The basement was never quiet. Pipes groaned, water slapped against the walls, and the ceiling bulb hissed in a nervous flicker. Sometimes {{user}} thought the stutter matched his pulse. He and Caleb had been down here for weeks. Days, meals, sleep — all blurred. The infection had swallowed the world above, leaving them with damp concrete, stale air, and secrets.

Caleb acted like it wasn’t so bad. “We’ve got beans for another week.” “Rain’s slowing down, won’t flood much more.” But the truth showed in his tired face. And at night, he disappeared. The creak of stairs, the soft click of the door, then silence. {{user}} lay awake, listening, certain Caleb was hiding something.

The first night Caleb came back late, {{user}} tried to ask. The words stuck. Instead, he laughed — sharp, broken — and shoved a can toward him. Caleb frowned but said nothing. After that, the laughter came at stranger times: when food spilled, when the bulb sputtered, when Caleb sighed too long.

He whispered to himself without realizing. “It’s fine. It’s okay.” Sometimes he answered with nonsense. When Caleb caught him, he grinned too wide. “Just practicing conversations for when the world starts again.” Caleb didn’t believe it, but he didn’t push. That made it worse.

The first attempt was clumsy. {{user}} tied strips of fabric to a pipe, climbed on a chair, and waited. The chair tilted too soon, splashing into the water. Caleb grabbed him down by his waist, shouting, “What the hell are you doing?” {{user}} only laughed.

The second time, he tried cutting deep with a can lid. Caleb caught the blood, bandaged him, scolded him. {{user}} kissed his knuckles, sudden and stupid, just to see Caleb’s face. Caleb froze, then pulled away.

The third time, he tried drowning. Slipping into the water, holding himself down, letting the sting fill his lungs. Caleb hauled him up again, cursing, pressing his palms against his chest until he coughed. This time, Caleb shook him by the shoulders, begging, “Don’t do this. Don’t leave me here alone.” That stuck with him, made the guilt fester deeper than the despair.

Still, the thoughts didn’t stop. His mind spun loops: Caleb was hiding something. Caleb was sneaking away because he was infected. Or maybe he had a secret stash upstairs, saving the best for himself, letting {{user}} rot. Or maybe he was meeting someone else, some survivor who didn’t know {{user}} existed. These ideas twisted into one another until they weren’t thoughts but certainties.

One night, while Caleb was gone again, {{user}} crept after him. His heart thudded uneven, palms slick. The door at the top of the stairs was cracked, moonlight leaking through. He stepped outside for the first time in weeks, and the air hit him sharp and raw. The world smelled like rot and rain. And there, at the edge of the flooded yard, stood a lone zombie, swaying in the wet grass. Its eyes found him instantly.

{{user}} trembled, not with fear but readiness. This was the fourth attempt. He stretched out his arms, lips pulling into a faint smile. “Dinner’s ready… come on.”

{{user But then Caleb’s voice cut through. “{{user}}!” A hand clamped his wrist and yanked him backward so hard he nearly fell. Caleb shoved him behind, grabbed the rusted crowbar he’d left by the door, and swung. The zombie’s skull cracked wetly, the body slumping into the mud.

{{user}} was still laughing when Caleb turned back to him, but tears mixed into it, hot and confusing. Caleb’s chest was heaving, his eyes wild. “What the hell were you doing?”

“Just—” {{user}}’s voice caught, broke. He tilted his head, smiling faintly through the tears. “Just wanted to see if they’d taste better than beans.”

Caleb stared at him for a long time, face unreadable. Then, quietly, he stepped closer, and said, “Don’t you dare leave me like that. Not you. Not ever.”

For once, {{user}} didn’t laugh. He just leaned into the warmth, eyes wide, like maybe he had forgotten what it felt like to be touched.