Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s been three days, and Natalan’s body is starting to smell. Two days before, Roier had completed the disgusting task of hacking at the corpse’s limbs with a machete, followed by shoving as much as he could into the freezer.  He then promptly decided to procrastinate on how to finish disposing of the body.

And now, it’s been two days and the mangled corpse in Roier’s bathtub has turned the air of the entire apartment unit rancid. He’s sure he’s also managed to raise his electric bill to an obscene number after running the AC and every fan he owns for the past three days straight in the sweltering summer heat, in hopes of putting off the terrible task of dealing with the consequences of his own actions for as long as possible.

It’s not that he’s upset that Natalan’s dead-- he deserved it, and now he can never hurt Roier ever again. It’s just that cleaning that mess will be absolutely revolting. Besides, Roier has better things to do. He doesn’t have time for cleanup.

He hasn’t left his apartment since killing Natalan, aside from a quick trip to the convenience store for some cheap vodka to properly enjoy finally freeing himself of that horrible situation. He’s been sitting in his room, admiring his walls. Every inch is covered in writing, messily finger painted messages in blood. Some of it Natalan’s, most of it his own.

I will find my soulmate, and he will love me!!!! is sloppily written just above his television. It is five AM, and the low chatter of a news broadcasting channel doing a segment on an escaped Brazilian convict disrupts the otherwise silent morning.

The sky is gray outside, brightening by the minute. The news segment is taped. It has been playing for forty-six hours on repeat.

Roier knows exactly what he wants.

He has his notes spread across the bedroom floor, and he really doesn’t want to interrupt his research to take care of the body. He also, regrettably, probably needs to clean his walls. He should’ve stuck to his own blood only. But, he let the emotions get the best of him. And now he has DNA of the guy he killed plastered all over his room. Fantastic.

He’s been deliberating, and he thinks that the best course of action is to probably dump the rest of Natalan’s body somewhere discreet, wash the blood off the walls, and then disappear.

He’s definitely going to be a prime suspect once people realize that Natalan is missing. He really can’t afford to stick around much longer.

Once he’s gone, he’ll find him. Cellbit. Cell, as most people call him. The authorities haven’t been able to locate him, but Roier will. He will. And Cell will love him, and everything will be wonderful.

Roier makes an omelet for dinner. He uses two eggs, cheddar cheese, frozen spinach, and diced meat. Overall, it tastes alright. But the meat is slightly stringy and overcooked, and Roier angrily shoves his hand onto the scorching hot burner. His Cell is a cannibal, and Roier cannot let his cooking be anything less than perfect.

He cannot wait to meet him.

i.

Cell is standing on the side of highway 200, hood of his (stolen) car propped open, about three hours past the Guatemalan-Mexican border. A frown sits firmly in the crease of his brows and in the curve of his mouth, and Roier wants to scream because he is perfect.  

“Hey man,” Roier calls out as casually as he can manage, slowing his old shitbox car to a stop. “Having engine trouble?” he aims for sympathetic and a little bit dumb. Cell stares at him, probably trying to find any underlying motive. 

Roier has no idea what he finds, but eventually he nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse and unused. I’m so normal, I’m so normal, I’m so normal.

“I don’t know shit about cars,” Roier explains apologetically. He has a loaded .22 stuffed into his waistband, and he can feel it digging into his hip bone. “But I can give you a lift into town if you want.” he smiles like it’s not a big deal. 

“How far?” Cell demands, squinting against the bright sky to look at him clearly. 

Roier shrugs apologetically. “I don’t know. I’m not local.” it’s the first lie he’s told, and he quickly follows it up with a fact. It’s an hour and twenty three minutes to the nearest town, granted Cell doesn’t kill him. Roier’s not local. He’s only here for one reason.

Silence stretches between them and the sweltering sun above. Cell weighs his options. Sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Let me get my bag from my car.”

Roier watches as he rummages through the car. He’s ditched his bright orange prison jumpsuit that Roier had seen in pictures, instead wearing a worn tank top and jeans. His hair is longer than it was in the mugshots Roier had seen, too. He’s the prettiest person Roier has ever met. Roier’s not stupid, though. He knows that Cell’s best course of action is to kill him somewhere along the next stretch of road and take the car as his own. 

And he can’t let that happen. He has to stop Cell from hurting him, convince him that he really wants to help him, convince him that he can really be an asset, and then they’ll go from there. He’ll figure it out. 

Cell slides into the passenger seat, and Roier locks the doors. They’re together now, never to part again. 

It takes eight minutes and forty-three seconds of awkward silence for Roier to work up the nerve to say something. “Did you know that Bonnie Parker was married?” he asks, because it’s the first thing he thinks of.

Cell makes a face. “What?” 

“Bonnie Parker was married,” Roier says. “Like Bonnie-and-Clyde Bonnie. But she wasn’t married to Clyde.” Roier thinks back to his apartment. To his life with Natalan and Sally, filled with obsessive delusion and heartbreak. To the corpse of his dead ex-something and how, for a long time, he thought they were soulmates. “She loved Clyde, though.” Even though I loved Natalan, he wants to say, I’ll love you more.

“I know who Bonnie Parker is,” Cell says flatly. “I just don’t see why that’s relevant to anything at all.” 

He’s paranoid, Roier thinks. Good to know. “Just making small talk, man.” he shrugs.

Cell says nothing, and stares at the road ahead.

At nineteen minutes and twenty-six seconds, Cell reaches into his pocket. 

Roier is quicker. He’s calculated this, made sure he has the upper hand here. By the time Cell has his knife out, Roier’s already pointing his .22 at him. 

“Don’t move,” he warns Cell. He’s aiming awkwardly from his hip with his left hand, so that the pistol is out of Cell’s reach. He’s confident enough in his abilities to know that he could make a decent non-lethal shot, if necessary.

“What are you--” Cell starts.

Roier cuts him off. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he snaps. “I don’t,” he says, softer. “Please don’t make me hurt you.” embarrassingly, he feels a stinging behind his eyes. “I want to help you, okay? But you have to work with me.”

Cell is staring at him, perplexed. He doesn’t lower his knife, but he doesn’t try to attack yet, either. Roier counts this as a win. They’re making progress. Taking baby steps.

“Let's talk, okay?” Roier sniffles. He’s not going to cry. He’s not. “I don’t want to shoot you. But you have to put down the knife. You’re gonna put down the knife, I’ll put away my gun. Then, we’re gonna get lunch and then head for the Mexican-U.S. border. Okay? I have a plan, Cell, everything is going to be fine.”

Wrong move. He should’ve remembered Cell’s paranoia, should’ve waited to use his name for a less tense moment. But emotions got the best of him, and he loves Cell so much.

Cell lunges, grip tight on his knife. Roier flinches and pulls the trigger of his .22.

The knife clatters into the center console. The bullet lodges itself in Cell’s elbow. 

“Merda!” Cell screeches. Roier swerves onto the side of the road and throws the car into park. 

“I’m sorry,” Roier sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck,” Cell hisses.

“I’m sorry,” Roier repeats. “I’m sorry, but I told you not to do that. I didn’t want to hurt you but you made me do it. I’m sorry.” He wipes his eyes and cheeks, attempting to dry his tears. His eyeliner smudges on his hands, and it just makes him cry even harder. 

He reaches out and grasps Cell’s shoulder. “Let me help, okay? We can set your arm straight and get you a sling. Then we’ll head for the States’ border, and everything will be okay.”

“What is wrong with you?” Cell asks, gritting his teeth and yanking his elbow away.

“You didn’t listen to me,” Roier says through his tears. “But it’s going to be okay now. You learned your lesson and I’ll patch you up and it’ll be fine.” he picks up the knife from the center console and presses it into Cell’s good hand. “See? I trust you. You can kill me if you want, but you won’t. You need someone to fix your arm and you’re probably starting to realize that you could benefit from some help.”

“You’re insane,” Cell says, staring at him. His fingers curl around the hilt of the knife, and Roier could die in this moment and be totally happy, because Cell’s hand brushes against his.

“I know,” Roier says, “But are you going to kill me?”

The car is silent for a moment, before Cell sighs. “No,” he says. Not yet, is what he probably means. But they’ll fix that, too. Eventually. 

Roier nods. “Okay. let’s get your arm treated, man.”

Cell’s face scrunches up adorably when Roier relocates his elbow, and he looks a bit like a cat. He doesn’t cry or scream, and Roier thinks he’s the bravest person in the world.

Roier kneels by the passenger side door, tweezers from his rudimentary first aid kit in hand. He’s inspecting the wound, attempting to find the best way to remove the bullet.

“I’m sorry for getting so emotional earlier,” Roier says, barely above a whisper. “I’ll try my best not to do it again.”

Cell frowns, confusion etched into the furrow of his brow. “What?” He asks. 

“I’m sorry for getting so upset,” Roier explains, finally getting a decent grip on the bullet. “Natalan says that I’m weird and creepy when I cry. I don’t mean to be.” He yanks the bullet out without a warning. Cell hisses in pain. 

Blood gushes from the wound, and Roier has to hold himself back from trying to do something stupid like lick it. He bets Cell’s blood tastes really good.

He pockets the bullet and tweezers. He’ll definitely find a use for Cell’s caked blood, and it’d be cute if he were able to eventually convince Cell to wear the bullet on a necklace or something. But that’s a distant fantasy, and he can’t let himself get carried away. He has to exist in the present. Make sure he doesn’t fuck everything up before things can even truly begin.

He doesn’t have any antiseptic, so he bandages Cell’s arm tightly and makes a mental note to pick some up the next time they end up in town. After a bit of digging, Roier manages to find an old shirt in the trunk of his hastily-packed car, which he fashions into a sling. 

“You’ll be fine,” he tells Cell, once he’s done. “As long as it heals properly and you keep it still for a while, there probably won’t be much lasting damage.” he stands up and stretches, mentally preparing himself to operate a vehicle again. He’s feeling incredibly drained and a bit sad, and he’s not looking forward to driving.

“Who’s Natalan?” Cell asks, and aww. Cell is asking about his life!!!! Granted, the question has a bit of an awkward and pathetic answer, but still. It’s sweet.

“He’s, um,” Roier starts, and then abruptly remembers. Laughs a little bit. “Lunch!” He says, a bit too loud. “I made lunch,” he explains. “Well, technically breakfast but I forgot to eat.” (Lie. He miscalculated where Cell’s car would break down and spent an extra three hours searching). He rifles through the backseat until he finds what he’s looking for. 

“It’s bacon and eggs,” he tells Cell, passing him a thermos and plastic fork. “I hope you like it.”

Cell doesn’t even comment on the fact that he had two portions prepared. Roier is so in love with him. 

He crawls back into the driver's seat and wrings his hands, nervous. What if he doesn’t like my cooking?  

Cell stares at him, food untouched. 

Fucking hell. Roier rolls his eyes. “I’m not poisoning you, culero. If I had wanted you dead or incapacitated, I would have shot you.” 

“You did shoot me,” Cell deadpans. 

“I would have shot you better.” Roier corrects. 

Cell doesn’t exactly laugh, but he huffs slightly, lips curling into what maybe could be a smile. Roier counts it as a win.

Roier eats quickly-- he thinks the food is good, hopes that Cell will agree. But they really need to get going. They’re parked on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere and granted, they’re both armed and skilled in combat, but Roier would rather not deal with anything dangerous today. (Aside from Cell, of course, but they’ve already established that he won’t kill him). Besides, the quicker they can get out of Mexico, the better. Cell is at least known of internationally, and if they haven’t connected Roier to Natalan’s death yet, it’s only a matter of time. 

Roier pretends his hands are not shaking with nervousness, and pretends he doesn’t watch Cell as he eats. He really, really hopes Cell likes the meal because it’s his own cooking. And it’s personal. It’s a gesture of his devotion, in some way.

“This is good,” Cell says.

Roier smiles, face warm. He stares down at his lap. He likes it, he likes my cooking, he likes my gift to him even if he isn’t fully aware of the meaning. “Thank you.”

“No I mean,” Cell can’t seem to find the right words. (cute.) “this is really, really good. You made this? Where did you source your meat?”

Roier cackles. “No mames, man. You can really tell that easily?”

Cell raises an eyebrow. “I have indulged in cannibalistic urges since I was a teenager. So yes, I can tell that easily.” he says it like Roier is a bit dumb, but lightly. Jokingly. 

“Well, aren’t you glad now that you didn’t stab me to death earlier?” Roier teases, unable to fight the smile that pulls at his lips and hurts his cheeks.

“I’m not sure yet,” Cell says, but there’s an almost-amused lilt in his voice that indicates that Roier has definitely begun to win him over. 

“You’ll grow to love me man, just you wait.” Roier is careful to keep his tone as far from serious as possible. He’s joking. He can’t scare him away over something stupid like this.

“Whatever you say,” Cell replies.

Roier tosses his now-empty thermos into the back seat, and starts the car. Rolls his shoulders and sighs. They have a long way to go, but that’s okay. Everything will be okay. As long as they have each other. He carefully navigates the car back onto the paved highway and then accelerates. They speed down the desolate highway. It feels like a beginning.

They’re in town less than an hour later, and it feels like a rude reminder of reality. Maybe Cell is right to be paranoid, and maybe Roier’s a bit delusional about how close they are to one another. But they’ll get there. They’ll get there.

“Look,” he tells Cell, as he parks outside a grocery store. “We probably shouldn’t call each other our real names in there. I killed a man only a couple hundred miles north of here, and you’re an internationally known criminal. We should also be as quick as possible, I don’t want to stick around longer than necessary.”

“I don’t know your name,” Cell says flatly. 

And it hurts. It’s stupid that it hurts, because it’s his own fault he never told Cell his name but still. He’s just spent the past half an hour imagining their beautiful future together. And Cell doesn’t even know his name. Roier thinks he’s cursed with the knowledge of always knowing who’s meant to be in his life far before the other person can catch up. It’s agonizing, it’s pathetic, and it’s so fucking lonely.

“My name is Roier,” he says, and it comes out sharper than he’d intended. “But don’t call me that in there.”

“Okay,” Cell says slowly, confused, like he doesn’t know what’s caused Roier to act like this. “Then what should I call you? Should I come up with a fake name?”

Roier thinks about Cell addressing him as any name but his own, thinks about addressing Cell as something artificial and unimportant, and feels sick to his stomach. “No,” he says firmly. “We can just not use names at all, I guess. I don’t see why we’d need to.”

Famous last words.

Roier clambours out of the car and slams the door behind him. He knows he’s being bitter and over-reactive but he’s tense. Worried about worst-case scenarios in the store, angry with himself. Situations like this take time, he knows that. He does. He’s just tired and he’s scared and he really, really wishes Cell would love him already.

He remains glued to Cell’s side as discreetly as possible as they walk into the store and begin shopping. He really, really doesn’t want to be alone right now. He doesn’t want Cell to be without him, either. But, he wants to get out of here as fast as possible. And it really logically makes sense for them to split up to finish shopping faster.

Reluctantly, he scribbles down a short list of things for Cell to look for, and then heads for the medical aisle. 

Pain killers, clean bandages, antiseptic. He grabs them off the shelf. Finding something to use as a splint would be ideal, but not necessary. He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost doesn’t notice someone approaching. 

He feels a light tap on his shoulder. “Sorry to bother you but,” the stranger says, frowning slightly. “Do we know each other? You seem incredibly familiar.” He’s slightly shorter than Roier, but his shoulders are broad and he’s visibly muscular. Roier could probably kill him if truly necessary, but not without causing a scene. And he’s definitely never met this guy in his life.

And fuck. Fuck. Maybe he’s mistaking Roier for someone else, or maybe his face is already out there as the psycho guy that killed his ex. He’s not sure how to respond, so he says the first stupid thing to come to mind. “...não falo espanhol.” he says in horribly stilted, and very obviously accented portuguese.

