I walked into our room smelling smoke.

Which raised one single question. Is Ronan losing control or just being an idiot?

My side of the room was spotless—if that word even had authority after the end of the world. Sheets tight and neat across the mattress, books lined neatly on their shelves, plants watered and potted by the window—sunlight reflecting off perfectly aligned glass jars.

Ronan’s side…there’s not an accurate way to describe it.

Comics in a leaning stack by his bed, cassettes scattered across the nightstand, old food wrappers wedged between knives and spare ammo.

And there sat Ronan. Boots on the bed, curls half-pulled back by his headphones, with a cigarette between his teeth without a care in the world.

I could hear the music blasting from the foam covers of the headphones.

“You’re going to blast your eardrums out.” I shook my head, carefully making my way across the room without stepping on anything that could blow up or break.

“Huh?” Ronan yelled, pulling off one of the earpieces.

“I said you’re going to blast your eardrums out.” I repeated louder.

Ro rolled his eyes, taking a drag of the roll before exhaling out purposefully in my direction. 

I swatted at the air as Ronan laughed manically, Walkman falling onto his mattress.

“You know that’s gonna kill you.” I said gently, pointing at the cigarette.

He considered this for a moment before shrugging. “Not before something else will.”

My chest ached at that. I mean sure, there were close calls, but he didn’t really believe that, did he?

I walked over and plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, smoke still curling from the end. Ronan jumped up, headphones falling off as he playfully tried to get it back.

“Give it back!” He whined,  jumping to try and reach my arm. I laughed, remembering how short he was.

“No.” I said through the chuckling.

“You’re too damn tall, this is not fair.” He crossed his arms.

“Maybe you’re just short.”

He placed a hand on his chest, gasping like I just insulted his bloodline. “How dare you? I am compact for your convenience.”

A laugh bubbled out of me at that. “Ronan you’re barely five-foot-two.”

“I am five-foot-five!” Ronan snapped, attempting to grab the cigarette again.

I gently shoved him on to his bed, stubbing the roll out in the ashtray before tossing it in the trash can. He watched as I did this, pouting like a little kid.

“Where’d you even get that?”

His pointing lip curved into a sly grin, he tilted his head to the side, curls falling into his face. “Everyone has secrets, Maximillian.”

~

 Faster Max, faster.

I stitched a hole in fabric like it was life or death.

Calculate the blood loss. Tissue. Artery placement. Thread amount. Did other people need me too?

The needle bit into my thumb. I didn't flinch; I couldn't. I just watched the bead of red bloom against the thread and kept going. Artery. Tissue. Suture. If I stopped, the ghost on the table would stop breathing.

My shaking, cramping, clammy hands.

“Max.”

I heard Declan say across from me, his voice low and distorted like it was underwater. I ignored him, threading in and out of the flesh my mind made me believe was real. 

My hands stained with blood that wasn’t really there. My chest stuttered like I was breathing in ash-filled air. 

The needle slipped again, clinking onto the wood floor as I scrambled to pick it back up.

I couldn’t stop, not until I was sure—

“Max.” He repeated firmer, I finally snapped my head up, his eyes were filled with that father-like worry he pretended to not have.

He took a deep breath and walked over, sitting down on the rug next to me.

“You’ve been at it for an hour now.” Declan motioned to the knee of a pant leg, where I’d gone over a hole probably over twenty times without realizing. Again.

“Sorry.” I muttered, gently placing the needle away. Holding up my hands to check for blood on my skin, wiping my hands on my jeans for good measure before shoving my hands in my pockets before he mentioned their shaking.

“You don’t need to apologize.” He told me softly, patting my shoulder before getting up to go upstairs.

I hated how my brain spiraled like that.

There was no warning. I just sit down to do something and suddenly it’s an obsessive cycle I can’t escape until someone pulls me out, and only then I realize I had been drowning.

Skylar said it was PTSD.

Eliot thinks it’s OCD.

I don’t really acknowledge it enough to diagnose myself with a label that doesn’t matter. Not in this world.

With my breathing still ragged, I pushed myself up off the floor, discarded the pants to deal with later, and made my way to the kitchen for water.

Only then did I also find Ronan sitting on a precarious stack of crates, two hands holding a metal water bottle that looked like it’d been though multiple wars. His curls were a mess, pupils still a bit blown but not as bad thankfully.

“Hello, bunkmate.” He smiled eagerly, swinging his legs, making the crates wobble.

I nodded to him, stretching a smile before taking a deep breath and grabbing my own canteen to take a sip.

“You’re pale.” He noted, tilting his head and clearly not getting the hint I was not in the mood for chatting.

“No I’m not.”

He squinted before jumping off the crates, abandoning his water, and walking directly into my space. He reached up and grabbed my face, pulling it down to his level so he could examine it. His fire-warm skin almost hot against my face.

Our faces so close I could count the faint freckles across his cheeks, feel his breath and fingertips on my face. The sun from the skylight making his brown eyes show hazel flecks, his chapped lips gently open.

We both froze for a beat too long, locking eyes before Ronan shoved me away, making me stumble, and turned away.

“Definitely pale. You look like you saw a ghost.” He laughed roughly, shoving his hands through his curls, messing them up more.

Me—still stunned—just muttered “Uh huh” before exiting the area.

I was emotionally wrecked enough for one day, and I did not have time to psychoanalyze what just happened there.