managed to bring certain lightness to everything. He was also sort of really attractive, the kind that made him popular with girls every time they were on leave and the kind that didn’t leave Ray indifferent.

He was growing this bizarrely ginger colored beard that didn’t match his dark brown hair but was really soft to the touch. He had a bet going with Whitesides from the Fox Company, probably about who could grow the most ridiculous looking beard. So far, it was a draw.

Ray always thought of home when he watched Frank. He thought about all the things waiting for him back in Jersey: the warmth of his bed and dry clothes, a hot meal that didn’t come in a tin or a cello bag. When he closed his eyes, he was there and sometimes Frank was with him, asleep by his side or kissing him.

Ray obviously had too much time to think about stupid things like that. Who had time to think about kissing someone when they would most likely die the very next minute?

*

It was just another day in their hole, punctuated by the customary early morning hits from the German artillery when Frank stirred awake, wiping off the drool from the corner of his mouth and from Ray’s overcoat.

“Fuck,” he mumbled as he sat up and fumbled with his helmet. “Can’t they take a fucking day off?”

Ray gave Frank a small smile and scratched at Frank’s beard. It was starting to get a little out of control. Maybe it was time he shaved it.

“Did you get any sleep?” Frank asked no one in particular, maybe everyone.

Mikey was the only one to nod.

“A few minutes here and there,” he replied as he jotted down something in his notebook.

Mikey was always writing long letters to his fiancée, Alicia. He had yet to send her about a week worth of words though since there was no reliable postal service in their parts of the woods.

Ray never knew what the letters said but he was sure they weren’t about how Mikey finished off another zombie last night, so close to their foxhole that the air still smelled of rotten meat.

They had a strict order not to talk about the walking dead; something about not provoking mass panic at home. Gerard kept telling them it was a government conspiracy, though, and that people needed to know what was happening out here. Maybe he was right.

Frank put on his helmet and crawled on his hands and knees, poking his head out of the tarp and scratching at his balls through his muddy pants.

The German artillery wasn’t trying to hit them this time. They were after their common foes, the hordes of walking corpses wandering aimlessly between the lines, feasting on the carcasses of those fallen during battle.

Ray hated them more than anything else, more than the fact that he hadn’t had more than two hours of sleep in a week or maybe two, more than the fact he couldn’t feel his toes or that they were almost out of ammos.

*

The lack of ammo wasn’t that big of a problem though. They managed with what they had left, reserving their bullets for the Jerries and finishing the undead using more creative ways.

The sun was about to set on another cold winter day when Mikey shouted, “Incoming.”

They all ducked, bracing for an explosion that never came until Mikey said in his monotone voice, “Zombie incoming.”

Frank shoved at him playfully while Gerard gave his brother a reproachful glare.

When Ray peeked out of the tarp, he saw it. It was one of these carnivorous creatures. They usually traveled in pack so it was a relief to see that this one was alone, dragging its feet in the snow, looking disoriented but fierce, its mouth bloody and its teeth bare.

Ray and Frank both cocked their weapons, mostly out of reflex before putting them down. Everyone looked at Bob, expectant, keeping an eye on the fiend that was slowly making its way toward them.

Bob gave Ray a nod before jumping out of the foxhole. He was unbelievably agile, like a leopard, gliding in the snow. He stood up and slowly advanced toward the undead. It was a young Jerry. He still had his uniform, covered in fresh blood, bits and pieces of his throat missing. He was gurgling, stumbling around like a drunk, his mouth distorted into a weird grin, a blank expression on his face. His eyes were empty of any emotions, a thin white veil covering his pupils.

A blow to the head with Bob’s rifle and the zombie fell backwards. It tried to crawl back on its feet but Bob hit him again. Bob didn’t stop there though. He never did. He kept hammering, the sound of bones crushing under his weapon, blood and brain matter splattering the snow.

There was something almost primal in the way Bob dealt with the scum, something others could find a little appalling. He bashed their skulls in with his rifle, his bare fists, his boots or even a tree branch. He was merciless because it was necessary.

