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They still fuck the night after Roger gets bit; or at least they rub against each other, Peter clutching Roger’s shoulders with an intense expression on his face, careful not to jostle Roger’s wounds too much. But the moment Roger comes, just seconds after Peter’s own release, Peter rolls off him, as far away as he can get on the small cot.
All Roger can do is smile, even if it looks more like a grimace. He’d probably do the same, if he were in Peter’s place. After all, it must be the saliva of those damned things that does it, the saliva in the bites, like the ones on Roger’s arm and leg. Makes sense that even his come is poisoned now. Infected, dying. Just like the rest of him.
Apparently Peter notices the look in Roger’s eyes, because he moves a little closer and reaches over, gingerly resting his hand on Roger’s still-heaving stomach. “You okay, buddy?”
Roger laughs. “Sure. I’m so hopped up on morphine, I’m surprised my fucking bones didn’t melt.” He pictures his body, flesh decaying and melting off the bones like water. This same flesh that Peter is touching now.
He wonders if Peter is seeing the same images in his head, and that’s why he can’t stand to touch him. That first night, the night they came here, they had jerked each other off, hard and fast, on the floor of the stockroom. Afterwards, they’d slumped against each other, feeling lazy but alive, covered in sweat and semen, hearts beating fast. That’s what had mattered the first night. Feeling alive.
When Peter tried to leave that night, pulling on his shirt and avoiding Roger’s eyes, Roger had tugged him back down to the floor. “It’s the fucking apocalypse, man. Dead people are walking around. We’re stuck in a shopping center and there are only two other people in the world that we know are alive. This? It isn’t gonna matter in the end. Besides,” he’d said with a laugh, “Fran’s the only woman here, and I don’t think Flyboy’s gonna let us have a turn.” And Peter had stayed.
Now, Peter offers him a cigarette, and Roger stops thinking about the past, about his life, and starts breathing in smoke instead. At least his lungs still work, for now. He laughs again.
“What?” Peter’s closer now, face open, the way it always is after this.
“Mom always told me cigarettes would kill me. Shows what she knows, right? Well, knew. Guess I'll be joining her soon enough, right?” Roger raises his cigarette as if to toast with it, and Peter’s face shuts down, like a door slamming closed.
“Shut up, Roger.”
“What? I know it, you know it, I’m sure Flyboy and Flygirl know it by now, too.” He leans over, close to Peter’s face, and grins, less a smile than a baring of teeth. “You won’t even kiss me, will you? Too afraid I’ll bite off your lips and then you’ll be like me. Too afraid to even touch my come or taste my spit.”
Peter’s face is very, very still, his fingers digging bruises into Roger’s stomach.
And then suddenly something breaks in his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t known Roger was dying. Maybe he hadn’t known that Roger knew. Whatever it is, it makes him shut his eyes and lean even closer to Roger, mouth open for a kiss.
For a second, Roger just stares. He wants to suck, bite, devour that bottom lip, and he doesn’t know if its him, his desire, or just that awful hunger that drives those corpses around. He doesn’t know, but he still leans over and kisses Peter, their lips and tongues moving together in a way that is already so familiar. They rarely kiss, but when they do, its always like this, desperate and hungry. This, at least, is a different kind of hunger, a different kind of devouring.
And then he takes Peter’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, gently. Peter doesn’t try to pull away, and Roger doesn’t try to bite harder, to draw blood. They just sit like, both their eyes open and fixed on each other while Roger holds Peter’s life in his hands, and Peter lets him, willingly.
He doesn’t know how many seconds, minutes, hours it lasts, but eventually Roger draws back with a shudder, releasing Peter and puffing on his cigarette instead. He sucks on it hard, pulling smoke into his lungs until they hurt, trying to will this hunger away. Whichever kind it is.
He tries to avoid Peter’s eyes, but Peter grabs his jaw, trains his eyes on Roger’s face. Roger can’t tell if this feeling in the pit of his stomach is that zombie hunger, or just a terrible, terrible love. Can’t tell them apart anymore, because they’re blending, both a part of him, neither willing to let go.
He can’t tell what the feeling is until Peter reaches down with his free hand and swipes his fingers over the semen drying on Roger’s belly. His eyes are still on Roger’s face when he brings those fingers to his mouth, ready to lick, and Roger pulls his hand away, licks his own come off Peter’s hand almost desperately.
“No,” he says, and his voice is broken. As infected as the rest of him, because part of him still wants to bite Peter till he bleeds. Part of him wants them to lie here, together, licking blood and come off each other until they’re both filled with it, with the same hunger. But he won’t allow it, won’t let the fucking zombie bastards win, even if he’s becoming one of them. Won’t let Peter join him in this.
“No,” he says again, and he sees that Peter understands. “But—stay with me tonight.” He can’t trust himself if he’s alone. He can't trust himself with other people, either, but he knows that Peter will keep him safe--Peter, and his gun, and that look he gets in his eyes.
“Roger—” After that moment of almost-surrender, Peter’s face is hard and cold again, a granite slab. But his hands are still warm, resting on Roger’s shoulders, and he’s almost trembling. Too close to surrender to risk it again. Roger understands that will to survive. He’s glad Peter understands it too.
His cigarette is burned down to the filter, and he crushes it out on the floor next to his cot. “I know. Someone needs to keep watch. And…” I could die at anytime, he doesn’t say out loud. I could get…hungry again. “Just go.”
Peter just looks at him. His eyes are soft, but as always they’re assessing everything around him. Peter’s a survivor. He plans things, figures things out. Makes things work. “No,” he says, pushing Roger’s shoulders down onto the cot. “Lay down.” Once Roger is lying on his back, Peter lies down too, and rests his head on Peter’s chest. “I can hear your heart beat like this.”
Till it stops, Roger thinks. He closes his eyes tight, against the thought, against the hunger that’s still inside him. He wraps his injured arm around Peter, trying not to wince at the pain, and he just breathes. Breathes in the familiar scent of semen and sweat and Peter. Breathes, while he still can.