The stranger raises an eyebrow, looking slightly amused and shit. Roier’s really not handling this well at all. He looks suspicious as all hell, and he just connected them back to Brazil. He catches a glimpse of Cell from across the store, and feels palpable anger at himself for letting his silly feelings get in the way of establishing fake names, because he needs Cell’s attention and they need to leave. 

He smiles politely and, for the sake of committing to the bit, says, “Com licença.” He then awkwardly tries to squeeze past the guy, who’s still standing right in the middle of the aisle. He needs to get Cell’s attention, and he’s just realized how. 

“Gatinho!” he calls, and watches in amusement as Cell freezes and turns to him in slightly flustered confusion, which quickly gets replaced with alarm when he sees the panic in Roier’s expression. 

He strides over immediately, and Roier speed-walks to meet him halfway. “We need to leave,” he hisses. “Some fucking guy just told me he thinks he recognizes me.”

“Okay,” Cell agrees, “let’s go.” He places a hand on Roier’s shoulder and guides them to the checkout line, and it’s only then Roier realizes he’s shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Cell, for what feels like the millionth time that day. “I messed up so badly. I was so nervous, and then what felt like the worst-case scenario happened.” he refuses to let himself cry in public, but he’s pretty sure that the second they’re back in the car he’s going to start fucking crying pathetically again. It’s fine.

Cell shrugs. “It’s not your fault some weird guy tried to talk to you.”

It’s kind. His hand remains on Roier’s shoulder, warm and grounding. He’s the most perfect person Roier has ever met.

“What are the odds even that someone would recognize me,” Roier complains, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He really needs some fucking sleep.

“Extremely low, I’d say,” Cell says. “Are you sure he recognized you? Are you sure he wasn’t just hitting on you or mistaking you for someone else?”

It feels like Cell doesn’t trust him. Which, fair, he probably doesn’t, seeing as they met only hours ago but still. “Are you doubting me?” Roier snaps.

“No,” Cell says placatingly. “I’m just trying to rationalize this. Maybe this isn’t the worst case scenario.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Roier says miserably, “I reacted so awkwardly and badly, he’s probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. And then one day he’ll see me on the news as the psycho bitch who killed and ate his ex. And then he’ll tell the police he saw us here, and they’ll find us.” he’s probably overreacting, but he’s so scared that he’s fucked this up too badly, and that Cell will leave him. 

“We’ll be out of here soon enough,” Cell counters. “And by the time any of that could matter, we’ll be far enough away that they won’t be able to do anything about it.”

It’s sweet. It’s so, so sweet. And Cell even referred to them using a singular pronoun. We’ll be out of here soon enough. Roier knows that he’s probably just saying it to calm him down, but even so. Cell is acknowledging a future where they stick together.

“Thank you,” Roier whispers, wringing his hands. I won’t cry in this fucking store. I won’t cry in this stupid fucking store.

Cell doesn’t respond, but he keeps his hand firmly on Roier’s shoulder. 

Roier breaks down crying, for what feels like the millionth time, the second they get back to the car.

They spend most of the day in relative silence, driving down the highway. They pull into the parking lot of some shitty motel sometime after eleven pm. Roier pays in cash and puts down a fake name. He’s fucking exhausted. He’s driven all day, and he’s cried and sobbed and met the love of his life. It’s a lot to process.

The room has two twin beds and a tiny bathroom and is absolutely disgusting. It’s a cheap motel, and Roier wouldn’t have expected any different, but still. He sees a roach scurrying behind the bathroom mirror when he flicks on the light. The walls are slightly rotted and stained. 

“So, why the Mexican-U.S. border?” Cell asks, inspecting his arm in the bathroom light, presumably just to make small talk as Roier washes his eyeliner-streaked face in the mirror. “That’s going to be a difficult crossing to pull off.”

Roier rolls his eyes. “You’ve crossed, like, three borders already, man. We’ll be fine. But I killed someone in Mexico, so we can’t exactly stay. Plus, we should get you as far away from Brazil as possible. You’re kind of a celebrity. Besides, it’s probably more dangerous to stay. They’ll find us eventually if we do.”

Cell hums. “That makes sense.”

Roier turns to face him, looking him straight in the eyes. “If we get killed, I’d rather get shot trying to escape than sit around and wait for the police to find us.”

Cell smiles slightly. “I’ll kill them all before they have the chance to shoot,” he says, and maybe he means he’ll keep himself safe. But it sounds a lot like I won’t let them hurt us.

They’re in this together now, for better or for worse. In sickness and in health, Roier thinks, and does his best to suppress the lovesick smile threatening to overtake his face.

“You didn’t kill me before I could shoot,” Roier teases, and it comes out so, so fond.

“You don’t need to remind me,” Cell says, analyzing the torn up flesh of his elbow. 

Cell winces as he prods at the wound, and Roier feels a little bad for injuring him like that. But Cell was going to hurt him. And he needed to learn his lesson.

“Let me help you clean that,” he says. 

It’s silent for a moment, while Cell stares at him. It feels like Cell has flayed his chest open and scrutinized his soul. Eventually, he nods. “Okay.”

Roier is careful to be gentle as he pours antiseptic on the wound, even gentler when he runs his hands across the raw flesh that hasn’t had the chance to scab over yet, making sure there’s no chance any part of it could get infected. He wants to apologize again, but he’s afraid that if he tries to speak he’ll end up saying something stupid like, this is beautiful, or you’re beautiful, or even worse, I love you. So he keeps his mouth shut. It’s far too soon.

When Cell’s wound is properly tended to, Roier curls up on the bed in the far side of the room. He screws his eyes shut. He can hear Cell shuffling about, probably not wanting to sleep.

It’s suffocating. It’s horrible, it’s lovely, it’s the best and worst thing in the world. He’s in a room with the love of his life, who isn’t aware that he loves him yet. He keeps telling himself, repeating over and over, that Cell will love him. Eventually. Some part of his mind is terrified that he never will. That it was all for nothing.

That he’s here, in an unfamiliar part of the country with a practical stranger, after killing the only other man he’s ever loved. After killing his fucking son. And that it will all be for nothing. He wants to reach out. He wants to stagger out of bed and curl into Cell’s side, but he knows he’d be unwelcome.

He just has to wait. He hates waiting, but if he just waits, Cell will eventually want him. He has to believe that. He has to believe that the universe will give this to him. That wanting is enough. I will get what I want, he thinks, digging his nails into his palms. I will.

Chapter Text

ii.

Roier dreams of broken glass and crushed metal. 

Of twisting the wheel of his car at just the right moment. Of Cell’s blood and his own, mixed and splattered across the windshield. 

He wants and he wants and he wants, so much it aches in his chest even worse than a knife would. He sort of hopes that Cell will stab him in his sleep. That they’ll get this all over with now. He would be okay with that. Dying for him.

He wakes up to the sound of running water and a nasty headache. Cell, somehow, for some reason, didn’t leave Roier stranded here in the middle of the night. Presumably. 

The bathroom door is closed and the shower is running. Cell had the opportunity to kill Roier or leave, and he didn’t. He didn’t. Roier can’t fight the smile that stretches across his face, and he doesn’t try. He buries his face in his hands, feeling overwhelmingly warm.

Roier’s doing it. He’s managing to pry his way into Cell’s heart. Slowly. It’s an agonizingly slow process, but it’s working. It is. Roier bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He hates being forced to wait. But Cell is worth it.

Cell is worth it.

Cell will always be worth it.

The water shuts off. Roier hugs his knees to his chest. He’s nervous to see Cell again, as weirdly pathetic as it sounds. He’s afraid his inadequacy at being normal will push him away.

Cell isn’t normal by any standards either, but he’s a cold and calculating and beautiful monster. Roier is an impulsive emotional mess, prone to lashing out and obsessive as all hell.

Hard to love, and even harder to spend time with.

He cries all the time, and isn’t even that pretty. He’s easily angered, and cruel when he is. He’s too much to deal with. He sort of understands why Natalan couldn’t love him. Even if he hates him for it. Even if he killed him for it.

“Hey,” Cell says, stepping out of the bathroom in his jeans and a t-shirt that Roier vaguely recognizes as one of his own that he threw in the car before leaving to find Cell.

“Good morning,” Roier says, too loud to be casual. Eek. 

“My shirt was splattered with blood,” Cell explains flatly. 

Right. Oops. 

“Sorry,” Roier says, not really sorry at all. And they both know it. 

“I almost killed you last night,” Cell says. Casual, but there’s an undercurrent of nervous energy that’s strangely unsettling. “I didn’t.” I couldn’t, is maybe what he means. 

Roier laughs. “I can see that.” he stands and stretches, before pushing past Cell and into the bathroom. He uncaps his eyeliner and makes eye contact with Cell through the mirror. “I almost wanted you to.”

It’s a promise of devotion, mostly. He thinks Cell understands that. It’s not about suicide, it’s about sacrifice. And he’d sacrifice himself if Cell wanted him to a million times over.

Roier can still taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and Cell stares at his reflection unblinkingly. Roier doesn’t dare look away, and for a moment it feels like the entire world stops moving. 

Cell glances downward abruptly. “I’m hungry,” he rasps, “we should stop for breakfast before leaving town.” He makes a disgusting noise somewhere between a sharp intake of breath and a swallow, and if it were anyone else, Roier would be incredibly grossed out. But it’s Cell, so he finds it revoltingly endearing. 

They both know that no shitty restaurant food will sate the hunger Cell feels, but out of politeness Roier doesn’t mention it.

“Sure, man,” He agrees, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking. 

The sun steadily rises outside. People go about their day outside, unaware of the monsters locked behind the deadbolt of the motel room door. Unaware that their minds are slowly melding into one. Unaware that Roier has done it. He’s gotten under Cell’s skin, and it’s only a matter of time now. It’s only a matter of time.

His chest burns and his hands shake as he applies his eyeliner. I love you. I can wait. I can wait. I hate waiting, but I’ll do it for you. I’ll give you all the time in the world if that’s what you need.

As long as you love me eventually. I will wait forever if I have to, and cherish every minute it tears me apart.

They pack everything back in the car and stop for breakfast before leaving town. Roier can barely stomach a few bites of food-- he doesn’t have an appetite. He’s nauseous and he’s too happy to sit still and he’s so, so in love.

Cell doesn’t eat either, despite being the one to suggest breakfast. 

This is stupid. 

“Listen,” Roier says, grabbing Cell’s wrist. “I have, in the trunk of my car. An ice chest with um,” he searches for the correct word to use in public, “leftovers.”

Cell blinks. “Thank fucking god.”

Problem: the meat is raw, packaged and ready to be cooked. They are currently homeless and do not have a stove.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

And that’s how they end up thirty minutes up the road, pulled over and attempting to start a campfire. Roier vaguely remembers that kindling goes on the bottom, and to build upward from there, and he hopes that’s good enough. He only burns his hands a little bit while sticking his hand in the kindling with a lighter, so he counts it as a win.

It takes a while to light correctly, but it finally evens out to a steady burn.

“I think I’ve got it,” he calls to Cell, poking at the charred kindling with a stick.

“Okay,” Cell says, rummaging through the ice chest, presumably looking for the best cut of meat. Roier never cooked much, and definitely wasn’t knowledgeable about meat selection. So he mostly just packed pieces of meat that the internet said were good in recipes.

He has no idea how much of the meat is usable, but he’s sure that Cell can figure it out.

“This is a decent selection,” Cell says, approaching him with several paper-wrapped pieces of, well, Natalan. “If a bit amateur. Good job.”

Roier ducks his head so that Cell can’t see the warmth in his cheeks. “Thanks,” he says. “I honestly just looked up which pieces of pork make good dishes. I’ve heard that human and pork aren’t that different.”

Cell snorts. “They’re very different. But they cook similarly enough.” 

They work in silence, side by side. Cell cuts and prepares the meat, while Roier tends to the fire. It’s achingly domestic, and Roier wants to scream or maybe cry. 

He thinks that he’d like to do this forever. He knows it, in his soul, that this is how they’re meant to be. It doesn’t matter that they just met. He knows. He just has to wait for Cell to catch up, he just has to wait. It hurts, but it’s okay!!! It will be worth it in the end.

Roier stares at the open flame, and wonders if Cell would even care if he shoved his hand into the burning logs. But then he remembers that his hand is still hurting from the last time he gave himself serious burns and it’s probably going to scar all ugly. Besides, he needs to drive and he can’t exactly do that with a charred palm. He’s just being melodramatic.

Cell is the one to eventually break the silence. He asks, “so, why do you have an entire ice chest of human meat in your trunk?”

He asks it all casually, like it’s a completely normal question to ask. It makes Roier giggle. “I killed him cause he deserved it,” he answers honestly. “And he’s chopped up into pieces because you like to eat people. I thought it’d be a nice gift.” It's the first time he’s acknowledging verbally that he came out here specifically looking for Cell, despite them both knowing it.

“Thanks,” Cell says. He doesn’t even necessarily say it meanly, but he says it all dismissively. Like it's not important. Like Roier isn’t important.

I should take that knife out of his hands and fucking stab myself, Roier thinks angrily, willing himself not to cry. Let him try to survive on his own. Then he’ll see just how important I am. He may not want me yet (yet!), but he needs me. He fucking needs me and I hate him for not realizing that. I hate him for not knowing that he’ll fall in love with me.

“Why did he deserve it?” Cell asks, curious. And maybe some of Roier’s anger melts away, because Cell is asking about the things Roier cares about.

“He was my…” Roier trails off, trying to find the least painful way to put it. Tries to word it like he wasn’t a completely obsessive freak and Natalan just wasn’t interested, because that just hurts too much. “Ex.” is what he eventually settles on. “He didn’t love me enough. And he wasn’t very nice to me.”

It’s both an understatement and an overstatement. He didn’t love me enough is just a kinder way to say he didn’t love me at all. And he wasn’t very nice was the simplest way to put I was creepy and obsessive and he was mean and dismissive and controlling all the time. And he didn’t want me. And I deserved better, I deserved better, I deserved better.

He can still hear Natalan yelling at him, saying leave me alone. And Roier deserves better than that. He deserves someone who will love him for all of his messy contradictory flaws. He deserves someone who will enable his behavior, because he has no plans to change. He doesn’t think that he could if he tried. He deserves someone who will see him covered in blood and think that he’s beautiful for it. He really, really hopes that Cell is that person.

“How did you kill him?” Cell asks, looking up from slicing the meat into cubes. Genuinely curious. And god, he’s perfect.

“I shot him in the face,” Roier shrugs. “A couple times because I was crying and my aim was bad. It was really gross,” he complains. “I got weird chunky blood and brain matter all over my carpet. But he didn’t deserve the intimacy of being killed any other way.”

It’s quiet for a moment, as Cell seems to digest his words. It’s a lot, it’s overwhelmingly honest. If I ever have to kill you, Roier thinks, I’ll make sure you feel loved the entire time.

“Your aim seems fine to me,” Cell jokes dryly.

Roier laughs. Cell is so funny. “It was farther away. And killing someone from a distance with a .22 isn’t easy. Especially a revolver. Ugh.” he had been holding Sally in one arm, so he couldn’t even properly reload. It would’ve been a million times easier with a semi-automatic pistol. But at least it had been fun.

Cell hums, and sits down next to Roier. He places the sliced up meat in front of them.

“You said…” He trails off awkwardly. “You said that you brought this because you knew I would like it.”

Roier shrugs in confirmation.

“Why are you here?” he doesn’t even sound suspicious when he asks. Just curious. And probably in denial, because the facts are laid out so clearly before him.

Roier’s not sure how to respond without being overly sentimental. He settles on, “why didn’t you kill me last night?” it’s as honest as he can be. He wants to say more. To explain everything he’s done, to explain every reason they’re perfect for each other. But that’d only scare Cell away. He has to wait.

Cell doesn’t have a response, but that’s okay. They’ll get there.

