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Glenn knows it's a bad idea, but he's also the only one sober enough to think so, which means he gets outvoted ten to one and everybody piles into one SUV ('this is not safe,' he thinks in a moment of distraction as four elbows belonging to four different people dig into his body) and they're off to a bonfire.
Glenn keeps getting dragged out to parties every weekend because all his friends and acquaintances for some reason think that he never goes out. They'll phone him up and say, "Hey man, great party at Marco's tomorrow, you in?" and he'll try to say no, he really should study, because he hasn't gone to a single lecture since the second week of class, and his friends will say, "Oh come on, you're always studying! Live a little!" And because Glenn is bad at saying no, he'll let them drag him along. As a result, he ends up studying less and going out more than anyone he knows, because everyone he knows thinks they need to forcibly rescue him from a lonely night in.
Which is how he ends up in an overcrowded SUV way too late on a Friday night, speeding toward a party in the woods that Marco had apparently learned about from a friend Glenn's never heard of.
"This is a really bad idea," Glenn says, for about the seventieth time. The only person who hears him punches him in the shoulder, hard. Glenn sighs.
Marco's girlfriend of the month, Lydia, is driving, and Glenn can guess they're hella lost when she starts loudly repeating, "It's somewhere around here, I know it is, it's definitely close, we're almost there." She's also probably a bit too drunk to be driving, and Glenn knows he's dumb as fuck for letting himself be dragged into this.
The woods are dark, and every stretch of it looks basically like every other stretch of it. Glenn's half-seriously thinking about just jumping into the front and wrestling the wheel from Lydia's hands. She's probably stronger than him, but a scuffle and a car crash might actually be preferable to driving in the woods for the rest of fucking forever. Before he can put any sort of plan into action, though, they see the glimmer of firelight through the trees, and everyone starts whooping and hollering and opening new beers.
Glenn sighs again.
They pull up to the fire and don't see anything but a couple of empty lawn chair and a cooler that looks older than Glenn's parents. There's a beat-up old truck parked a ways away, but other than that there's no sign of other human beings. It doesn't look like a party.
"We're probably just early," Marco says with the kind of full confidence only a very high blood alcohol content can give you. "More people will be coming soon."
"Fuck yeah!" a guy named Ben yells. "Let's get this party started while we wait for all the honeys to get here!"
Ben is kind of a douche.
Glenn fantasizes about staying behind in the SUV until everyone's passed out drunk and then driving back home, but he's predictably dragged out by both arms and told, once again, that he needs to loosen up and live a little. He watches his asshole friends 'loosen up' and 'live' by stoking the fire until it gets way too high to be safe, take off most of their clothes, and dance around whooping and hollering like idiots. "No, I'm good, thanks," he says when someone offers him a flask of what smells like industrial-strength Listerine.
"What the ever-lovin' fuck is goin' on here?" Two men seemingly materialise out of the forest without any warning, looking irate. The older one speaks up and sounds like an actual hillbilly from the actual movies.
"Where the hell did you people come from? We turned our backs for two fuckin' seconds, fer chrissakes." Aaaaaand so does the younger one.
"Hey, welcome to the party!" Ben screams at them. "Come enjoy the fire!"
"Fuck you," the older one drawls. "That's my fire. And that's my cooler, and that's—get the fuck up outta my lawn chair." He shakes his rifle at the girl sitting in one of the chairs, and that's when Glenn realises that oh shit, he has a rifle.
The other guy has a crossbow, and it's loaded and ready to go.
"I am so sorry," Glenn pipes up before they all get killed. "My friends are all drunk out of their minds and we're lost. We saw your fire and we mistook your campsite for our friends' party. We're really lost, though, and we probably won't be able to find our way back before daylight."
"What do I care?" the older one asks, gripping his rifle in a vaguely threatening way. "Not my problem if a buncha college pantywaists die in the woods."
And then, Marco has his first and only good idea of the night, when he wobbles up to the strangers and slurs, "We'll share all our booze with you if you let us stay."
The two men have a silent conversation with each other, a lot of raised eyebrows and head jerking, before the younger one throws his hands up and growls, "Whatever, Merle."