It was never a secret that Bob had seen the camps. He had witnessed the very first unit of American soldiers finding it, hidden in a forest, only a few miles out of a tiny Belgian village. He had witnessed the horror, hundreds of bodies torn to shreds, half eaten, rotting away in shallow graves. He was there when one of his friends got bitten by a sickly looking prisoner.

He had seen everything and had survived. It was probably the reason why he rarely spoke unless it was to voice his annoyance about something Frank did or said. He hardly ever slept either.

*

There was definitely something wrong with Frank.

It only took another night, curled up together in their hole before Frank started coughing. He looked so pale, so vulnerable and so small in Ray’s lap when he woke up that Ray knew it had to be something more serious than a common cold, something they couldn’t do anything about while they were still posted here, wet, hungry and with an army of undead soldiers roaming around.

The zombies - Frank was the first to coin the term; something he borrowed from a Bela Lugosi movie - were attracted to sound among other things. It wasn’t long before Frank’s coughing fits attracted a small group of zombies, Americans, Tommies, Jerries; their uniforms muddy and blood-spattered, their faces no longer those of human beings, empty, pale, bloody and rotting.

Ray wasn’t sure how their undead brains worked but they seemed to be always on the prowl, searching for their next meal. They weren’t really fast, which had to be the only silver lining in this whole situation.

It only took a minute for Bob, Ray and Mikey to deal with them. Not a single bullet was wasted.

Ray swung his rifle twice, hitting his zombie (a German officer, maybe a Major or a Lieutenant Colonel judging by the insignia on his soiled uniform) between the eyes. He finished him with his bayonet, stabbing it once in the heart even though it wasn’t enough to kill the creatures and once in the head, the blade slashing through the zombie’s skull and through its brains.

When they were done, Bob and Ray dragged the bodies behind a row of trees and added them to the growing pile of corpses while Mikey made sure there were no more zombies heading their way.

They couldn’t bury the bodies anymore. They had tried at first, spending the better part of their days digging holes around their post, but the soil was too hard, too cold. They were also running out of spots to dig and venturing deeper into the forest to bury a half eaten Jerry didn’t really rank high on their list of priorities.

There was also the fact that they didn’t have the energy to give anyone a proper burial anymore. They would have burnt the bodies if the fire wouldn’t have caught the attention of the German artillery. They could do nothing but let the corpses to their slow decay.

Ray tore the dog tags off the zombies’ necks - the American ones only - and tucked them into his pocket, adding them to his collection. Then he walked back to the foxhole to check up on Frank.

*

Every time Frank went on a patrol, Ray worried. He worried that Frank would get bitten, shot or lost in the woods. Every time Frank came back, safe and sound, Ray felt something stir inside his stomach. It was ridiculous, really. Frank wasn’t his little brother or his boyfriend. He wasn’t his anything. Frank could fend for himself and didn’t need someone to constantly worry for him.

Yet Ray couldn’t help but feel responsible for Frank in some strange way. He had this urge to wrap his arms around him and protect him, keep him safe from harm.

That night, Frank came back from his patrol carrying something. Ray couldn’t see what it was but it looked heavy, from the way Frank hunched and dragged his feet in the snow. Gerard was helping him, carrying the other end of the object that looked like a bag, maybe food supplies, maybe weapons. They were both panting heavily by the time they reached the foxhole.

Then Ray realized it wasn’t a thing but a person they were carrying: a young soldier, about Frank’s age or maybe a few years younger. He was bleeding from a wound on his arm, his blood staining the snow as Frank laid him by the side of the hole.

“Found him bleeding out by the clearing,” Frank said as he knelt down by the wounded soldier. He took his hand and petted it, pushing a lock of hair off the kid’s face and giving him a hopeful smile. Frank was always like this, considerate and sweet, even with people he didn’t know.

The kid was still breathing, fast and panicked. His eyes were wide open and his mouth was moving, as if he was trying to speak.

Gerard jumped back in the hole to grab his gourde and gave the kid some of his water. The wounded soldier almost choked on it and Gerard turned to Ray, an odd look on his pallid face, a look that meant he’s already dead.

“The artillery got him?” Mikey asked, kneeling down by Frank’s side and examining the wound, peeling off the several layers of overcoat, khaki and jacket.

The kid gasped as he grabbed Mikey’s arm and squeezed on it. “N-n-no,” he stuttered, shaking his head and kicking his feet in the snow. “It hurts.”