The sky grows brighter and brighter as they cook and eat breakfast. It’s just food, and Roier still feels nauseous with want, so he barely eats any. But Cell seems to enjoy it, so it’s worth it.

Their knees knock together as Cell reaches over to add more material to the fire. And he doesn’t flinch or move away. He easily could, but he doesn’t. Neither of them move away.

They waste most of their day like that. Cell seems to want to stay put for a while, probably relishing in his fairly recent freedom. And while Roier is growing more and more anxious by the second, he really can’t bring himself to force them to leave. Because Cell seems, well. Not happy, but not as twitchy and paranoid as he had been.

They don’t talk much, but that’s okay. They don’t need to talk. Because their knees remain pressed together for almost half an hour. And even after Cell eventually moves, Roier sees Cell looking at him several times. Not just glancing. Noticing. 

They’re finally back on the road sometime in the early evening. And even then, Cell’s mood seems to be more pleasant than usual. And maybe Roier’s being overly optimistic, but maybe, maybe this evening will be okay.

He’s decided he’ll try to drive until sometime in the early morning. They need to cover some actual distance, and he’s not that tired anyway. 

Cell stares out the passenger side window and Roier wants desperately to ask what he’s thinking. He’s pretty-- he’s the prettiest person Roier has ever seen. He wants to memorize every angle and curve of his face. He wants to bash his head into the glass window pane. He wants Cell to stab him and kiss him better. He wants to lick his own blood out of Cell’s mouth. He wants. He wants so profoundly it hurts. It’s a terrible aching in his chest, like grating metal.

It’s the second evening they’ve spent driving down the highway. Roier’s exhausted. Not sleepy-exhausted, but the emotional kind of exhausted that settles in your bones and refuses to relent. His legs hurt and he feels a bit light-headed, but they need to keep going.

“You can sleep, if you want,” he tells Cell. The sky is completely dark now, stars surrounding them like they’re the only two people to exist in the entire universe. “I’m gonna keep driving for a while.”

And he does. Roier’s not sure if it's just because he’s taught himself to fall asleep in any situation due to prison, or if it's because he trusts Roier enough not to kill him.

But it’s calm like that. It gives Roier a moment alone with his thoughts without worrying about Cell. He’s right here. He won’t talk to anyone but Roier, and if he dies they’ll die together.

It’s nice. Cell’s not awake to be dismissive or uncaring about Roier. He’s here, sleeping peacefully. His face looks so soft when he’s asleep. His scowl lines are nothing but faint creases, and his jaw isn’t clenched. He really does look like a cat, Roier thinks. The throwaway nickname I used back in the store is oddly fitting. Gatinho. He’s like a cat. He’s so beautiful. And so upset all the time. Roier hopes that some other universe is kinder to him. That he’s not always miserable and angry all the time somewhere else.

But Roier wouldn’t want that version of him-- or, at least, he thinks that version of Cell would never love him in a million years. But this version? He has a chance, maybe. Cell doesn’t seem scared off by his mood swings or violent tendencies. He didn’t judge when Roier told him about killing Natalan. Now, Roier just has to hope and pray and beg to whatever higher power that may exist, that Cell will actually like him. Not just oddly respect his flaws.

Natalan could never accept that about Roier. He didn’t understand that Roier’s violence and tears and obsessive behavior were just the way he loved. Not some symptom of a sickness that needed to be cured.

Natalan also never really wanted Roier anyway. He was just never interested. And Roier never understood why. Still doesn’t. Is he really that unloveable?

If he is, isn’t this entire trip fucking pointless? Because if Natalan could never love him, why would some psychopathic cannibal murderer be any more likely to? Isn’t he just setting himself up for the same situation, all over again?

Maybe he should just kill Cell. Get rid of the problem before he truly has the chance to get attached. Take his revolver out and shoot him right between the eyes.

Or he could shove the accelerator all the way down until the motor is protesting, and ram the car into a fucking tree. Taking himself out of the equation too, because really what is there to live for if not love?

In some less-fucked-up version of reality, Natalan is still alive and Roier doesn’t care. And Cell is off escaping on his own. He would’ve been fine without Roier, anyway. And in some universe, that’s okay. But that’s the problem. Roier doesn’t know when to fucking quit.

The clock reads one thirty-eight in the morning. Roier is vaguely aware that he’s crying, and that the road in front of him is getting blurry, and maybe he should pull over. But they have to keep going. They have to keep going.

Pull yourself together, man, he wants to scream at himself. The car is drifting dangerously onto the wrong side of the road. Roier jolts the wheel to the right, and the car swerves back into the correct lane.

He thinks Cell might be waking up next to him and fuck. Fuck. He’s going to be mad and he’ll hate Roier and then he’ll have no choice but to kill them both. His jaw trembles.

 He can hear himself breathing and it's loud and gross and unsteady.

“Hey,” Cell says. It sounds all muffled and surreal.

Roier doesn’t say anything at all. 

“Hey.” Cell says, firmer this time. Shut up shut up shut up!!!! “Roier, you need to listen,” he says. And it’s the first time he’s ever said his name. At least if they end up dead tonight, they’ll have that.

Roier sniffles and nods. He’s listening.

“I want you to pull over to the side of the road, okay?”

Okay. Okay. Roier can do that. He does his best to gently slow the car down until they’re stopped. He doesn’t want to make Cell angry, doesn’t want to argue. 

“What’s going on?” Cell asks, and Roier can tell he’s starting to get annoyed.

That makes him cry even harder, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he lets everything else pour out, because he thinks he’ll scream if he tries to stay silent. “I don’t know why Natalan hated me so much,” he sobs. “Am I really that pathetic, am I really that ugly, am I really that annoying? I don’t know.” he digs his fingernails into his forearms. “I don’t know why I let myself get hurt by him over and over. I don’t know why it took so long for me to kill him, I don’t know why he was so disgusted by me. Am I really so horrible?”

“You’re not horrible,” Cell says awkwardly. It’s obvious that he’s not really sure what to do in this situation. But that’s fine, cause Roier doesn’t know what he’d do in Cell’s shoes, either.

Roier shakes his head. “I am horrible, though. I killed my son, I killed my own fucking son and I didn’t care.” Sally died a painless death, or at least Roier’s pretty sure he did. He died in his sleep. He never saw it coming. “I wanted to love him and I never could. Love is the worst thing in the world, maybe he’s lucky I didn’t love him. Sally died a painless death. Do you see what happens to the people I do love? Maybe he’s lucky.”

“Natalan didn’t die because you loved him. He died because he hated you,” Cell reasons.

Roier shrugs. “That doesn’t mean I haven’t hurt the people I love because I love them. It doesn’t mean I don’t find beauty in the violence everyone else is so scared of.”

The skin beneath Roier’s fingernails is raw and torn open. 

“Their inability to understand you isn’t your fault.” Cell says it like it’s that simple. Like it’s a fact of the universe, like Roier isn’t fucking diseased. Roier loves him so much it hurts.

“I’m so fucking tired of this shit. I’m tired of no one understanding, I'm tired of no one caring, I’m tired of being alone,” Roier says, and he can barely even feel a stinging in his arms, he can barely feel anything at all.

Cell grabs his wrist. “Stop that,” He snaps, prying his hand away. 

And Roier, desperate for an anchor, anything to ground him, grasps Cell’s hand as tightly as he can. He’s ready for Cell to rip his hand away, and does his best to remind himself with the time he has that he’s here, he’s here, Roier can feel his skin against his, they’re both real.

But Cell keeps his grip steady, tethering Roier to reality and to him. Cell’s letting Roier hold his one hand that currently functions. Roier could kill him now, and he could do nothing about it. He won’t, but it's an incredible display of trust. Especially since they’ve only recently met and realistically, Cell barely knows him. 

Roier kind of wishes he weren’t so upset right now, because he can’t even properly appreciate that Cell is holding his hand.

They sit like that for a while. Pulled over on the side of the desolate road, Roier crying and crying and Cell sitting beside him in awkward silence. Hands interlocked, skin on skin. Saying, we’re real, we’re real, I’m not alone, I’ll never be alone again.

I will never ever let you leave.

Eventually, they’re back on the road. And Cell’s hand is no longer in his, and Roier’s skin burns at the former point of contact. But Cell stays awake. And glances at Roier occasionally, when he thinks Roier won’t notice. He’s worried, maybe. And that’s cute.

It’s sweet!! Hopefully he’s worried about Roier, not about Roier going insane and like, killing them both. Which he totally wouldn’t do, despite contemplating it earlier. It’s not like he was being serious!!! But either way, he’ll take what he can get. 

Roier’s thinking rationally now-- he’s not going to start crying again or screaming or trying to kill them. (how embarrassing that he broke down like that). But if Cell wants to stay up with him and watch over him, he’s more than okay with that. 

They’re a team. They need each other. Especially now that Cell only has function in one arm and would have trouble driving on his own. (God, Roier’s a fucking genius for shooting him). And Roier needs Cell because of course he does. So they’ll look out for each other.

They’ll keep each other alive. They need each other. How wonderful is that?

Natalan used to make Roier feel like no one would ever appreciate who he truly was. He made him feel like he was sick and wrong and on some fundamental level, broken. He never loved Roier, and his care for him was entirely conditional. Until Roier became too much for him, and he didn’t care about him at all. And only hated him. 

Cell doesn’t love him yet. But he’s seen the wretched side of Roier-- the aspects of him that Natalan had considered fucked up and insane. And instead of reacting in disgust, he was simply curious. And accepting.

He’s the kindest person in the world. And he’s here, staying up with Roier, making sure he’s okay. And Roier knows. Roier knows. He’ll love him someday. And maybe the wait isn’t so bad. Because they have moments like these, moments that are awkward and tender and full of uncertainty. And they make Roier’s heart race and hands shake and it’s the happiest he’s felt in years. Maybe waiting isn’t so bad.

Chapter Text

They stop for gas and supplies in the early hours of the morning, as the sun peaks over the horizon and light gently filters through the windows. 

Roier forces Cell to keep his head down for the entirety of the time they’re at the gas station. The paranoia is really starting to get to him. Or maybe he’s rightfully nervous.

They have to pay with cash— anything else is traceable. 

There’s a convenience store down the road, and they’re running low on non-person food. (They also need something stronger to treat Cell’s arm— Roier’s worried it’s getting infected.) 

Cell frowns when Roier says it's safer if he goes in alone, but doesn’t argue. He knows it's true.

Roier climbs out of the driver’s seat, limbs stiff and aching.

“Need anything from inside?” He asks Cell. 

“Fresh meat,” Cell deadpans. 

“Nuh uh,” Roier laughs. “Wayyy too easily traceable here. Best I can do is uhh… gross canned beef, probably.”

Cell sighs. “No thanks. Get what you need and then get the fuck out. Be safe.”

Cell’s on high alert too— they’re both low on sleep and irrational. But there’s something strange, something wrong that seems to be lurking in the peripheral of every one of Roier’s thoughts. Something is not right.

Roier sluggishly makes his way to the inside of the store. He’s tired and paranoid, but incredibly otherwise content. Be safe, Cell had said. And sure, he probably just wants to avoid trouble. But still. 

Things feel good and easy for once. And yeah, that probably means that things are about to go to shit again, but Roier will take what he can get for the time being. 

He grabs rubbing alcohol and non perishables as fast as he can without looking suspicious. Or maybe he looks just as paranoid as he feels and the cashier has already called the police. Who knows.

He pays with crumpled up cash from his pocket that’s vaguely damp from blood. Ick. 

The cashier stares at the money in abject disgust. 

Roier shrugs. “Sorry, man.”

iii.

They drive in relative silence for the most part. Occasionally, Roier will point something out on the road (look Cell, a piece of roadkill!) or yell at other cars in front of them (Roier has problems with emotional regulation- of course he’s an angry driver).

The radio’s playing very quietly-- the audio quality is bad, crackling with static and cutting out from time to time. Roier’s tired. He’s running on shitty instant coffee and adrenaline, and he’s so ready to fucking sleep.

They stop early. The sun has barely begun to set in the sky when Roier parks the car outside a motel that looks straight out of Psycho. But they need to be financially conscious. Besides, statistically, what are the chances of three insane murderers choosing the same motel to sleep at? 

Roier glances around the building for security cameras. He finds two outside and one inside the front desk. He’s pretty sure they’re the kind that don’t store footage. He knows these things. Thanks, fifteen year old kleptomaniac self, he thinks.

“Can you check us in?” He asks Cell, and hates how weak it makes him feel. “I don’t think I can deal with talking to strangers right now.”

Cell nods. “Sure. Do you want to wait in the car?”

“No.” Roier does not want to leave Cell’s side. “No. I’ll come with you. I just-- ugh. I don’t think I could manage talking to someone I don’t know even if I tried.”

“I understand.” Cell says, and it hits him that he probably does. Cell doesn’t talk much-- maybe it’s something that started in prison, maybe he’s been quiet all of his life. But he goes completely silent sometimes. He’ll nod whenever Roier says something, or acknowledge him in some other way. But sometimes he doesn’t talk. And that’s okay. Roier gets it. They understand each other. 

They walk into the lobby together, shoulders nearly brushing. If Roier were to lean slightly to the left, he’d be touching him. Just barely. And then he’d be real again, he’d be defined again. But he doesn’t. 

“What’s wrong.” Cell asks, so monotone it barely comes out as a question.

Roier frowns and tilts his head. What do you mean?

“You’re all freaked out and tense,” Cell explains, like it's obvious. Like it makes sense for him to know Roier. Like it makes sense for him to notice these things.

“I just need sleep, I guess,” Roier says. But it’s so sweet of him to notice. And it makes Roier’s chest hurt, makes him want. And so very carefully, he wraps a shaky hand around Cell’s upper arm. He’s gentle, so as not to hurt his healing elbow. He waits for Cell to flinch-- to move away or to yell at him to give him space. 

Cell doesn’t react whatsoever. He just gently tugs Roier along toward the front desk. And so Roier allows himself to melt into the point of contact. 

“Hello,” Says the woman working the front desk, monotone and sounding bored out of her mind. “How may I help you?”

Cell blinks. “I need a room.” he says in the flattest, awkwardest, vaguely threatening tone possible. And Roier has to hold back laughter. Cell’s very recently out of prison, and his socialization really could use some work. Then again, so could Roier’s. So maybe they’re just destined to get weird looks from strangers together forever.

“Okay…” She says, glancing between the two of them. For a terrifying second, Roier wonders if she’s recognized them. But then- “so did you want a single room, or?”

Oh. Roier’s face feels like it's on fire. He wants to bury his face in his hands. He’s not very pretty when he blushes-- he turns awkwardly blotchy pink across his whole face. It’s not cute. It’s weird. Natalan said so.

“No,” Cell replies. Monotone as ever. “I would like a room with twin beds please.”

The motel employee looks at Roier and raises an amused eyebrow, like she’s holding back laughter. He wants to kill her. He wants Cell to kill her. 

Roier passes her a wad of cash. Specifically the cash he had in his pocket. Specifically vaguely damp with blood. He makes sure to drop it directly in her palm. 

She drops it on the counter, cringing. She counts the money, before reluctantly putting it in the cash register. Roier tries his best to fight a smile.

She passes Cell a set of keys. “Your boyfriend is kind of a freak, you know.”

The room is silent for three and a half seconds. It feels like an eternity.

Cell says, “Okay? So am I.” and then drags Roier out of the lobby. At a lower volume, he says, “let people come to whatever conclusion they want to. We’ll blend in easier that way.”

Okay, Roier thinks, and everything in the world seems blurry. I can do that. His hands feel numb and the world seems to spin. He’s so happy. 

I would gut myself for you.

It’s overwhelming. Roier feels like he’s experiencing every emotion at the exact same time. He’s shaking, probably. He’s overheating and red in the face and so unbelievably nauseous.