Merle heads over to the keg they've set up and Marco flashes Glenn a double thumbs up. Glenn returns it half-heartedly. This night just keeps getting better and better.
The guy who isn't called Merle looks like he isn't interested in getting hammered as quickly as humanly possible, unlike everyone else by the fire. He drags one of the recently vacated lawn chairs further away from the group, next to the pickup truck that Glenn now guesses is probably his. Glenn weighs his options and trots after him, thinking about how it's really a scathing judgement on how shitty his friends are right now, if hanging out with some backwoods hick he's never seen in his life before is currently more appealing than watching them try not to set themselves on fire.
"Hey, so, thanks," Glenn says, flipping down the tailgate of the guy's truck so he can sit on it.
He grunts in reply and sets about cleaning his crossbow.
"My name's Glenn."
"Daryl."
"Hi Daryl, it's nice to meet you. It's lucky we ran into you, or else we probably would've just kept driving until we ran out of gas. Or until we hit something. Knowing Lydia, we probably would've hit a deer or driven off a cliff and then we would've all died. What were you guys doing way out in the middle of nowhere, anyway?"
Daryl doesn't look up from his crossbow and doesn't answer. Glenn fidgets awkwardly. Not that he's never been ignored to his face before, sadly, but it still sucks when a guy prefers sitting alone in the dark over talking to you. At least a full minute passes and Glenn pretty much doesn't expect to hear another sound from Daryl ever again, when he suddenly says, "We were huntin'."
"Oh. You and...Merle? You're hunters?"
Daryl's still not looking at him, but Glenn can tell he wants to laugh at him. "Yeah, kid. Huntin's what hunters do."
Right. "So...catch anything good?"
"Were hopin' to, until you yahoos came along makin' enough noise to scare every critter in the forest back to their holes."
Glenn winces. "Yeah, I'm really sorry about that."
Daryl shrugs. "My brother's got all the free beer he can drink, and that's as good as meat as far as he's concerned."
"Why aren't you drinking?"
"One of us gotta stay sober to make sure no one gets shot," Daryl says. "Learned that from experience."
Glenn laughs, and then he realises it's probably not a joke and stops abruptly. Daryl's got a smirk in the corner of his mouth that might mean he's kidding or might mean he thinks people getting shot is really funny.
"How 'bout you, kid? Why ain't you drinking? Your delicate Chinese constitution can't handle it?"
"I'm Korean," Glenn says automatically, used to having to say it a thousand times to his own shitty peers. "And I can handle my drink just fine, but this is like the tenth party these assholes have dragged me out to this month and I'm getting tired of it. Plus, you know, one of us has to stay sober to make sure you don't shoot us."
Daryl does outright grin at that, but again, that grin could go either way, and it really shouldn't make Glenn feel warm inside.
They fall into a silence that isn't completely uncomfortable. Daryl watches his brother and Glenn's friends make fools of themselves, and Glenn watches the way the distant firelight flickers across the shadows of Daryl's cheekbones. It's not the cleanest of faces, but it's still a handsome one and there's something appealing in the roughness of it, the frankness of his expressions, how it holds no room for idleness or bullshit. He doesn't know much about Daryl—he doesn't know anything, really. But he knows without a doubt that Daryl isn't like anyone Glenn has ever met. His life is so different, so far removed from the world of college and cool cars and pointless striving for upward class mobility. He doesn't give a shit about any of the things that matter to people in Glenn's life. He lives by the means of his own two hands...and they're nice hands, too. Large, strong hands, attached to a pair of large, strong arms, every muscle accentuated by the far off fire, shown off by the tattered sleeveless shirt he's wearing.
"You enjoyin' the view, kid?"
Glenn startles out of his reverie. "Um, no, I was just, uh, not..." he stammers, cheeks flushing.
"So you're sayin' you weren't starin' at me like a juicy steak and lickin' your lips."
"Oh, um, was I? Sorry, I wasn't, I must've just been, uh...something."
"You're somethin' alright," Daryl says, rolling his eyes. He turns his head to spit into the grass.