Ray wasn’t really a medic but he could tell a gunshot wound from a bite and judging by the chunk of flesh missing from the kid’s arm, the bones visible under all the gore, he was done for.

“Zombie,” Ray said, sliding back into the hole and burying his face in his hands. He hated being the one to give out death sentences.

Frank’s shoulders sunk. “Shit.” He let go of the kid’s hand and patted it one last time. “Are you a Christian?” he asked the kid before digging out the crucifix he always carried around in the pocket of his coat because the chain was broken. He closed his eyes, kissed the pendant and crossed himself.

No one wanted to do it. They had absolutely no problem killing zombies but this was different. He was of them, still living and breathing. He probably had a family and maybe even a girlfriend waiting for him at home, longing to see him again.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened but it still felt wrong. Bob had to shoot a high ranking officer a few weeks back because the poor bastard had been bitten; a superficial wound on the side of his hand. It was enough to get infected, though, and they had strict orders.

Stopping the spread of the virus was a priority and there was no cure, nowhere they could go to get help. There was nothing they could do at this point besides put a bullet in the kid’s brain to make sure he would never become one of them.

The virus usually acted fast but the kid was still thrashing around, clutching to his wound. He tried to crawl away from the foxhole, probably because he knew what was coming next, but Bob grabbed him and laid him back down at the edge of the hole.

Mikey proposed that they draw straws and after much deliberation, they decided it wouldn’t be a great idea. Mikey insisted, saying how they could use sticks - there wasn’t a shortage of those all around their hole - but no one wanted the responsibility.

The kid was crying now. He was whispering something; probably a silent prayer or maybe he was calling for his mother. They always did in the end, right before they shat their pants and gasped, drawing their last breath.

When Gerard picked up his rifle and pointed it on the kid’s head, Ray looked away. He stared at his feet instead, wishing he could block out the sounds too.

Frank joined him a few seconds later and sat down between Ray and Mikey, holding a pack of cigarettes he’d probably stolen from a corpse during the recon.

Ray took one and tucked it behind his ear. Cigarettes were as scarce as a hot meal and he wanted to keep this one for later. Maybe save it for a special occasion.

A shot echoed through the forest and then there was silence. No more crying; no more heavy breathing, just the smell of powder.

Bob helped Gerard carry the body towards the pile, their footsteps heavy as they disappeared behind a row of pine trees.

Frank lit his cigarette and then handed it to Mikey. They smoked in silence, watching the snow flurries dance among the trees and waiting for Bob and Gerard to return.

Ray snatched the cigarette from Frank’s fingers after a while and took a deep drag on it. He had missed this, the smell of tobacco taking him back to better times, times when Ray stole Lou’s cigarettes from his stash in the garage and shared them with Gerard and Mikey.

When Bob and Gerard came back, a few minutes later, Gerard sat down by his brother’s side and tossed the kid’s dog tag to Ray.

Jason P. Dillon. His dog tag was marked with a C. which meant the kid was Catholic. His next of kin was a Matthew Dillon from New Haven, CT. Ray always read their names. He wanted to remember them.

Ray pocketed the dog tag and gave Gerard a nod. He wondered what the Army was going to tell Jason’s family. He wondered what they were going to tell his mom if Ray ever fell in combat or got turned into a zombie. They would probably tell her he was dead or missing. That was what they told her after Lou. Presumed dead.

Gerard nodded back and stole the cigarette from his brother’s lips. He took a drag and stared at his hands, rubbing them together. He had dried blood and dirt under his fingernails, probably from digging holes with his bare hands.

Ray and Gerard had been friends for a long time; years before the war. They had been to the same schools until Gerard got accepted into this art program in New York and Ray went to work for his uncle at the plant.

Gerard was smart, kind and very easy to love. It was probably why Frank and Mikey worshipped him. Gerard had enlisted because of Mikey and Ray doubted he would even be here if it wasn’t for his brother. Gerard used to ramble a lot about art and movies and how he wanted to do something meaningful with his life. The only thing he did these days was draw zombies in his crumpled sketchpad and make sure Mikey didn’t lose an eye every time he cleaned up his bayonet.