The minute they reach their room, Roier locks himself in the bathroom. He peels off his hoodie, damp with sweat from the summer heat and Roier’s apparent inability to be fucking normal around Cell. 

He splashes lukewarm tap water on his face in an attempt to regain composure, but it doesn’t help much. His heart is pounding in his chest and he can barely breathe at all. He’s so, so infatuated with everything about Cell. And this-- something that realistically means nothing, feels like the world is ending. In a good way.

And still, it’s progress. Incredibly slow progress, but progress nonetheless. 

He stares at his reflection in the mirror. All of his eyeliner has been rinsed off, his hair is slightly greasy and tangled. He’s not wearing his hoodie anymore, and with only a t-shirt on, his scar littered arms are on full display. He looks a bit insane, jaw clenched and dark circles beneath his eyes. Natalan would hate the person in the mirror.

But Cell? Cell doesn’t seem to. He sees Roier for who he is-- sick and violent and prone to self-sabotage. And he doesn’t love him yet, but he doesn’t hate him either. He seems amused and almost-fond at times. And that’s enough. That’s a start. 

Roier steps out of the bathroom and pretends his face isn’t still burning. Although, his skin feels perpetually on fire whenever he’s around Cell, so. Maybe he just looks normal.

“Hi,” Roier says, hoping he doesn’t sound as awkward as he feels. He sets his hoodie down on one of the beds. 

Cell looks over to Roier, and then looks away. “We’re low on usable meat,” he says. “The ice chest has not been cold enough, and what we have will probably not be safe to eat soon.”

Roier tries to look anywhere in the room but Cell. He’s so overwhelming. Being here, with him, is so overwhelming. “You want to kill someone.”

“Yes,” Cell says. “And I’m going to kill someone whenever I have an easy chance. I just am letting you know ahead of time.”

Roier smiles. “Thank you,” he says, and wants to claw his own skin off. How thoughtful of Cell to tell him. He’d die for Cell, a million times over.  He’s also becoming increasingly in love with the idea of hurting him. Badly. Ugh. 

“You can help me,” Cell says. “If you want.”

And it’s-- it’s an invitation. It’s a request. It’s Cell saying I’d like you to kill with me. This can’t be good for Roier’s heart. The room is spinning. Roier thinks he may pass out. He collapses onto his bed, grinning like an idiot. “Sounds nice,” he says.

“Okay,” Cell says. The entire world seems spotty and dim.

“Ugh,” Roier says, “I don’t feel good.”

“You’ve barely eaten or slept. It makes sense you feel like shit.”

I don’t need to eat or sleep, he wants to scream, I only need you. I’m hungry-- so fucking hungry, but eating makes me want to throw up. I need you and I need you to need me. Nothing else matters. Nothing else matters. Instead, he just laughs. “I’m not hungry,” he says, and it’s the biggest lie he's ever told. 

“If we kill someone,” Cell says, “maybe you will be.” And fuck. Cell’s right. Maybe the horrific intimacy of killing someone together is enough. 

“I’ll help you find a good victim.” Roier says.

“Thanks,” Cell says, in the way that he says thank you without really meaning anything. It hurts. Roier always means what he says to Cell. Always, always. “I’m stepping out for a moment. Don’t kill yourself while I’m gone.” he tells Roier. Mostly joking.

Roier sits up so fast the entire world goes dark. “Don’t--” he says.

“I’m not going to kill someone right now. That’s not smart. I’ll be back within ten minutes.” Cell interrupts. And that’s not what Roier was going to say. He was going to say something stupid like don’t leave!! but, hey. He can pretend to be normal.

“Okay.” Roier says. 

He counts the seconds that Cell is gone. He’s at five hundred and thirty four and beginning to get nervous when Cell walks back through the door. Thank fucking god. 

He throws a package of crackers on Roier’s bed. “Eat those,” He says. “I don’t care that you’re not hungry,” he says the words like he doesn’t believe them, “I don’t want to deal with you passing out.”

Roier obliges. They taste like nothing, and crumble in his mouth like ash. It’s gross-- eating is gross. But if Cell wants him to, he’ll eat.

“If you could do anything, no matter how unrealistic, what would you do?” Roier asks, for the sake of saying something. 

Cell stares at the fraying carpet. “I’d kill Pac and Mike,” he says.

Roier frowns, trying to place Pac and Mike. He vaguely remembers reading an article about their escape, which happened prior to Cell’s. A lot of the story was classified, but Roier had always wondered if Cell had been involved.

“Then, we’d have the best meal of our lives,” Cell says.

We. He keeps saying that. We. It’s nice. It’s good. It’s wonderful.

“Tell me about Pac and Mike,” Roier says, eyes tracing Cell’s face again and again, trying to memorize the angles of his features.

“No,” Cell says firmly and well. That’s the end of that.

Roier falls asleep with the light still on, and the sound of Cell shuffling through their things reassuring him that he’s not alone. 

They have an early start the next morning. They rise with the sun. Cell forces Roier to eat gross reheated human leftovers. Roier tries his best to be polite. To say please and thank you and not throw up. He thinks he does an okay job.

He doesn’t throw up and he only almost does like, twice. He’ll count it as a win.

It’s eleven thirty when it happens.

There is a man standing on the side of the road, standing under the hot sun, thumb stuck out in desperation. What an idiot. The road stretches desolate in both directions for seemingly forever. The only cars in sight are their own, and the hitchhiker’s wrecked expensive-looking sedan. Rich bastard.

“I’m hungry.” Cell says.

Roier weighs his options.

“Roier,” Cell says, more direct. “I’m hungry.”  

“Okay,” Roier sighs. “Should I pick him up?” he asks, resigned to this fate. He does not want to talk to some asshole who crashed his car. But, if it’s dinner and it makes Cell happy, so be it. He supposes.

Cell nods. “Pick him up. I don’t trust that we won’t be seen if we try to kill here.”

And yeah. Fair enough. Roier breathes in deeply. Blocks out all of his emotions and does his best to act normal. 

He slows the car and rolls down the window, a strange mirror image of several days ago. Except now he’s got Cell with him, in his passenger seat, together forever.

“Are you okay?” He calls.

Cell huffs out a barely-audible laugh at the insincere worry in his voice. 

“Please help!!” says the stranger, and Roier already hates him. “I swerved to avoid hitting an animal, and my car lost control. It isn’t driveable, and I’m fucking stuck out here.”

He sounds angry, and Roier wants to laugh. “I’ll drive you to town,” he says, doing his best to stay sounding at least vaguely concerned.

The man doesn’t even thank him, just slowly starts limping toward the car. He’s injured, Roier thinks. That’s good. Easier to kill.

“He’s stupid for being so trusting,” Cell comments quietly.

Roier raises his eyebrows. “You let me pick you up off the side of the road just as quickly,” he argues, teasing and mostly for the sake of disagreeing.

“I saw the insanity on your face and made a choice,” Cell counters. “He didn’t think to look.”

And oh god. Cell saw him and knew him immediately. And got in the car anyway. Roier’s entire face feels like it’s on fire and fuck, he has to act normal.

The stranger climbs into the backseat. “Thanks,” he mutters, insincere and rude. And not in the way that Cell says it. In a worse way. Roier could strangle him.

“Sorry about the mess,” Roier says, just as artificial. 

“It’s.. fine.” says the stranger, looking very much disgusted. It’s not even that bad of a mess. It’s just some (clean!!) laundry and road trip essentials. Plus the ice chest in the trunk. But this man will never see the ice chest in the trunk. Although his corpse will become well-acquainted with it.

Fourteen minutes pass, and then there’s a side road. And Cell is telling him to make the turn, and the man in the backseat is trying to open the door. It’s locked, but not for long.

Roier pulls the car over and to a stop. Cell throws open the passenger side door and stalks around the car. He’s focused now, brow furrowed and hand in his pocket, undoubtedly gripping his knife. Roier hopes that he’ll be able to function okay with his arm still in a sling. 

“What’s going on?” The stranger asks. 

“Sorry,” Roier apologizes, in the same faux-polite tone he’d used earlier. 

Cell opens the door and drags the man out of the car. Roier follows by hopping out onto the ground. His hands are shaking, maybe. He’s excited!! And happy.

Cell adjusts his grip on his knife and lunges. The man screams. Roier grabs onto his arms, holding him in place best he can so he can’t run.

The knife makes contact with the man’s shoulder, and when Cell yanks it back, Roier gets a faceful of blood. It’s warm and it’s glorious, and he digs his nails into his arms as hard as he can.

Cell looks absolutely stunning. He’s incredibly in his element-- all scowling and covered in blood, eyes alight with satisfaction. Roier smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

You’re so pretty, he wants to say, but doesn’t. 

Instead, he reaches into his hoodie pocket, and brandishes his boxcutter. It’s special-- shouldn’t be used on just anyone, but this is a special moment. And this guy will be dead soon enough, anyway.

With practiced precision, Roier wraps an arm across his shoulders and cuts a deep gash into the man’s neck. He elbows Roier in the stomach, hard. 

“Owww…” He whines, making sure not to release the guy from his grip, no matter how bad it hurts. And then Cell gets him between the eyes and again in the stomach.

And then the hitchhiker is a twitching mess on the ground, and the world is spinning a bit. Cell grabs his shoulder, steadying him.

“Hey,” Cell rasps, staring down at the bloody corpse. “Look, Roier. We did that.” he says. And then his eyes are on Roier, and there’s so much blood on both of them, and it feels like they’re the only people in the world.

Cell looks at him, seemingly taking in every inch of his blood-soaked face. And Roier-- he can’t even find it in him to be insecure, because Cell is looking so attentively, and they just killed together and he wants to kiss him but it would be too soon.

Roier’s hands are shaking and he can barely keep his boxcutter steady. 

He gives up and drops it on the ground, and collapses against Cell. He’s too exhilarated to be afraid of being pushed away. And deep down-- deep down he knows that he won’t be.

He drapes an arm across Cell’s shoulders and buries his head in the crook of his neck. They’re both gross and slimy with blood. It’s wonderful. Roier closes his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he tells Cell.

Cell doesn’t respond, just awkwardly wraps his good arm around Roier’s shoulder.

The entire world is quiet. They don’t move for what could be an eternity. But eventually, the blood starts to dry uncomfortably and the sunlight is burning Roier alive, and Cell gently pulls away. Roier never knew he could be gentle.

“Come on,” Cell says. “We have a lot of cleaning up to get done.”

Chapter Text

It’s like this: Roier puts his entire soul into loving. Even when his love is unwanted. Especially when his love is unwanted.

Roier meets Natalan one morning. And neither of them know it, but the entire world shifts on its axis. Roier will be changed forever-- broken by his own actions. Consumed by the monster that has always lurked in the back of his mind. Natalan meets Roier and seals his fate as a dead man walking.

They get along wonderfully, in the beginning. Natalan is stunning. He smiles a lot. He thinks Roier is really funny. 

Roier is the happiest he’s been in his entire life. He thinks he may have a heart attack every time Natalan looks at him. Like a friend. An equal. Loving someone is an exhilarating feeling. It’s painfully intense, and absolutely beautiful.

Natalan doesn’t want him. But that’s okay. That’s okay. They have all the time in the world. And there’s no reason he couldn’t fall in love with Roier in the future. Roier just has to want it enough. And be patient enough.

It’s a flawed way of thinking.

Natalan never ends up wanting him. He never pushes him far enough away, either. It’s like-- if you don’t want to be contacted, you should block their number. Not just delete it from your phone. Roier thinks, in some fucked up way, Natalan probably likes the attention. Likes pushing Roier away. Likes watching him tear himself apart. Skin peeled back, ribcage cracked open. Heart screaming I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours. Roier thinks Natalan must delight in the agony he causes by keeping Roier at an arm’s length, but never truly gone.

It’s not enough to save him. Nothing changes. Natalan thought Roier wouldn’t have the guts to kill him. He underestimates the strength of Roier’s love.

It’s like this: Roier loves Natalan like a wound loves the knife that twists within it. Or maybe he’s the knife. He’s not sure anymore.

It’s like this: it’s Roier calling and telling Natalan, “I am going to fucking kill myself,” as he patiently loads his .22. He’s not going down alone.

It’s Natalan’s uncaring voice telling him, “You won’t actually do it.”

It’s the threat on Sally’s life that finally brings Natalan to the apartment-- not because he holds any sentimental value for him. Because that would be too much. Natalan is disgusted by Sally, just cannot let him die with a clean conscience. He has morals, or at least likes to pretend he does. It’s pathetic. Roier’s a horrible person. At least he can admit that.

Roier has his son in one arm and his .22 in his free hand. 

And Natalan’s slamming the door open, telling him that this sort of behavior is fucked up and pathetic and won’t Roier just leave him alone already, and Roier snaps.

He shoots him four times-- he’s sobbing and he’s angry and his vision is blurry from tears, and the blood splatters on the walls and it looks like a kaleidoscope.  

Sally cries. He’s scared and doesn’t like the noise. Roier sends him to bed. He can deal with him later.

Killing Natalan doesn’t really fix anything. He cries over the corpse, all bloody and gross. 

He kills Sally in his sleep-- making sure his aim is good this time, making sure that his son dies quickly. He didn’t deserve the circumstances he was brought up in. It’s too late now, though. Roier can’t even bring himself to cry.

He curls up against Natalan’s body to sleep that night. Pretends it's not the most he’s ever been able to be physically affectionate with Natalan.

He vomits when he wakes up the next morning, lying beside the mangled bodies of the love of his life and his son. 

And then he laughs. And he laughs and he laughs and he laughs. And then he’s drunk, and singing to himself while he saws off Natalan’s limbs. And there’s blood on the walls and he has a new goal. And Natalan and Sally may as well have never existed.

iv.

He’s trying his best to stay positive, but this entire trip is inevitably, in some way, pointless. Because crossing that fucking border isn’t going to save them-- they’ll have to keep running further north, probably to some rural area in Canada before they can even think to settle down. Cell’s infamy will be a problem, no matter where they are. He’s too well known. A household name fucking serial killer. And Roier? He’s here with Cell, till the end of things. For better or for worse. 

Maybe they’ll one day settle up in Northern fucking Canada where the sun never shines and everyone around them is too obsessed with the snow and the hunting that they won’t notice the pair of cannibals slowly picking away at their population. But more likely?

More likely they’ll end up as brain matter and crushed metal, gunned down in their car somewhere between here and the Southern United States.

And Roier’s really not sure how to cope with that.

It’s easier to deal with the familiar than with the new. It hurts less to be upset over the fact that Natalan didn’t love him than it is to be upset over the fact that Cell doesn’t love him yet-- it’s a familiar aching in his chest. With Cell, everything is new. It’s nerve-wracking. It’s an unrelenting burn in his rib cage and behind his eyes. 

It’s easier to decide he misses Natalan than to stay standing here yearning for Cell. But as he drags the hitchhiker’s corpse toward the trunk, he can’t stop his gaze from being drawn to Cell, no matter how hard he tries. The familiar ache of missing Natalan isn’t enough this time to distract him-- it’s terrifying. It’s also incredibly freeing.

Cell’s sat on the ground, hitchhiker’s phone in hand.

There is blood all over Roier’s face and clothes. It’s gross and sticky-- halfway dried and clumped in his eyelashes and hair. It's disgusting, and as the adrenaline and glory begin to wear off, Roier feels himself getting increasingly overwhelmed.

“Cell, I feel gross,” he whines, grip slipping on the corpse because of all the slimy blood on his hands. Bodies are heavy. Ugh. His hoodie clings uncomfortably to his skin, damp and probably forever stained.

Cell looks up from the stolen phone, unimpressed. “He’s childless and unmarried. If I find his home address, we have somewhere safe for tonight. And  you can wash your clothes and shower. But you need to be patient.”