He stands up, laying his crossbow carefully to the side, and stretches up long and lean. He walks toward Glenn and looms over him. Glenn wishes he knew how to make himself be more scared and less aroused.
Daryl says, "You wanna keep pussyfootin' around like we don't both know you want me, or do you want a roll in the truck?"
Glenn has never scrambled up so fast in his whole life. He almost knocks himself back down bumping into Daryl, and he can feel Daryl's chest rumble as he laughs, calling Glenn names that he can't even pretend to be angry about.
Daryl shoves him backward into the bed of his truck and climbs on after him, crawling up like some sort of feral mountain lion redneck sex god. Glenn groans and pounces on the fly of Daryl's jeans, working at the button with clumsy fingers. It's a bitch to get open and Daryl has to help him.
"You sure you haven't been sneaking drinks?" Daryl teases.
"Nope. One hundred percent sober and ready to rumble," Glenn babbles, and oh god, his tendency to say stupid things when the blood rushes away from his head and into his dick has begun.
Luckily, Daryl already thought he was stupid to begin with and just rolls his eyes again, unsurprised. They shuffle their clothes of the way as quickly as they can, and Glenn learns that the back of a pickup is one of the less comfortable places for sex. They manoeuvre themselves so that Daryl sits with his back against the cab of the truck, legs stretched out a V while Glenn crouches at his crotch on all fours, knees grinding painfully into the filth and grime of the truck bed.
It's almost a relief when he finally, finally gets Daryl's dick into his mouth.
Daryl's fully hard and he isn't shy about holding Glenn by the back of his head or about pumping his hips whenever he feels like it. Glenn isn't exactly new to cocksucking, but he is brand fucking new to doing it with a near-stranger in the open air with all his friends barely twenty feet away. The thought of it makes his skin feel hot and tight with shame, but the shame of it makes him feel ten times more turned on. Daryl's dick tastes of stale sweat, and just knowing that he probably hasn't showered in a while should probably gross Glenn out, but it doesn't, and the fact that it doesn't just fuels the shame-to-excitement cycle even more.
He hollows his cheeks and rubs his tongue against the ridge of Daryl's cock while he sucks, listening to Daryl's stifled grunts and feeling Daryl's fingers dig bluntly into the base of his neck whenever he does something especially fancy with his lips. His jaw is just starting to get tired when he realises that Daryl's hands have left the back of his head. He's distantly aware of Daryl spitting, then running wet fingers down his spine. It's still unexpected when he feels Daryl's fingers at his hole, and when Daryl pushes two fingers in at once he has to spit out Daryl's cock because there's a serious risk he'll bite it off.
"Jesus fuck," Glenn groans, biting into his bottom lip. It's a bit much all at once, but it's also good. Daryl's poking around strategically, noting the spots that make Glenn twitch and produce pathetic noises, and relentlessly hitting them again and again. Glenn turns his head and nuzzles Daryl's cock frantically, pushing his nose into Daryl's musky pubic hair, sliding his tongue around his balls and all over his dick. His arms shake from the effort of holding himself up, and he feels splayed out and laid open under Daryl's hands.
"Oh my god," someone yells, and it isn't Daryl's voice. Glenn knows it's not himself either, so he opens his eyes and realises that, fucking hell, it's Ben of all people. "Hey, guys," Ben screams in the general direction of the bonfire, "Glenn's getting fingerbanged in the back of a truck!"
"Get the fuck out of here before I shoot you clear between the eyes, boy," Daryl growls, managing to sound completely believable even with his pants off.
Ben gulps audibly and slinks away.
Daryl's fingers have not left Glenn's ass.
Again, Glenn objectively knows that he should feel embarrassed and humiliated, or at least a little bit more worried about having his bare ass in the air in full view of anyone who happens to walk over this way. But he isn't, and if Daryl wants to keep going he is down to put that dick right back in his mouth. It turns out that even actual mountain man Daryl has more modesty than Glenn, because he hauls Glenn up by his armpits and says, "Come on, I don't want any more party crashers. Let's move this inside."