Somehow, the Way brothers’ relationship was very similar to what Ray had with Frank. Ray and Gerard were both responsible for someone else and they both had a weakness, someone they could lose, someone they would die for.

*

The next night was by far the worst they’d had.

It started with the usual enemy fire right before sunset, pushing them to retreat to the bottom of their foxhole. Nothing they hadn’t dealt with before, though.

Frank spent the raid snuggled up by Ray’s side, shivering, his fingers curled around Ray’s arm, clinging to him tight.

Everyone had noticed Frank’s health was rapidly deteriorating. It was the worst Ray had seen him thus far. Every breath he took was accompanied by a coughing fit that left him breathless and pale, clutching to his chest.

It wasn’t long before his coughing attracted a horde of undead soldiers. They kept pouring out from the clearing, groaning, marching towards their position.

As usual, Bob was the first to charge. He didn’t wait for Ray, Mikey or Gerard to jump out of the hole and started hitting at random, swinging his rifle like a baseball bat. One down, about eighteen or so to go.

Ray looked over his shoulder as he cocked his rifle and saw that Frank was covering the other flank, firing at a smaller group of zombies stumbling towards the hole.

They were clearly outnumbered and barely had the energy to defend themselves when the German artillery started another round, a shrapnel hitting the ground only a few feet behind the line, knocking over a couple of trees.

Mikey and Gerard managed to duck back inside the foxhole, joining Frank under the tarp.

Bob didn’t seem the least bit affected by the explosions, trees shattering and falling all around him, crushing a few of the creatures.

Ray decided to stay behind to help him. He fired a few rounds at the group of undead coming from the clearing, shooting them right between the eyes. Ray was a great shot, probably the best shot out of the unit.

He was about to grab Bob and tell him to retreat when an explosion knocked him over, sending him face down into the bloody snow.

When Ray looked up, his head a little fuzzy and his ears ringing, Bob was standing in a field of corpses. Ray tried to get back up on his feet but couldn’t move.

Bob rushed over to him, his eyes big and his hands covered in blood. He picked Ray up and ducked back inside the hole.

“Are you okay?” Frank asked, patting Ray’s chest and taking off his helmet. “You hurt?” He looked panicked and his voice was more high-pitched than usual.

Ray shook his head. He wasn’t sure how it was possible but he was fine. He didn’t have a scratch. His overcoat was wet with snow and blood but he was fine. The blood wasn’t his. He wasn’t in any pain. He had been lucky.

Bob had been less lucky though. A piece of shrapnel had cut through his coat and his khaki. The wound didn’t look too deep but it was bleeding profusely. Bob had probably seen worse.

“Just a scrape,” Bob said as he pressed his palm over the wound.

Gerard bandaged Bob’s arm as best as he could, using a sock. When Gerard dug out a dose of morphine from the med kit, Bob pushed Gerard’s hand away.

“Save it,” Bob muttered under his breath.

They waited for a few minutes and then there was silence. The air smelled like burned flesh and soil.

Eventually, Bob and Ray got out of the hole. The ground was covered in body parts, branches and red snow. They had to make sure they were safe, sticking their bayonets in the bits and pieces of soldiers.

Maybe it was time they moved out of their hole and set up camp somewhere else, somewhere a little further away from the clearing where they weren’t such an easy target for the Germans and a potential meal for the zombies.

When Ray slumped down back by Frank’s side, his ears were still ringing. He could hear the wind in the trees too, howling.

After a while, Frank took off his helmet, kissed his crucifix and shifted until he was comfortably curled up between Ray and Gerard, his head on Ray’s shoulder and his knees on Ray’s thighs.

Then Frank started snoring softly against Ray’s neck, occasionally mumbling and squirming in his sleep. He was probably having nightmares.

Mikey was dozing off next to his brother, his head bobbing as he struggled to stay awake.

Ray looked over at Bob, sitting by Mikey’s side, his helmet hiding his eyes. Ray knew he wasn’t asleep, though. He could see Bob’s hands twitching on the barrel of his riffle. Neither of them would sleep that night.