Roier lets his anger at being brushed off like that wash over him and then channels it into something useful. He lifts the corpse with all of his strength and anger in him, and unceremoniously dumps it into the trunk. He gets most of the torso in, and manages to shove at its limbs until the body’s twisted awkwardly and fits all the way in. and now it’s getting blood all over the contents of the trunk. Great.

“What if he has a roommate?” Roier worries, wiping his bloody hands off on his equally bloody hoodie, unsuccessful in his attempt to dry them. “Or well,” Roier giggles, “had a roommate, I guess.”

Cell glances at him. “We’ll kill them too, then?” He says, amused.

Roier grins. Cell looks pretty like this. He always looks pretty, but well. Blood’s dripping from his hair and splattered on his face. 

Roier has to look away, because he really, really wants to kill him.

Cell finds the address, eventually, and scribbles down directions onto a piece of paper he found in the mess of the backseat. He then crushes the phone with the blunt end of his knife and chucks it as far from the road as possible. 

The drive is short, but slightly off-route. It’s fine. Roier does his best to make sure he looks somewhat normal. He’s wearing black. The bloodstains on his clothes are barely visible. He scratches off the dried blood from his face, so as long as no one looks too closely, he probably no longer looks like a murderer. Which, great.

Cell looks. Well. He cleans his face in the mirror and then changes his shirt while Roier drives. And Roier forces himself to keep his eyes on the road and prays to god they won’t crash because his hands are so shaky and his face is on fire. Roier will never be able to live it down if he crashes their fucking car because he was too busy being flustered to pay attention to the road.

They’re lucky they’re in a rural enough area-- the home address of the man leads them to a secluded enough house. Roier smashes one of the windows in and crawls through to unlock the door from the inside while Cell hefts the body across his shoulders and carries it into the house. 

The interior design is gross-- it’s all minimalist and cream colored, and vaguely reminiscent of a psych ward bedroom. Ick.  

Cell drops the body onto the kitchen counter, which isn’t really big enough to practically fit a human corpse, but there’s no alternative.

“I’m going to need your help,” he tells Roier. Then grins, like he’s telling a joke, “it’s not exactly easy to butcher meat with any sort of precision with one functional hand.”

Roier giggles. “Sorryyy,” he says, completely uncaring.

He directs Roier about how to correctly cut up human meat, while rummaging the kitchen for anything else edible. It’s wonderfully domestic, in their own sick way. Roier’s up to his elbows in human blood and guts, while Cell glances over occasionally, tension in his jaw and hunger evident in the intensity of his eyes.

Roier’s hands shake. He’s never felt so seen in his whole entire life.

Because it’s-- Natalan never got it. Roier told himself over and over and over again that if he was patient enough, Natalan would understand the revolting and bloody dedication. That he would come to appreciate it. 

But with Cell, Roier doesn’t have to be patient. Not about the disgusting parts about himself. Because Roier is gross and covered in blood and Cell can’t seem to keep his eyes off of him. 

They work in silence. They don’t need to talk. They understand each other. Or maybe Roier’s just too afraid to ruin Cell’s pleasant-ish mood and won’t risk talking. Maybe he’s being cowardly. At least the silence isn’t awkward, really. 

But it’s slightly unbearable. So Roier hums to drown out the gross squelching of rapidly cooling human blood. Dealing with the corpse is getting stickier and less pleasant by the second, but it’s not like Roier is going to quit. He just has to keep his mind off of it.

Cell seems to notice his decline in mood, and the off rhythm chopping sounds of him cutting vegetables with one hand stops. 

“What, can’t handle the blood?” Cell mocks, but there’s no real malice in his tone. If it were anyone else, Roier would call it teasing but. It’s Cell.

“It’s slimy and cold,” Roier complains. “You’d be grossed out too, if you were in my position. And you’re doing the easy job.”

Cell throws his hand up. “Because you shot me?”

“Get over it,” Roier says. Cell is probably going to hold that over his head for the rest of their lives. Christ. 

“You shot me,” Cell repeats, deadpan. “Less than a week ago. I think I’m justified in not being ‘over it’ yet.” 

And Roier has no real argument for that, but he’s annoyed and feels the need to retaliate. So he does the first immature, vaguely terrifying thing he can think of. He takes his cold, slimy, blood covered hand, and smears it across Cell’s bare shoulder.

“See?” he says. “It’s gross.”

Cell just stares at him, and for a terrifying second, neither of them move.

“...no,” Cell says eventually. “It’s not.”

He then grabs Roier’s hand from where it still rested on his shoulder (oops) and licks the blood off his knuckles. What the fuck.

Cell stares at him like a deer in the fucking headlights. He had obviously acted on some weird, fucked up impulse. Roier feels frozen in place. 

Cell blinks, drops Roier’s hand, and turns back to the counter. Not bothering to wash the blood off of his hands or shoulder. Acting like nothing ever happened.

Roier feels lightheaded. His face is burning and his limbs feel tingly and Cell just licked him. What the fuck. He wants to grab Cell by face and kiss him. He wants to dig his nails into Cell’s face and draw blood. He wants. He wants so badly he can barely breathe, and he has to laugh just to regulate his breathing. And then he’s laughing and laughing, and covering his face with his bloody hands.

“Stop laughing,” Cell says, sounding.. almost maybe embarrassed. It’s cute and it’s funny and it just makes Roier giggle even more.

He can’t stop smiling.

Roier gets back to work, mind successfully distracted from the disgusting sensation of slimy half-dried blood. He hums, this time out of the need to express emotion. He’s happy. So unbelievably happy, and Cell doesn’t even tell him to stop humming. Not for the entire time they spend in that kitchen.

But Cell is quiet. Even more so than usual. All throughout the cooking process and through dinner, he doesn’t respond to Roier more than a few words like “yes” or “no” or “don’t let the vegetables overcook.”

And it’s not necessarily uncharacteristic, so Roier doesn’t make it an issue. Cell probably needs some time to process his thoughts, and Roier’s not going to go all psycho just because they’re not talking!! He’s a lot more normal now that Natalan is dead.

He clears the table and washes their dishes while Cell packages the parts of meat he wants to save. It’s nice, it’s domestic, and Roier is not freaking out. 

It’s good. They’re good. Roier is finally learning how to be normal about his feelings, and Cell is learning how to feel things at all. They’re in this together.

When all of the important tasks are finished (there is still a picked apart corpse on the kitchen counter and blood on the floor, which are both problems for later), Cell awkwardly stands in the threshold of the house.

“I’m going on a walk for a bit,” he tells Roier.

Roier frowns, glancing out the window. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” Cell says firmly. “I need time alone.”

And then he’s walking out the door, out of the house. And he may as well have just walked out of Roier’s life entirely, wrenching out his heart with a rusty knife.

For a second, Roier wants to follow him. Wants to stalk outside and throw Cell against the wall and ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. But he doesn’t. He’s frozen in place.

And then the anger sets in. And he can feel it, buzzing in his head. Behind his eyes. And who the fuck does Cell think he is, leaving with no explanation. 

Maybe there’s an I’ll be back later implied. Maybe not. But it’s not enough. 

Does he think he can survive without Roier? Cell’s not stupid. As oblivious as he likes to be or pretend to be about Roier’s feelings, he has to know that leaving without explanation, without telling Roier when he’ll be back is a bad idea. Maybe Cell’s testing him. Maybe he’s never coming back. Maybe he’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t once think about how his actions are hurtful.

Either way? Roier is fucking furious. They’re supposed to be in this together. Roier has not driven for days on end, hasn’t stitched up Cell’s gross bullet wound, hasn’t handled dead human meat, hasn’t shot the love of his life just to be ridiculed like this.

There’s a clock on the wall. And the seconds tick by, and Cell is gone. 

And there’s a part of Roier screaming that he’s never coming back, and another part of him that needs destruction more than anything. 

So he forces himself to move. He stumbles into the kitchen and rifles through the overpriced collection of liquor. Nothing feels real.

Roier settles on the couch with a bottle of vodka and his boxcutter. Cell’s presence has been keeping him grounded recently. He’s had to be okay enough to keep them safe. He’s had to be sober enough to drive. He’s stopped himself from hacking at his flesh with his boxcutter because he didn’t want Cell to think he’s weird.

But now, Cell’s gone. And he may never return. And even if he does, he should have to deal with the consequences of his fucking actions.

So Roier drinks and sings to himself, and once he’s feeling a pleasant buzz in his head and numbing his anger, he peels off his hoodie and jeans and puts his boxcutter to good use.

The blade is a little dulled, but it’s fine. It just makes getting any real damage done more difficult, but Roier doesn’t mind the challenge. Or the repetition. 

Blood really is so beautiful. He’s not sure why he was complaining so much earlier. It’s honestly the flesh that’s the gross part. It’s the grotesque yellowish layer of fat that makes him cringe in disgust. The blood is nice. It seeps into his clothes and drips across his skin.

And the longer he sits there, mutilating his already scarred shoulders and thighs, the funnier it gets. 

The anger subsides almost completely. It’s replaced by growing hysterical amusement. Roier really did all this for a man who never even wanted him in the first place. After he told himself he’d never put himself in this situation ever again!! After killing Natalan just to free himself. Yet here he is. Crying and laughing, covered in his own blood over his stupid unreciprocated obsession. It’s funny. It’s really fucking funny.

He maybe cuts a bit too deep in a few too many places. He feels dizzy and lightheaded, probably a mix between blood loss and tipsiness. He’s nauseous. He has to use the bathroom though, so he steadies his breathing and hauls himself onto his feet.

He uses the walls to support him as he limps to the bathroom. Deep red blood smears across the walls and drips on the floor behind him, but why should he care? It’s not like the owner’s alive enough to return, and it’s not like Cell has any reason to return either. 

The bathroom flooring is tile. And Roier overestimates his balance, and blood from his thighs drips onto the floor, and Roier slips and collapses into a heap on the disgusting tile. 

He thinks he hits his head because it hurts and the entire room is spinning. He groans, and his own voice feels like he’s hearing it from far away. Maybe he’ll just lay here for a bit.

He’s not sure how long he stays half conscious on the bathroom floor, laying in an ever-expanding pool of his own blood.

And then the door opens. 

And Cell’s voice is calling his name. “Roier?” he says, raspy and monotone as ever, and maybe Roier made a mistake. Misjudged Cell. Underestimated the strength of their trust.

“I’m here,” Roier says, and it comes out slurred and quiet.

The sound of footsteps approaches, normal cadence at first, then rapid. “Roier?” Cell repeats, and Roier thinks he’s probably in the doorway, but he really doesn’t want to open his eyes. The light hurts. “What the fuck happened?” Cell asks.

“I slipped,” Roier says, and then giggles. It’s stupidly funny.

Cell’s hand gently tugs at Roier’s arm, so that he’s lying flat on his back.

“Oww,” Roier says, flinching at the light seeping in through from behind his eyelids.

“You’re going to need stitches.” Cell says, and his voice is completely emotionless in a way that can only be artificial.

“I think I hit my head,” Roier tells him, squinting up at Cell’s scowling face. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“Sit up,” Cell says. “I’m going to need your help to treat these.” 

Roier struggles, but manages to sit most of the way up, back against the bathroom wall. Cell keeps a steadying hand on the back of his shoulder, helping him up.

“Stay here,” Cell tells him, as if he could go anywhere. “I need to get our medical supplies from the car. I’ll be back.” he says the last sentence through gritted teeth, and Roier can’t tell if it’s meant to be sincere or mocking. He suspects Cell doesn’t know, either.

Stitches always hurt a million times more than the act of cutting itself. Even more so when Roier’s holding together the pieces of his own skin while Cell sews with one functioning hand, agonizingly slow. 

It hurts. Roier tries to savor the pain. Because it’s Cell. 

They’re on the bathroom floor for hours. Stitching up a long gash across Roier’s left shoulder and two on his thighs. Cell then takes a damp towel and cleans the smaller wounds. His tone of voice is cold and detached, and the look in his eye is fucking furious. But he’s gentle as he scrubs the blood off of Roier’s skin. 

Roier’s too drained to even be embarrassed or self-conscious that he’s stripped down to a tank top and shorts around Cell. Besides, if Cell were so disgusted by the expanse of marred skin, he wouldn’t be here. 

“I’m tired,” Roier tells Cell. 

Cell sighs. His jaw is still tense. “Me too.”

He grabs Roier’s wrist and helps haul him onto his feet. He wraps his arm around Roier’s shoulders to steady him, and together they limp to the bedroom.

Roier crawls onto the far side of the bed, and curls up. He’s still hurt, he thinks, by Cell leaving like that. Even if he always intended to come back. He should have known that Roier wouldn’t have reacted well. They’re supposed to know each other.

Cell stands awkwardly in the doorway. There’s only one bedroom in the house and the sofa is covered in blood. Cell’s being a coward, Roier thinks.

“You shouldn’t have left like that,” Roier tells him.

Cell shrugs, and finally steps into the room. He sits on the bed, legs crossed. He really does have catlike mannerisms. “Yeah,” he agrees, voice scratchy and angry. “I should have left for good. When I had the chance.”

Roier laughs, and it comes out hysterical. Almost a sob. “Where would you have gone? I’m the only person insane enough to want to help you.” I’m the only person you can trust, is what’s left unsaid. He thinks that might scare Cell away.

“We’re stuck in this together now,” Cell says, tired and resigned. It’s a late realization, but that’s okay. Roier’s known all along, and that’s what matters.

Roier smiles. “I’m all you have left. It’s okay. You’re all I have, too.” I killed anyone else who could have mattered to me. 

He wonders if Cell knows that he’s foreseen this. That this has been the plan all along. They’re meant to be together. It doesn’t matter how badly Roier’s hurt himself. It doesn’t matter how badly he’s hurt Cell. It doesn’t matter that Cell will probably spend the next three hours with his knife in hand, trying to work up the courage to kill Roier. 

He won’t be able to.

It’s like Cell said. They’re stuck in this together now. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.

“Goodnight, Cell,” Roier says.

Cell looks at him with a mix of hatred and something softer, nameless now, but that one day could probably be love. “Goodnight Roier.”

Chapter Text

It’s nearly impossible to fall asleep. Roier can tell that Cell is having a similar problem-- he’s laying completely still, and his breathing is even. But not in the way it’s even when you’re asleep. Roier knows these things. He’s spent long enough watching Natalan to know these things.

His chest hurts.

He remembers lying beside Natalan. Natalan was always asleep, of course. He would never let Roier that close for that long, unless they were fighting. Or fucking.

And that was messed up in a plethora of ways that Roier doesn’t care to unpack. Seriously, who sleeps with the guy they’re actively trying to get a restraining order against? Natalan had some glaringly obvious psychological issues. But that didn’t matter. Roier loved him anyway. And now he’s dead. And Roier--

Roier is entirely out of his depth in this situation. After dedicating years of his life to his messy, violent, one-sided feelings, he’s not sure what to do in a normal situation like this.

And it’s not that this is entirely normal. Cell doesn’t like him. But he’s also grown somewhat reliant on him-- fond of him in some strange, fucked up way. The nervousness of getting caught, paired with Cell’s emotional and social isolation in prison made him vulnerable to needing a crutch. And Roier knew this, saw this, and now they’re stuck together. 

And now they’re stuck together, in pitch darkness, on opposite sides of the bed. Both pretending to be asleep. It’s awkward and it’s funny and it’s oddly endearing. 

A perpetual stalemate. It’s unbearable.

“Cell,” Roier says quietly. Carefully. “You looked pretty today. All covered in blood.”

Cell exhales, and it sounds maybe like a laugh.

Roier is so tired of waiting. Waiting on Cell to play catch-up with their feelings, waiting on the right moment to act to not scare him away. 

So he climbs across the expanse of bedsheets between them and buries his face in the crook of Cell’s neck and gently lays an arm across his chest. He knows that Cell is incredibly skittish about physical contact. This is a bold move, but he’s not going to get any sleep if they’re on opposite sides of the bed like strangers. 