Glenn lets him fold them into the cab of the truck, slamming the door behind him. It's cramped and it smells, but there are soft seats and the façade of privacy.
The little brush with accidental exhibition must've excited Daryl as much as it did Glenn, because it doesn't take long for him to grunt a warning to Glenn, which Glenn ignores. He keeps sucking Daryl through his orgasm and swallows messily. Daryl keeps fingering him while he jerks himself off, splattering over their stomachs and a little bit on the gearshift. They fall asleep in the truck in a frankly disgusting tangle of sweaty limbs.
The next morning finds everybody but Glenn and Daryl with miserable hangovers. Glenn's friends beg him to drive, moaning and pawing at him pathetically from beneath their sunglasses and hoodies. He barely has time to scribble his number onto Daryl's arm with an almost empty pen he finds rolling around the floor of the truck.
Daryl shoots him an indecipherable look, and Glenn shrugs. "Sorry, gotta go," he says, as Marco drags him toward the SUV by the arm while bellowing like a water buffalo in pain.
Daryl walks with him partway to go collect his brother, who's slumped over in a heap looking just as wretched as Glenn's friends. Daryl kicks at his foot and drags him up when he can't quite make it himself.
Merle shoots one look between Glenn and Daryl and groans. "Still got a weakness for those homo sluts, huh?" he says to Daryl, but Glenn can tell he means it to cut Glenn.
"Enjoy sitting in my jizz the whole way home," Glenn chirps. On one hand, he's terrified that Merle will skin him alive and bring his carcass home in lieu of hunted game. On the other hand, something about Daryl gives Glenn the near-suicidal urge to impress him.
In any case, Merle's threats and cussing are worth it for the laughter Daryl has to stifle. He wrangles his indignant brother toward the truck. Before he's out of earshot, Glenn shouts, "Call me!"
Daryl waves without turning around.
Three days later, the city Glenn loves is on fire and the dead are feasting upon the flesh of the living.
The next few weeks are a blur of terror and sheer good luck. Glenn can't believe he's still alive when so many others aren't. He's standing in the parking lot of a liquor store in the dead of night, weighing the pros and cons of raiding it for supplies versus the likelihood of there being walkers inside when he sees something else he can't believe.
It's Daryl and his asshole brother.
Daryl still has that crossbow, only now he's using it to shoot a walker that Glenn didn't even notice was coming.
"You should be more careful," Daryl says, reaching down to pull the bolt back out of the walker's shattered head.
"You never called me," Glenn blurts out.
"I don't know if you noticed, but the phone lines went down when the world ended."
"The world didn't start ending until three days after we met. You had three days to call, and you didn't. Were you—" Glenn can't help the way his voice goes quiet, even though he hates it. "Were you ever planning to call at all?"
Daryl ducks his head and avoids meeting Glenn's eyes. "I was...uh, plannin' to wait a few more days. Because I didn't wanna seem too eager."
Glenn stares at Daryl with open disbelief while Daryl continues to avoid his gaze. Meanwhile, Merle has finished looting everything he wants from the liquor store and comes back out to see them standing in meaningful silence.
"Oh Christ, not this shit again," Merle mutters.
Glenn can see he's holding a shotgun, but he flips him off anyway, because that whole suicidal tendency and looking cool in front of Daryl thing still hasn't gone away, apparently.
Merle doesn't even bother reacting, just saunters over to the truck and tosses his now-full duffel bag into the back. The back of Daryl's truck. Just seeing it brings back vivid details of what they did there, and Glenn bites his lip, cheeks pinking and that warm feeling back in his belly when he catches Daryl finally looking at him.
"Come with us," Daryl says, voice rough and low like he's been smoking a million cigarettes. "We found others on the radio. They have a camp outside of town. Me and Merle were on our way to check it out."
"What if it's shit? What if they don't want us? What if they try to kill us for our supplies?" Glenn's voicing all these doubts, but of course he's already following Daryl, because he's ready to follow Daryl anywhere.
"Then we'll just keep drivin' til we find somethin' else. The Dixon brothers don't get killed easy."
"And me?"
"You're with me, now."
And yes, Glenn pretty much is.