*

The next morning, help came in the form of a small unit led by a very loud man going by the name of Saporta. They were sent to a village a few miles away down the road. There was food there and hot showers. There were beds with sheets and dry clothes they could change into. It sounded a little too unreal after spending a week inside a muddy hole and Ray was a little reserved as they made their way out of the forest.

The walk wasn’t really that long, a couple of hours at the most on snowy roads. They weren’t even halfway there when Frank started whining. He complained about his boots, about how he couldn’t breathe and how he thought he had a fever.

Usually, Bob was the one Frank would climb on when he was too tired to walk. Since he got sick a lot, everyone indulged him and really, none of them minded the occasional nagging.

This time, Frank wrapped his arms around Ray and tried to climb up his back.

Ray shrugged him off as gently as possible. He was too tired to carry Frank around. His backpack was heavy enough as it was.

“Come on, Ray,” Frank whined, wrapping an arm around Ray’s waist. “You’re the only one available to give me a ride. Gerard and Mikey are wimps and Bob is hurt.”

“Hey,” Gerard and Mikey both said in unison which made Frank giggle. Gerard flipped him the bird which made Frank giggle even harder.

“I’m fine,” Bob mumbled. “Come here, you big sissy.”

Frank let go of Ray, his fingers sliding off of Ray’s overcoat. He rushed over to Bob, his feet slipping a little on the icy road.

“We may be wimps but at least we can walk on our own,” Mikey muttered under his breath. He and Gerard exchanged a look full of complicity.

Bob stopped, adjusted the straps of his backpack and let Frank climb onto his back. He barely cringed when Frank poked at his bicep.

“Does it hurt when I do that?” he asked, grinning.

Bob grumbled. “Will it hurt if dump your ass in the middle of the road, moron?”

Frank laughed and wrapped his arms around Bob’s neck. “No more poking, then.”

Ray wasn’t jealous. He was just a little sad that Frank treated him like a consolation prize. He wasn’t as charismatic as Gerard, he wasn’t as funny and optimistic as Mikey and he wasn’t as strong and determined as Bob. He was just Frank’s favorite pillow and sometimes he was also Frank’s mom. Ray was tired of feeling this way and maybe he was a little jealous.

*

The village was small and seemed deserted. A few buildings had been reduced to rubble; a boulangerie was the only thing still standing at the center of the village. The church roof had collapsed and there was no sign of life anywhere in the adjacent buildings, small houses made of stones.

The place had been under attack. That was all Corporal Wentz told them when they finally got to the headquarters. Judging by the destruction, it was the handiwork of the Germans. There were no signs of zombies there.

The base camp had been moved to a small building at the edge of the village that used to be a school. There weren’t any beds there but they were all given hot meals as promised and a place to sleep that wasn’t outside.

A medic came by to examine Bob’s wound and patched him up. Bob didn’t even flinch when the guy stuck a needle in his arm and sewed him up. Then the medic examined Frank and made a face when he heard Frank’s cough.

It was worse than Ray had expected. Frank had managed to catch a lung infection and had to be put on bed rest for a few days. “Plenty of fluid and sleep,” the medic said.

There was no sickbay in the village. It had been destroyed during the last air raid, so Frank had to stay in one of the classrooms, laid out on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches. It smelled rancid, like dust, but it was warm and they were still together.

*

The orders that they were leaving came three days later.

When Ray went to check on Frank that night, he looked much better. He was restless, half lying on his bench and defacing the furniture with obscene drawings, carving them into the wood with his bayonet.

Ray walked up to him and put the book on the bench, practically under Frank’s nose. “I got you this.”

It was an old book Frank might have read already but it was all Ray had managed to find in the rubble of the old school library. The rest of the books were mostly in French or were for kids.

Frank dropped his bayonet and picked up the book. He ran a finger against the spine and looked up at Ray, a wide grin on his face. The colors were coming back to his cheeks. He had shaved too, his chin and his lip smooth again. “Thanks,” he said, flipping through the pages distractedly. “Come here,” he added, patting the side of the bench.

Ray lifted Frank’s legs and sat at the other end of the bench.

“Where’s Gerard?” Frank asked, shifting a little, squirming until he was halfway in Ray’s lap.

“With Bob and Mikey.”