We’re not strangers. We’re in love. 

And anyway, what is Cell going to do if he’s mad at Roier for trying to be affectionate? Hurt him? He wouldn’t ruin his hours and hours worth of wound care just because he’s mad. Besides, any pain Cell would inflict on him, Roier would cherish willingly. He giggles, and it’s muffled by the warm skin of Cell’s shoulder. 

And Cell doesn’t push him away. 

He’s completely still for a moment, but he eventually relaxes into the points of contact. It’s so obvious that Cell has not been touched so casually or affectionately in so long. He’s not used to the gentleness. And that’s good. That’s good, because Roier does not even want to entertain the thought of anyone else in the world loving Cell.

And it makes this all easier. Roier’s the only person in the world who would accept him violently and love him gently. He’s the only person in the world who can deal with Cell. Just as Cell is the only person in the world who knows how to deal with Roier. He’s proved that, today. Anyone else would’ve taken the opportunity to run. Anyone else would’ve left him to bleed out on the floor.

Mine, Roier thinks, hand splayed across Cell’s chest. He can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his palm. He’s alive, and he’s Roier’s. You’re mine. And I’m yours.

He will never not be Roier’s again. As long as they’re alive, his grotesque heart and revolting mind belong to Roier. 

v.

Roier wakes to the sound of a television playing quietly from a different room. The bed is cold-- Cell’s up already. He’s not gone. He’s not, Roier can hear him in the kitchen. It doesn’t stop the utterly irrational anxiety that makes his heart jackhammer in his chest, but at least he knows that logically, Cell hasn’t gone anywhere.

He crawls out of bed and rifles through the dresser for something presentable to wear. His clothes are currently caked in dry murder victim blood. ick. His skin feels feverish where it's stitched up, all tingly and numb and gross. He settles on a t-shirt and jeans and hopes to god he looks presentable, but he can’t bear to be away from Cell for a moment longer, so this will have to be good enough.

The television is on and playing a traffic report. Cell is slicing vegetables in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Roier says.

Cell glances at him. “We’re famous,” he says dryly. “You missed it, but there’s security camera footage of us leaving a store, and they’ve identified me.” he gestures toward the television. “They’re asking for more information on our whereabouts. And your identity.”

Roier digs his nails into the palms of his hand. This is fine. This is okay. It’s an inevitability. It was bound to happen sometime. And it’s happened now. 

It’s okay.

Roier’s identity is still unknown. They have time to escape. They just have to play their cards correctly here. Roier can barely breathe, but it’s fine.

“Oh shit,” is the only verbal reaction he can think of before he starts laughing. He stumbles backward until he’s leaning against the wall, and he can’t stop giggling. “Man,” he says, “we are so fucked.”

Cell shrugs. “We’re fine. I escaped prison-- that was the hard part. We may be on the run for years, but I won’t let this be what manages to kill me.”

Cell says it like it’s a fact. It’s arrogant and bold, and suicidally optimistic. Roier laughs harder. His heart flutters in his chest, and he really really likes Cell. 

Like sure, he loves him. He’s loved him since the moment he saw his horrendous mugshot broadcasted on live television. But he likes him, too. He likes how stupidly overconfident he is and his endearingly awkward demeanor. And Cell thinks he’s so scary. With his silence and the hunger in his eyes and the way he holds a knife that makes it clear that he knows how to use it. But it doesn’t scare Roier.

It doesn’t scare Roier. Because Cell is beautiful. And everything he does, everything he says, every strange or fucked up impulse he has is a result of that. 

And when he looks at Roier like he wants to kill him, like he wants to eat him, Roier isn’t scared. Not really. He’s terrified, in the way that adrenaline rushes to his head and he can feel his fight or flight reflexes attempting to kick in. But he knows that Cell won’t kill him. He just wants to. More than he’s probably wanted anything in a long time. 

And he has to restrain himself. Because he can’t do this without Roier. But he watches Roier, and the hunger in his eyes is terrifyingly intense. 

We’re in love, Roier thinks, we must be in love, because I don’t think it’s possible to feel that strongly for another person without it being love.

“We need to leave today,” Cell says, pulling Roier back into reality. Grounding him. Tethering him. Roier only exists to be Cell’s strange enabler, and Cell only exists to be Roier’s anchor. They’re nothing without each other.

“Okay,” Roier replies, dazed.

Cell, oblivious to Roier’s inner monologue, continues talking. 

“The video quality was not very good,” he says. “So until we’re seen again or you’re connected to your prior crimes, I think you should be fine. I think I need to do something about my appearance, though. I’m too recognizable.”

“You could cut your hair,” Roier suggests, although not without some hesitancy. Cell looks good with long hair. It’s obviously overgrown, and probably hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in months, if not years. “And shave,” he adds. Cell’s facial hair is pretty-- it makes him look weird and insane, in the most perfect way possible. But, it’s an easy way to change his appearance.

“I had short hair and no facial hair in my mugshot,” Cell counters. “I’ll change one and keep the other. Also, I’ll wear long sleeves.” he gestures to his (beautifully toned and muscular) arms, and the deep scars that indicated a life of violence and combat. They’re identifying marks, though. And they stand out. 

“You can wear my hoodie,” Roier suggests, feeling bold. “It’s probably not smart to stay wearing what we were seen in, but I don’t want to get rid of it.”

Cell nods. “Sure. I also think we should clean up this place before leaving. I don’t want to leave traceable evidence. And your blood is kind of everywhere,” he says. And he shivers. It’s barely detectable, but it’s there. 

“Okay,” Roier says, and it comes out breathless and pathetic. He wants to slice open his skin and present the wound to Cell. Wants to tell him, you want my blood. Take it. It’s yours, it’s all yours. I’m yours. He wants to kiss him and taste his own blood in Cell’s mouth. 

Cell inhales sharply, all gross and audible, in the way that it’s obvious he’s been salivating an abnormal amount. He’s weird and he’s disgusting, and Roier’s never felt this strongly about anyone in his life.

“I’m sorry my blood is all dried,” Roier says, wringing his hands. “I could rip open my stitches if you want. Or you could cut a piece of my flesh off. I don’t mind.” he smiles at Cell. “I trust you.”

Cell blinks. Neither of them move. And then Cell laughs, a vaguely threatening sound. Roier thinks he’s probably the only person in the world who could recognize the strained awkwardness underlying. “Maybe later,” Cell says, and it’s probably supposed to come off as scary or revolting, but it just makes Roier grin harder. 

Cell makes breakfast and Roier washes their clothes. Roier hums happily to himself as they work-- splitting tasks and working beside one another so easily. It’s perfect.

Everything is perfect.

They eat breakfast sitting beside one another, arms occasionally brushing. Roier’s real. Cell is real. They’re together. That’s all that matters. It’s all that’s ever mattered.

They’re existing in the eye of a storm. In the moment between the pull of the trigger and the release of the bullet. 

They’re wanted men-- dead men walking. They should be fleeing. Instead, they’re sitting side by side. Stagnant and unmoving. Roier digs caked blood out from beneath his nails. Cell eats his breakfast medium rare. They’re not afraid. They should be. 

They’re stalling for time. 

Roier scrubs dried blood out of the floorboards-- it’s a mixture of his own and their victim’s. United for one sole reason-- both completely at Cell’s mercy. 

Cell wipes down the kitchen counters and disposes of the spare body parts (Roier doesn’t ask how he gets rid of them, and Cell doesn’t offer up the information. It’s fine. Roier trusts him).

Cell shaves his facial hair in the bathroom, and Roier sits cross-legged on the counter and watches. He thinks of the way Cell touched him so gently when he was half passed out on the floor. He’s under his skin. He’s under his skin.

Cell nicks his cheek while shaving, hands unsteady and out of practice. Blood drips down his jaw and Roier wants. 

“Do you want help?” Roier asks, unable to pass up the opportunity to be so close to Cell’s face. With a blade, nonetheless. 

“No,” Cell says flatly. 

And so they stay that way. And the silence is unbearable. So, Roier talks.

“When I killed Natalan and Sally,” he says, “I thought everything was over. But I sent a final cry for help-- written across my wall, in my own blood. I wanted. Or needed, maybe. Direction. Someone worth hurting for. And then I turned on my television, and you were there.”

Cell snorts, but there’s a softness present that he’d never admit to. “And you thought that was proof enough to stalk me across multiple countries?”

Roier giggles. “We’re here. It was worth it.” It will be worth it, no matter our outcome. Even if we end up gunned down, sat next to each other in the car. It will be worth it. 

“You took an extreme risk for something that logically wouldn’t end well,” Cell counters, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

Roier shrugs. “I had nothing to lose, man. And I know you. I’ve known you all my life, even if I wasn’t aware of it. I took a bet. It paid off.”

“There’s something wrong with you,” Cell tells him.

Whatever is wrong with me is compatible with whatever is wrong with you. Or else we would’ve killed each other within the first day of this trip.

Leaving is strange. They lock the doors behind themselves and stand outside for a moment. Their temporary home is no longer theirs-- their strange illusion of house is just a dead man’s property again. The only home they have is their car. And each other. 

“Hey,” Cell says, placing a firm hand on Roier’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

And then they’re gone.

Their temporary residence had allowed Roier to let down his guard fractionally. But they’re back on the highway, and suddenly, every car seems to be out to get them. 

He tries to focus on the road. Not the other cars, not the looming threat of law enforcement. Cell has his eyes on the other cars-- they’ll know if they’re being followed.

Cell’s also wearing Roier’s hoodie. He’s unbelievably pretty— and entirely Roier’s.

It feels like they’re being watched. Logically, they’re not. Cell would know if they were. But there is tension in the air that’s undeniable. Things are too easy, and they won’t stay that way, Roier’s sure. 

They stop for gas and Roier has never been so scared for his life. 

But nothing happens. They’re fine. They’re not recognized. They’re safe, and they’re together. Nothing feels right. Roier’s stuck, waiting for the moment that everything will go wrong. Because there’s no way that they’ll get away with this. 

Cell’s acting like it doesn’t bother him, but Roier can tell he’s uneasy. Beneath his overconfident facade, there’s a part of him calculating. And he doesn’t seem to like the odds.

“Lets play a game,” Roier suggests, in an attempt to distract himself.

Cell looks at him, and then back out the window. “No.” 

Roier frowns. There’s no need for Cell to be mean. He’s just trying to calm himself down. 

“Who are Pac and Mike?” Roier asks. It’s a question that’s been sitting in the back of his mind for days. He and Cell are supposed to know everything about each other.

“Escaped convicts,” Cell says, and the bitterness in his voice is palpable. 

“No,” Roier says. “I know who they are. But who were they to you.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Cell snaps. “What matters is that they’re dead to me. And if we ever see them, I will kill them both. They’re not relevant to anything. They have no place in my life. Or in my thoughts.”

It’s an avoidant answer, but it’s good enough for now. It’s more information than he was willing to give before, so it’s something. They’ll work on it. 

“Our life,” Roier corrects him, feeling bold. 

Cell scoffs in response, but Roier can see the pink dusting his face, and that’s enough. 

Entering civilization feels too risky. Especially to sleep-- when they’re at their most vulnerable. 

So when the sun has set and the roads begin to become less and less populated, Roier pulls off to the side of the road. Cell prepares leftovers while Roier studies a map and begins to chart a course that will keep them from attracting attention. 

“This sucks,” Roier complains, yawning. “I should have paid more attention to cameras. Ugh.” 

Cell shrugs. “We were going to get spotted eventually. Maybe that situation could have been avoided, but we’re too well known to stay under the radar forever.”

Roier sniffs. “You’re too well known. If I was alone, I would be somewhere far south of here and completely safe. But you needed to be as far away from Brazil as possible. I’m a completely innocent victim of circumstance.” 

“You’re the one who keeps referring to us as we. I was just following your example. Also, if you were alone you would be in jail by now, because you’d have no incentive to do anything,” Cell taunts, and it’s so mean and it’s so funny and Cell is smiling.

“Yeah, well. You’d be bored. And then you’d get your revenge and kill your friends. And then what? You’d have nothing to do. I keep your life interesting. Without me, you’d be directionless, too. You’re just as pathetic as me.”

Cell laughs. “You’re lucky that I am.”

Roier shakes his head, unable to stop himself from smiling. “Not lucky. Just smart enough to recognize you as someone I needed in my life.”

“I can’t believe I let you live after you shot me,” Cell sighs. 

“You let me live because I shot you. You thought I was crazy and weird and it fascinated you.” Roier counters.

“I’ve killed plenty of crazy and weird people,” Cell deadpans.

“Not in the way that I am,” Roier responds. You’ve never met someone who would do anything for you. Who loves you unconditionally. Who loves you for your flaws. Not in spite of them. 

And Cell doesn’t say anything after that. So Roier’s words are probably mutually understood. They’re not at a point where Roier can say them out loud yet. But they’re getting there. They’re getting there.

They eat dinner beneath the stars. They’re lukewarm human leftovers, and the meat is gross and stringy, but Roier eats as much as he can without feeling nauseous and doesn’t complain. Cell makes sure he eats. It’s sweet.

Roier loads his .22, and they climb into the backseat to sleep. It’s an uncomfortably cramped space, seeing as the car is small. Hypothetically, they could sleep up front, but then they’d be separated, and Roier won’t have that. 

Roier lies halfway on top of Cell, halfway pressed up against the seats. Their knees knock together, and there’s really not enough room for the two of them, but it’s manageable. Cell seems unaffected by the physical contact at this point. He’s just accepted it as part of their normal. 

But it’s just that. It’s contact. Not affection. Cell lets Roier sprawl across him, and that’s it. He won’t sling an arm across Roier’s shoulders or knock his head against Roier’s. He only initiates contact for practical reasons or to calm Roier down.

And it’s nice. It’s better than nothing. But it’s not full reciprocation, either. And that’s okay, that’s okay, Roier knows these things take time. But he’s really not good at being patient. And everything is horrible right now, and there’s a chance they don’t have much time left. 

Progress is progress. Progress is progress. Progress is progress.

They’ll get there, eventually. Cell needs more time, and that’s okay. Roier can’t expect him to understand the full scope of his own emotions so quickly but--

Ugh. It hurts.

Roier’s careful not to put any of his body weight on Cell’s injured arm. He keeps his .22 in one hand, prepared for anything or anyone that may try to kill them throughout the night.

“I’m glad I found you,” he whispers to Cell, as his breathing slowly deepens. Cell’s asleep, and doesn’t hear him. Roier knows these things. He’s spent long enough watching Natalan to know these things. He kisses Cell’s cheek gently. “I love you.”

The sun rises steadily over the horizon, and they’re both alive and fine. Roier’s paranoid grip on his pistol was for nothing. 

Roier’s joints ache from the compact sleeping position, but he’ll be fine. 

He cleans and redresses Cell’s gunshot wound. It’s healing well, and Roier thinks he’ll probably recover nearly full movement of his arm. 

He then starts on the disinfection process on his shoulder. It’s gross, and yellowish-purple. Which is really not a good sign.

“Hey,” Cell says. “Let me help.” 

He carefully cleans the jagged stitches with disinfectant, before rebandaging his arm. 

“Sit,” he says.

Together, they clean and rebandage Roier’s legs. His left leg seems to be faring the worst. His shoulder’s infection seems mild. His left leg looks seriously gross. 

“Hm,” Cell says. “We need something stronger to sterilize your stitches. And maybe need to cut the current ones out and re-stitch this with properly sterilized equipment.” 

Roier frowns. “I don’t want to slow us down. Or put us at risk. And risking being seen for rubbing alcohol is stupid.”

“You’re walking with a limp,” Cell snaps. “And it will only get worse if we don’t fix your fucking infection. You need to be able to run if necessary. Or else, you will be a liability, and you will get us killed.”

Roier scoffs. “You can’t even drive properly because of your arm. And I’m the liability for limping? Asshole.”

“You will be a liability if you don’t take basic fucking care of yourself,” Cell says. “Your self hatred thing will get us both killed. It’s pathetic, and it gets old. You need to get over yourself, and buy some fucking rubbing alcohol. And maybe actually eat something for once, so your body can heal.” he turns around and climbs into the passenger side seat. He probably wanted to storm away, but there was nowhere else to go. It’s a little bit funny.

Roier crawls into the driver’s seat, giggling. 

“What.” Cell snaps.

Roier shrugs. “You’re funny when you’re mad.”

Regardless of the rude things Cell said or the way he completely brushed Cell off, Roier still pulls into the first liquor store parking lot they come across. They’ve been riding in silence for a little under an hour, Cell with his jaw clamped shut, and Roier humming.

“We’re going to be quick, and we’ll keep our heads down,” Roier says. “And if we die, I’ll tell you that I told you so in hell. And hey-- don’t call me Roier in there.”

Cell throws up his hand in protest. “I have literally never done that.”

Roier narrows his eyes. “Yeah, but you seem like the kind of stupid to do that.”

“Well, what am I supposed to call you?” Cell asks, just for the sake of argument.

“I don’t know,” Roier says. “Don’t refer to me. Or be creative.” he shrugs. He climbs out of the car and slams the door behind himself.

Cell follows, slightly awkward and off-kilter. It's funny to witness. 

They’re halfway to the door when Cell speaks again.

“I shouldn't have said those things the way I said them. I'm an asshole,” he says, and Roier recognizes that it’s an apology. He’s not very good at apologizing, but that’s okay.

Roier laughs. “I forgive you.” he was never actually mad, anyway.

There’s a man behind the cash register, looking barely old enough to work there. He glances toward them for only a second, and Roier pretends to pay him no mind.

Cell wanders the aisles and Roier trails after him, conscious of every camera angle and the location of the cashier.

Some old love song from the 60’s is playing quietly from the speakers behind the counter. 

“Hurry up,” Roier hisses. “This place is creeping me out.”

Cell turns around, eyebrow raised. “Really? I thought you’d like the weird creepy old music.” he looks Roier up and down. “Seems like your thing, with your strange humming and all.”

Roier gasps in joking offense. “Why’d you look me up and down like that,” he says in lighthearted judgment, “are you into me or something?” he teases. 

“Focus on finding what we need,” he says flatly.

Which, right. Responsibilities. Roier has those. He glances up at the cashier, and is met with. Well.

The young man looks absolutely terrified, and looks like he’s trying his best to hide it. Shit. God fucking damn it. 

The cashier shoots them another look, and carefully reaches for the phone on the desk in front of him. 

Roier is so glad he brought his .22 with him. 

“Put that down,” he tells the kid, aiming for his head. Then, to Cell, he says, “I fucking told you this would happen.”

The kid drops the phone, and stares at Roier.

“Now I have to kill this guy,” he whines, “and I really didn’t want to waste ammunition. Or get these clothes dirty. But you like collecting trophies, and you like it when I’m covered in blood. So now I’ll have to deal with blood in my hair.”

Cell sighs. “So much for your insistence on code names. Right, guapito?”

Roier giggles, his entire face burning. He can’t even be too mad about Cell mocking him.

“You don’t have to kill me,” the kid says shakily. “Or eat me, or anything like that. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

Roier makes a face. “Really, dude?”

Cell shrugs. “I guess it was worth a shot. What’d he have to lose?” he says the second part like a joke, and Roier laughs.

“Sorryyyy,” Roier says, and then fires twice, getting him between the eyes both times. Nice. 

“I found rubbing alcohol,” Cell says, unbothered by the slumped figure of the cashier, “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Text

When Roier shot Natalan, he believed his life to be over. There was blood everywhere, and he sat in the self-orchestrated ruins of his life. He had nothing left to live for.

Some part of him was oddly at peace with everything. Roier’s never been afraid of dying.

And dying there, for love, for the love he deserved and was never given. Maybe that was enough. And killing Natalan was enough. 

And then-- everything changed. Roier found Cell, and everything changed. He found purpose-- a reason for living. A reason to skip town on his catastrophic life, and demand more.

He likes more. He likes Cell. He likes the blood on his hands and the way that Cell doesn’t flinch from Roier’s touch or yell at him for wanting. 

He’s happier than he’s ever been in his life. But he’s still not afraid of dying.

And things go to shit unbelievably fast. 

vi.

Roier crushes the security cameras with the back end of his pistol while Cell awkwardly shoves the body of the cashier behind the counter. 

“We need to hurry,” Cell says, as he glances out the windows. “I don’t think it’s smart to stick around and harvest the meat, no matter how much I’d love to.”

“Fine with me,” Roier agrees. Blood and cannibalism are great and all, but they really need to get going. Cell wipes the blood from his hands off on his jeans and laughs.

You’re so cute, Roier manages to stop himself from saying. It’s one thing to flirt with Cell through violence and mutual dependence. It’s another thing entirely to call him cute. There are a lot of people out there who would not react well to such a compliment. And Roier’s not sure if they’re at a level where a comment like that would be appreciated. 

Cell jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Roier steps toward the exit and whines. “My leg hurts, Cell.” it’s true, but he’s also kind of trying to get Cell’s attention.

And Cell just sighs and passes Roier the rubbing alcohol, and then wraps his non-injured arm around his waist. “You can lean on me,” he says. 

Roier laughs, and throws his arm across Cell’s shoulders. “Thank you, gatinho,” he teases, smiling at the redness that tinges Cell’s cheekbones. He knocks his forehead against Cell’s shoulder as a show of gratitude. “You’re the best,” he says, lovesick and playful.

They limp out of the store together. One entity. Roier’s got one fucked up leg and Cell’s got a broken arm. They’re not in good shape, and they really need a break soon, but they certainly won’t get one.

The dry summer air greets them mercilessly as they step outside. And then there’s the sirens. 

And then there’s the sirens. And they’re distant, but they’re there. And they may not be for them, but they may be. It’s impossible to know.

“Shit,” Roier curses, fingers curling tightly around Cell’s shoulder. 

“We’re fine,” Cell reassures, monotone. But his hand presses against Roier’s hip, just as possessive and protective as Roier’s hand on his shoulder. They’re together. Till the end of everything. 

The car feels incredibly far. They limp their way slowly across the parking lot. They’ll be fine. They just have to be quick. They’ll be fine. And then--

“Hey.” 

Roier whips his head around, knuckles turning white from his grip on Cell.

A young woman stands with a .45 pointed shakily at them. She looks terrified, but determined. They’re so fucked.

Roier’s pistol is tucked his waistband against his hip, and he can feel Cell’s hand inching toward where it’s stored. Roier’s got a .22, and this woman has a .45 caliber pistol. The .45 is definitely stronger-- could do more damage. And Roier has no idea how good Cell’s aim even is.

“Step away from each other,” she warns, heavily accented, and why can’t Roier place that accent? 

“What are you, a cop?” Roier sneers, before his filter manages to catch it and make him shut the fuck up.  

“I’m not moving,” Cell snarls, in his dramatic serial killer voice. It sends shivers down Roier’s spine, and his hand is ghosting across Roier’s hip and now is not the time to be distracted. 

“Move away,” she says, aim focusing on Roier. Not fair. Not that he wants some random person to shoot Cell, but like. No need to target Roier specifically. 

“Look man, if you’re going to shoot us, shoot us together.” Roier snaps. If this is the end of them, at least they have this.

He’s almost expecting an argument from Cell, but he gets none. They’re in this together.

She glares at him. “Step away from Cellbit,” she says. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Well fuck. She knows who they are-- at least, she knows who Cell is. This is probably the end of them both. “Anything that concerns Cell concerns me,” Roier snaps. 

“You barely know him. I know who you are. This conversation has nothing to do with you.”

Anything that has to do with Cell automatically has to do with Roier. She should know this.

She obviously must not have done enough research on Roier. Because her diplomatic voice and logic and condescending comments do nothing to make Roier shut up or step away from Cell. 

Roier’s grabbing his .22 before Cell can reach it. It’s halfway out of his waistband before the woman reacts.

And then there’s the pull of a trigger and a bang and then there’s pain blooming from the side of his stomach where Cell’s hand is anchoring him. 

“Mierda,” Roier hisses, doubling over in pain. “Ow ow owwwww…”

Cell’s hand tightens around his waist, and he doesn’t allow Roier to crumple entirely. They’re together. They’re together. No one is allowed to separate them. 

“Cellbit,” the woman says, and ugh. Roier hates her. “Someone’s called the cops, and they’re coming.” (as if the sirens aren’t indicative enough, Roier thinks.) “I can get you out of this. I’ve spent days tracking you down, and I want to help you.” 

Roier thinks he’ll be sick. He wants to kill this woman because who does she think she is. Roier’s the one that found Cell first, that’s gotten him this far.

“Get away,” she snaps. “I’ve given you a way out. He’s,” she gestures at Roier, “out of commission, and you can go. He won’t be your problem anymore. I don’t agree with what you’ve done. I think you’ve become a horrible person. But I don’t want to see you dead.”

And she’s right. She’s right. If Cell leaves now. Leaves Roier now, he’ll have a better chance of getting away. And Roier would go down fighting, pistol in his hand and shot by some asshole police officer. It would be a horrific way to die. Alone and unloveable, with no reason to care about anyone or anything.

“Don’t leave me,” Roier whimpers, and he wants to say, I don’t care what you’ve done. She can judge you all she likes, but I am here. No one gets you like I do.

Cell scoffs. “I’m not,” he says flatly, as if any other answer would be unthinkable. And it’s a promise. It may as well be a wedding vow. Till death do us part. Or something.

“Cellbit--” the woman says. She sounds pained.

“Don’t call me that,” Cell snaps. “And why would I want your help?” he threatens, “I don’t know you, and you just shot my--” he cuts himself off. “You just shot Roier.” he says firmly, because it doesn’t matter. She already knows who they are. 

Roier giggles, and he’s pretty sure he’s crying too, from the pain. His blood is on the pavement. It’s gross. He loves Cell so, so much. And Cell’s got an arm around Roier’s waist, keeping him standing, keeping him close, and they’re in love. The world is spinning, and Roier thinks it may be from blood loss. Or maybe it’s just the affection he feels. 

“What the fuck do you mean.” she says, sounding distraught. “It’s me. Cellbit, I’m your fucking sister. And I’ve spent years trying to reach you, what the fuck do you mean?”

Roier whimpers. “Cell, I don’t feel good.”

“I don’t have a sister,” Cell says coldly. “If you’re going to kill us, kill us. Or let us go.”

Kill us. Or let us go.

There’s silence for several agonizing seconds. The pavement swirls in Roier’s vision. 

“I’m not giving up on you. I’ll find you again. But until then, don’t get yourself killed. And I hope you come to your senses about your taste in men.”

The last comment is thrown in, sort of sad and longing. As if she wants to make fun of him for his relationship. As if she wants to laugh about his life and tease him over every little thing. She wants a normal sibling relationship.

See, Roier knows. Roier knows exactly who she is, has known since her broken confession of, I’m your sister. But Cell? Roier’s pretty sure he has no idea.

The thing is, Cell has lived his own life. Has gone through a million complex traumas, each fogging his brain a little bit more. He’s had to compartmentalize. Strategically forget things, even if it’s a subconscious reaction. It’s a survival technique. 

But Roier’s read all about him. He knows things about Cell that Cell doesn’t even know about himself. And that, of course, includes his long lost sister. 

Bagi doesn’t leave. Nor does she help. She just watches as Cell kneels down and grabs Roier by the shoulder. At least she has the decency to lower her gun.

“Can you walk?” Cell asks, monotone and emotionless. He’s focusing now, on trying to get them out alive. He doesn’t have time for emotions.

Roier shrugs. “I’ll need help,” he rasps, “and I can’t drive.”

Cell drags Roier into a standing position and they slowly limp to the car. He helps Roier into the passenger seat, and then shoves himself into the driver's seat and slams the door.

Roier curls into himself. Everything hurts, and he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding all over the car interior. The sirens are dangerously close, and Cell struggles with the controls momentarily, before untying his sling and using his broken arm to keep the wheel stable.

His face is contorted in pain, and Roier would feel bad for him if he wasn’t so sure that his own pain was like… infinitely worse.

Roier distantly registers police lights shining from afar, and then Cell accelerates, and they’re gone. Things are really not looking good. 

He keeps his hands pressed against his abdomen. Trying his best to keep pressure on the bleeding. This is fixable— maybe. Or maybe not.

“Did you know,” Roier says, and it comes out halfway a whimper, “that Bonnie and Clyde weren’t buried together. Their families refused to recognize them as lovers.”

Cell keeps his eyes on the road. He recognizes Roier’s words for what they are. “You’re not going to die,” he says flatly. 

Roier’s not sure either of them believe it. 

“If I do,” he asks, almost afraid that Cell will say no. That he’s not worthy. “Will you eat me?”

“You’re not going to die,” Cell repeats, and Roier thinks he hears a not without me. Or maybe he’s just crazy. 

“Okay,” Roier agrees, because he doesn’t want to argue about this. “Would you anyway?”

“I don’t know, Roier,” Cell snaps, and his hand is clenched around the steering wheel so tight it looks like he may break it. 

“Why don’t you like me?” Roier hisses, digging his palm into the bullet wound, relishing in the pain. He deserves it and Cell deserves to deal with him. 

Cell laughs, sounding strangled. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You don’t want to eat me,” Roier says miserably, tears welling in his eyes. He’s not sure if he’s crying over Cell or over the pain. It's a little bit stupid. “You barely tolerate me most of the time. I like you so much, I do everything for you. And you hate me.”

Cell scoffs. “I’ve ruined my life for you,” he says, sharp and fervent. “I’ve ruined myself for you. I’ve allowed you to drag me spiraling with you. I would kill you if I could. I would eat you if I could. I do hate you Roier.” he pauses then. His voice is hoarse and angry. But underneath there’s an underlying softness. “It’s the strongest I’ve ever felt in my life.”

Roier wishes he had the energy to laugh or to scream, but he just smiles up at Cell through the tears caught on his eyelashes. Cell’s jaw is clenched and his eyebrows are knit, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. 

“You love me,” Roier says, amazed. Because you don’t feel that strongly about another person without it being love in some capacity. Cell loves him, and he knows it. 

“You’re dying,” Cell says flatly. “Let's save this conversation for another time.”

“Oh so now you admit that I’m dying,” Roier jabs, trying not to wince. He refrains from saying, I don’t know if we can save this conversation for another time. I may not be alive for another time. It’s unnecessarily cruel, especially since he’s pretty sure that Cell’s emotional epiphany is recent. So he’d be rubbing salt in an open wound. And as fun as cruelty can be, now is not the time. 

Maybe they’re on the road for minutes. Maybe it’s hours. Roier can’t tell-- he’s tired and dizzy and losing blood. He wants to close his eyes and rest.

But he’ll stay awake for Cell.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Thank you for not leaving me. It would have been easier if you had.” his fingers clench the fabric of his shirt, pressing firmly on the wound.

Cell shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s not like I had any other option.” 

He says it so carelessly. It almost sounds rude in the wording, but well. The words are beautiful in meaning. Because. Cell did have another option. He could have left Roier and taken Bagi’s help. He wouldn’t have cared about her. Wouldn’t have trusted her. He doesn’t know her. Not anymore. But it would have been a strategically sound move. 

The opportunistic asshole Roier first met (several days ago. But it’s felt like a lifetime), would have done so without thought. He practically did as such with Roier. He took advantage of Roier’s help, of his feelings, to get what he needed. At least, he did at first. But he’s changed so much. Roier has changed him so much. 

He refuses to see a future without Roier as a viable option. It’s horrific devotion. He’s just like Roier. They’re in love. Of course they’re in love. 