Mikey was playing cards with Wentz and his unit, gambling cigarettes. He had already tripled their stash by the time Ray left. Mikey was a master at bluffing, probably because his face was unreadable.

Bob and Gerard weren’t playing though. Bob was talking about his hometown, Chicago with a couple of Wentz’s men who seemed to be from there too and Gerard was listening while keeping an eye on his brother.

Ray could have stayed longer but everything was a little boring when Frank wasn’t around. It was strange how he could fill up a room just by being there.

“I’ve always wanted a house with a porch swing,” Frank said after a few minutes, putting the book down on the floor by his backpack. He rolled onto his side and tugged on Ray’s sleeve.

Ray hesitated before lying down by Frank’s side. He wasn’t sure why Frank was talking about this now. Maybe it was something he saw in the book. Ray wrapped his arms around Frank and nuzzled at his hair. Frank smelled nice. He smelled like warm biscuits and soap. He was everything Ray missed about home.

“I can see myself sitting there, watching the lightning bugs in the summer,” Frank said as he put his hands on Ray’s. “The swing would creak a little.”

Ray closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Something in his stomach stirred. Frank was his home now. Frank and Gerard and Bob and Mikey. They were all his home. They were his family.

“I love porch swings. There was one at my grandma Lillian’s house before she moved to a smaller place. She had that big porch and we would watch the baseball games from there, sitting on the swing.”

“You watched baseball?” Ray asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Frank sighed as if it was the most embarrassing thing he had ever did. “I might be a bookworm but it doesn’t mean I don’t know shit about baseball.”

Ray squeezed Frank’s hand a little and whispered, “You should get a house with a porch swing then.”

“I will. And I’ll have a garden so I can have my dogs there too.”

“You miss them?”

“Yeah. My dogs and my mom’s cooking,” Frank replied, squeezing Ray’s fingers back. “She makes the world’s best baked ziti.”

It wasn’t the first time they were so close, entwined and keeping each other warm. But they weren’t usually this handsy. Ray didn’t mind touching Frank so much at all, though.

“After this is over, I’d like to meet your mom,” Ray said, feeling his face flush. He was too obvious.

Frank giggled and pushed himself against Ray, the small of his back brushing over Ray’s stomach. “I’m taking all of you. My mom’s gonna love the Way brothers. She’s gonna love Gerard.”

A dog barked somewhere in the distance and then there was silence. All Ray could hear now was Frank’s heavy breathing and his own heart beating fast. He thought Frank was asleep until he started to stir again, untangling his fingers from Ray’s and humming something, a melody Ray couldn’t quite make out.

“You should get some sleep now, sweetie.” The pet name escaped his mouth before Ray even had time to think.

“I’ve been asleep for too long,” Frank said as he rolled over onto his back and let go of Ray’s hands. “I’ve been sleeping way more than you guys.”

“Doctor’s orders, Iero,” Ray said with a small smile. “You’re never gonna feel better if you don’t sleep.”

“Fine,” Frank said as he grabbed his overcoat on the floor and pulled it up to his nose. Then he whispered, “Sweetie.” He was smiling, wide and pretty, trying to hide under the lapel of his overcoat. “Did you really call me sweetie, asshole?”

“You’re hearing things. It’s probably the fever making you delirious,” Ray said, laughing under his breath.

“You’re like a mother to me, Toro. A mother I sometimes want to make out with.”

Ray stopped breathing for a few seconds. He wasn’t sure he had heard right and he really wanted to have heard this (especially the part about Ray being compared to Frank’s mom).

Frank giggled again and Ray decided he was probably just joking.

“We’re leaving Bastogne tomorrow,” Ray said and Frank stopped giggling. His smile faded away slowly. Maybe he remembered where they were and that they weren’t the only two people on earth.

Frank hummed and rolled onto his side, nesting his head in the crook of Ray’s neck.

“Do you think there are zombies where we’re going?” he asked, his warm breath brushing against Ray’s skin.

“No. I don’t think so,” Ray replied, knowing that wherever they were going, there would probably be an army of enemies waiting for them.

Frank closed his eyes and smiled, pulling Ray’s hands under his cheek. It was warm and smooth.

Ray watched Frank sleep for a little while before he eventually drifted off too, feeling safe and strangely hopeful.