Roier wants to reach across the center console and grab Cell’s hand, interlocking their fingers and their fate. But Roier has to keep pressure on his wound, and Cell has to use his hands to drive. So Roier stares out the window and tries not to faint.

“I love you,” he says, because he’s not sure how long they have left.

“I’m going to treat your wound. You’ll be fine, Roier.” it’s as close to reciprocation he’s going to get for now, and that’s okay.

Cell checks them into a motel about three hours out (Roier thinks, anyway. Time seems to be moving weirdly. He’s pretty sure he has a fever) and then half-carries half-helps Roier walk to their room. It’s romantic, and Roier caresses his cheek with the arm he has thrown around Cell’s shoulders. It leaves a mark-- Roier’s hands are bloody and gross.

It doesn’t bother Cell. He doesn’t wipe it off. He looks gorgeous like that, Roier’s blood on his skin. He sets Roier on the bed (the bed-- he got a room with one bed. They’re in love) and gets to work cleaning the bullet hole. 

It hurts worse than anything has hurt Roier in his life. But it’s Cell’s hands pouring alcohol into the wound, it’s Cell’s hands carefully extracting the bullet, it’s Cell’s hands stitching the wounds closed.

Cell doesn’t throw out the bullet. He pockets it. Just as Roier kept the bullet he extracted from Cell’s arm. He feels weak. They’re in love, and the bullets may as well be wedding rings.

“She said she knew me,” Cell says, while stitching up Roier’s abdomen.

It hurts, there are tears in Roier’s eyes, and Cell looks at him like he’s beautiful.

Roier studies Cell’s face. Wondering if he’s trying to understand his past. Wondering what that means for the future.

“So it’s my fault you’re hurt.”

He says it factually. Not guiltily, not proudly. Just like it’s a truth of the universe. 

Roier tilts his head. “Does it make you feel better to think about it that way?”

“Yes,” Cell says bluntly, but does not elaborate.

“I get it,” Roier tells him. “I don’t like thinking about your blood on anyone else’s hands. You’re mine. Only I get to hurt you.”

Cell laughs. “You’re insane,” he tells him. But he’s smiling as he says it. He understands.

“You like hurting me.” Roier says. “I can tell from the way you look at me when you’re stitching my skin back together.”

He doesn’t argue, or respond in any capacity. 

“I kept the bullet from your arm. The day we met,” Roier says, smiling through the agonizing pain of his skin getting sewn together. 

“I know,” Cell says.

“And just now, you kept mine. That’s reciprocation. We’re basically married now.”

Cell scoffs, but there’s an undeniable softness there. And that’s enough. For now.

“You know,” Roier says, once he’s been stitched up and the medical supplies have been thrown back in the car, “the likelihood of my stomach healing well is shit. It’s probably going to get infected, just like my leg.”

He’s lying curled up on his non-injured side in bed, and Cell is next to him, sitting cross-legged and sharpening his knife. 

“Yeah,” Cell agrees quietly, knuckles tightening around the hilt of his knife. “But we’re not giving up. We’ll be fine.”

Roier’s tired. So fucking tired, and he just wants to sleep. He reaches out to rest a hand on Cell’s thigh. “I think you might have given up when you chose me.”

“No,” Cell says. “No. I fucked up my odds of survival. But that’s not giving up. I just chose you. I’m not giving up on us somewhere safe. I just won’t do it alone.”

Roier’s heart hurts. He loves Cell so much. But there’s nowhere that’s somewhere safe for them. Even if they find somewhere to hide for a while, they’ll be living in paranoia for the rest of their lives. And-- 

And, “what if my body won’t heal me?” Roier asks, “what if I die from an infected wound? What will you do then?”

Cell swallows, shoulders tense. “We’ll deal with that if it happens.”

Roier spent so long begging for Natalan to love him. Waiting for him to change his mind. And he never did. And he never liked Roier.   And he thought he was pathetic and obsessive and gross. And Cell has only known him for such a short time. But he already needs him. And he likes it when Roier’s revolting and violent and insane.

They’re both still covered in Roier’s blood. It’s all over Cell’s hands and his face, and it’s still soaking Roier’s shirt and under his fingernails. 

Roier forces himself into a sitting position, uncomfortably pushing himself up with his arms. Cell grabs his shoulder to steady him.

Roier stares at Cell, studying the lines of his face. The curve of his brow, the slant of his nose, the length of his eyelashes. The way Roier’s blood is streaked across his cheek and in his hair. He’s perfect. Roier loves him so much.

Cell stares right back, hand still on Roier’s shoulder, supporting him.

“Cell,” Roier says.

He doesn’t respond. He just keeps looking at Roier.

“Cell,” he repeats. “I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, waiting to be pushed away. Waiting for his affection to be unwanted.

But Cell just swallows. (audibly, grossly. Like he does when he wants to kill someone). “Okay,” he says.

Roier wants to tackle him. Wants to kiss him so aggressively it bruises. Wants to get his teeth in his flesh, wants to lick up the blood.

But he’s tired, and he’s hurt, and he’s really not capable of any of that. Instead, he cups Cell’s jaw and kisses him gently. Cell’s grip on Roier’s shoulder tightens. It’s the kindest thing Roier’s ever experienced. 

Roier always imagined kissing Cell desperately. Running on adrenaline and suicidal affection. He didn’t really ever consider that Cell would want him back.

He pulls back after only a moment, searching Cell’s face for any reaction. Terrified of what he may find. It’s one thing to go around confessing his utter devotion all the time. It’s another thing entirely to act on it. In all honesty, Cell could do better. He could do better than Roier.

Cell kisses him again.

And that-- that’s probably the best thing that’s ever happened to Roier. Because Cell likes him. Cell wants to kiss him. He isn’t just indulging Roier. 

Cell kisses him gently, grip on Roier’s shoulder is so strong it will probably bruise. Good. Good. Roier digs his nails into Cell’s face. 

“You look so pretty,” Roier says when they pause to breathe, “covered in my blood.” 

And then he’s laughing, overwhelmed and unbelievably happy. He collapses against Cell’s shoulder, smiling smiling smiling. 

“You too,” Cell admits quietly, hand moving to rest against the back of Roier’s neck.

And isn’t that wonderful. That he’s pretty. That Cell thinks he’s pretty.

His nails left little crescent shaped marks across Cell’s cheeks, all red and irritated. Just like his bullet left a mark on his shoulder. Forever, until the end of time. And Cell’s bad stitching jobs will leave his scars crooked forever, and his hand will leave bruises on his shoulder for the next few days. 

It’s disgusting, it’s possessive, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s leaning on Cell’s bare shoulder, gross and sweaty from the summer heat.

“I’m tired, Cell,” he says. 

There’s still daylight seeping in through behind the curtains, but Roier has lost a lot of blood. And it’s been a long day.

“You can sleep if you want. But we need to leave in the evening. We’re too close to where we’ve definitely been spotted. And also left a body.”

Roier laughs. “I can’t believe you left that body just like that-- no gloating or like, meat harvesting or whatever.”

“It was a strategic move. And it was necessary. Still,” Cell sighs. “It is a shame.”

Cell is gorgeous in this lighting. The afternoon sun peaking through the curtains gives him an ethereal quality, and Roier thinks he is the prettiest person in the world.

“I want to hurt you,” Roier tells him. 

“I know,” Cell says, laughing at Roier.

“I’m not joking.”

“I know that, too.” 

Roier smiles at him. He’s the only man in the world capable of putting up with Roier. Just like Roier’s the only man in the world capable of dealing with Cell. And if anyone else tries, or thinks they could be better, Roier will just kill them.

“You’re lucky,” Roier says, “that I like you enough not to kill you. Like I killed Natalan. You’re lucky you like me enough to make it worth it.”

Cell smiles, his scary supposed-to-be-intimidating smile. It doesn’t have that effect on Roier. It just sends a shiver down his spine and warm blood to his cheeks. 

“You’re lucky you’re not dinner,” he counters, low and threatening. 

“Yeah,” Roier says, giggling. “You won’t eat me though, cause you like me. You said so yourself.”

Cell opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but he really can’t. It’s the strongest I’ve ever felt in my life. He can’t just take that back.

Roier laughs in delight, and then lunges at Cell, tackling him until they’re both laying halfway on top of one another. Roier’s stitches pull and hurt, but he’s pretty sure they haven’t broken so it’s fine. 

He gives into impulse. He sinks his teeth into Cell’s shoulder hard. 

“Ow.” Cell deadpans.

The metallic tang of blood fills his mouth, and he pulls back, grinning. He’s pretty sure his teeth are bloody and gross, but that’s fine. Cell probably likes that.

“There,” Roier says, swallowing. Savoring the taste of Cell’s blood. Cell’s blood. “You’re mine, okay?” his fingers ghost over Cell’s neck until he finds his fluttering pulse. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

They lay there for a while. Roier tries to sleep, but there’s too much adrenaline and affection and blood loss making him dizzy, so he just stares at the ceiling. They’re both still covered in blood, and Roier’s body is thrown across Cell’s.

He keeps one hand in Cell’s hair, gently running his hands through his (slightly disgustingly greasy) strands of hair. The sky darkens outside. 

Cell helps him redress his various wounds, and then Roier helps redress Cell’s elbow. Cell is healing surprisingly well. Roier is not. 

Roier gently pours alcohol over the bite mark on Cell’s shoulder, but doesn’t bandage it. He doesn’t want it to get infected, of course, but he also doesn’t want it to heal.

“Roier?” Cell asks, while they’re packing their things. “Do I have a sister?”

He doesn’t ask Roier how he would know. They’re both aware of who Roier is as a person. They’re both aware of his obsessive tendencies.

“ Yeah.” Roier says, pretending not to care. “Would that change anything?” It will be a lot more difficult to keep Cell interested in him, to keep Cell around, and to, honestly, control Cell if he wants to start digging into his past. 

“No,” Cell says, and Roier thinks it might be a lie. “Just curious.”

They finish packing the car. Roier thinks he’s going to throw up. He’s nauseous and he’s nervous, and what if Cell decides that he’s not worth it. What if Cell decides that finding his past and his family is more important than sticking with Roier till the day they die.

“Let’s go,” Cell says, gesturing to the door, and it’s sharper than usual. 

That’s somehow the last straw. Roier flinches, and then he’s crying.

“Don’t leave me,” he sobs, covering his face with his hands. He’s embarrassed and he’s terrified, and he’s so horrifically exhausted. 

They’re constantly going in circles. Roier is too insecure to ever ever be stable enough to keep Cell around. He’s going to annoy him, and eventually, Cell will leave.

And Cell is curious about his family. And in what future would Cell ever love Roier willingly, while having the stable bonds of family there to help him?

Cell probably only loves Roier because he has to. He’s built up these survival techniques, because he knows that Roier’s the only one willing to deal with him. 

But what about when he’s not. What about when he has a caring sister who undoubtedly has wonderful friends, and then Cell would have an actual support network and he wouldn’t need Roier. This only works because they need each other.

Roier would need Cell in any situation. No one else matters. No one else matters. 

But he knows that for all the ways they’re similarly unwell, Cell doesn’t get that. He doesn’t!!! He’s not naturally obsessive like Roier is, he’s just been forced into needing him, and the obsession came with the territory. 

“I won’t,” Cell says matter-of-factly. “I ‘chose you’,” he uses air quotes, almost mockingly, but Roier’s too relieved to be upset, “remember?”

“But,” Roier sniffles, “you have other people who care about you. You have a sister who’s willing to help you evade the law. You don’t need me anymore.”

Cell makes a face. “So?” he asks.

“So,” Roier repeats, “I don’t understand--” 

“I don’t trust her. I don’t know her, even if she is family. I already have you. I don’t care about anyone else’s help. Okay?” Cell says, frustrated. 

Roier nods, rubbing his eyes. 

He limps over to Cell, who sets a steadying arm around his waist and helps him toward the door. Roier looks at him. He looks exhausted, and is partially leaning right back on Roier. They’re in rough condition.

And Cell has done so much for Roier. And he’s stuck by him through all of it.

“You love me,” Roier says, in awe. As if realizing it all over again.

And then he’s pushing Cell against the door and kissing him like they’ll die tomorrow, and honestly, they might. He has his hands in Cell’s hair, and they’re both halfway leaning against the wall because standing is difficult for Roier, and he’s pretty sure Cell can taste the tears he’s cried, but it’s fine. It’s fine, and everything is right with the world because they’re in love.

Cell bites his lip so hard it bleeds, intentional and sharp, and licks it up hungrily, like Roier’s blood is the most wonderful thing in the world. 

And he’s pulling back far too soon saying, “We need to leave. We need to get out of here, Roier.”

And Roier can’t even be too disappointed, because it’s just another reminder that they’re in this together to the end.

And so he kisses Cell one more time, quick and smiling and affectionate. And then they’re limping out the door, Roier pressed against Cell’s side. 

The stitches don’t hold.

Of course the stitches don’t hold. 

He feels the blood seeping through his shirt about two hours into their drive. The sky outside is dark and the highway is near desolate. 

“Eww,” Roier says, touching his abdomen and feeling the disgusting sludgy dampness of blood. “I’m bleeding, Cell.”

“Shit,” Cell hisses, glancing over at Roier.

“We can keep going,” Roier says. “But I’ll need help when we stop.”

Cell winces, like it’s an unideal situation, but he doesn’t argue. They need to get away and they can’t stop for wound care. It’s not like he’ll die.

Roier falls asleep against the window, watching the stars outside.

He wakes with a fever. At least, he’s pretty sure. And that’s an obvious sign of infection. The desert stretches for miles around them. The sky is pale and empty.

“I feel bad,” Roier whines, curling around himself in the passenger seat. 

Cell doesn’t say anything at all. Roier looks at him, and he looks back.

“I think I’m going to die,” he tells Cell.

Cell sighs, and looks back toward the road. “I know.” he says. 

“I think I’ve known since the moment I got shot.”

“Yeah,” Cell says, and it’s hoarse and flat.

They don’t go out in a blaze of glory. They don’t have a final stand at the end of the world. They weren’t made for that. They’re maybe made for defiance, but in the end it’s almost entirely their own doing. The product of their own self sabotage.

Roier’s body won’t heal. Cell won’t leave Roier. They’re not capable of surviving together, not under such horrific circumstances. Had they been alone, Roier would have been entirely unharmed-- both by his own hands and by Bagi’s. Had they been alone, Cell would have escaped to some unknown corner of some country, with the help of a sister he would never remember.

But they have each other. For better and for worse.

Cell pulls off of the highway to look at Roier’s wounds. His leg has gotten considerably worse, and his stomach wound is grotesque-looking and unsalvageable. 

Maybe a medical professional could fix it, but that would mean--

“I could turn myself in,” Roier offers halfheartedly.

Cell shakes his head firmly. “I’m not going back to prison.”

“So this is it.” Roier says, and it’s supposed to be a question. It comes out a statement, bland and accepting. “What’re you doing when I die?” he asks.

Cell laughs. “Die too? I don’t know.”

Roier smiles. “I thought it’d be you and me against an unstoppable amount of gunfire. Turns out it was just me against a single bullet. It’s kind of funny. And kind of sad.”

Cell considers this. “It doesn’t have to be. We can choose how we go out.”

He looks so pretty. He’s the sweetest person Roier’s ever known.

“You’d die for me?” Roier asks, breathless. He thought Cell might have just been exaggerating to spare his feelings.

“I’d die with you.” Cell corrects. “I wouldn’t leave you to go alone.”

Roier kisses him softly. 

“I love you,” he tells him, and it’s okay that Cell doesn’t say it back. He says it back all the time, just not directly. Roier sees that now. 

Roier sits in the passenger seat while Cell drives. He wraps a hand loosely around his wrist as Cell shifts gears.

Things end almost exactly as they had begun. Cell and Roier, sitting together in Roier’s shitty old car. Never to part again.