Chapter Text
Two in the morning: Finn is in a bedroom he doesn’t own and a house only large enough to breathe in, resting after a day of moving boxes with Gadget and his mother, Helen. There’s a light draft, and despite its warmth he shivers, turns onto his side, and he curls into the mat Helen kindly rolled out for him by Gadget’s bed (a bare mattress with the frame still picked apart and piled away in the truck). Sleep comes and goes, fits and spurts. Now he lies awake, and his hands fist and unfurl the fabric in front of him as he lies on his side, hairs on the back of his neck prickling, stomach sick and running in loops, stirring, simmering. In the furthest corner of his mind, he considers the tiny but sinister voice telling him he’s not doing enough for Gadget, and his fingers curl a little too tight. The sheets between them crease.
The fact of the matter is this: Gadget hurts, but Finn isn’t a healer. He’s useless in the presence of pain, sick to his stomach whenever he sees Gadget flinch or jump from sudden noises, wincing when Gadget limps a little on his way to the moving truck. Finn can offer to help move, and to stay for dinner, and then also to stay for the night so that he can help again tomorrow, but he feels awkward and ill-equipped to offer real comfort, the kind of comfort that requires a finesse with words and good people-reading skills. Finn has neither; it shows in how he offers apologies and condolences like little band-aids for the deep, bleeding gashes in Gadget and Helen’s hearts.
Finn, in his stewing and stirring, fails to notice that, up on the mattress next to him, there’s no Gadget under the lone comforter bunched up in the middle.
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Earlier, at the airport, Finn knew the following: that Gadget’s dad died, that it was a car accident, that Gadget was in said car accident, that the paramedics were only able to salvage Gadget’s body whereas his father’s was beyond recognition, lost somewhere in smoke and crushed metal and other flammables. This information occupied some small, shielded part of his mind as he met Gadget at the airport, but during their jovial greetings it didn’t click because Gadget looked just fine. Normal, even.
When Gadget’s mom, Helen, mentioned leaving for the house, that’s when it clicked, because Gadget paled, and Finn remembered the many mentions of cars and accidents and memories during their months of chats.
The procession out started to feel more for that of a funeral than of a celebration, Gadget clutching first to Finn’s side and then switching his death grip from waist to sleeve for the ride home, white-knuckled and motionless and quiet. Finn wanted nothing more than to tell Gadget he would be okay, that he was safe and that nothing would hurt him that way ever again, that he was far away from what happened, but that wasn’t really true, and he knew that was a promise out of his power to fulfill, so he just gave Gadget his hand to hold and his shoulder to curl into. When they arrived home, Gadget was the first one out.
Finn felt guilty for enjoying Gadget’s company with this new, intimate proximity to his pain. In person there was eye contact, accidental glimpses of the bruising along Gadget’s forearm from sore, healing bones, exposure to the sounds of wheezing and coughing from Gadget’s gunk-filled lungs. Finn couldn’t avoid the truth the way he had online, and the guilt of even wishing he could left a sick feeling in his stomach.
Later, when unloading the truck, Helen handed Gadget the lighter boxes, leaving Finn with the boxes marked FRAGILE in big, jagged letters. Most times Gadget limped descending the truck ramp, even with the light load, and after the one time when he tripped a little as he shuffled out of sight, Finn asked Helen how long he had been off crutches, hefting up a box of his own and too occupied with concern to do much more than that.
She answered, simply, “A month.”
Finn’s eyes widened, the grip around his box loosening for a moment. “A month?! He shouldn’t be carrying anything right now!”
Gadget must have overheard them, because he interjected, “No, I’m fine!” from the garage, hidden somewhere behind the stack of boxes Finn piled by the left of the entrance.
Finn sighed, realizing that Gadget must have begged his mom to let him to help, and muttered a quick, quiet, “Excuse me,” to Helen before setting his box down and hopping off the edge of the truck, forgoing the ramp altogether.
He peered around the stack (the one Finn made) only to see Gadget on his tip toes, struggling to heft his box onto the only empty shelf left (the top one Finn was supposed to fill).
“Gadget,” Finn said, more of a sigh than a statement, and the defeat in his voice rolled Gadget’s shoulders forward, forced the box in his hands down and his heels back onto the floor.
“Sorry,” Gadget said, and he shuffled away, back to the truck to grab another of the light boxes from his mother. He left Finn alone with the garage and the boxes.
The whole situation reminded Finn of years past when Gadget would clean his bedroom spotless, always working when he was anxious, scrambling for some menial task or chore to occupy himself. He must have been desperate, asking to help move when the muscles in his leg still struggled under his own weight. Finn didn’t know what places Gadget’s mind would go to if he couldn’t work, but Finn thought it was better that way, not to know, because if he did he might have felt more helpless on what to do, on how to approach Gadget and his hurting, and it would drive him mad.
Finn walked over, stepping over the cables of lawnmowers and extension cords to get to the box Gadget set down, and he plucked it up. He slid it onto the top shelf with ease; it wasn’t that high to begin with. His brain muttered, quiet, low, Gadget could have done this before, but Finn swatted the words away. No point dwelling on before when it was long, distant, hidden behind limping legs and wheezing lungs.
-
Later (now), in the dead of morning, Finn doesn’t notice Gadget’s absence. He’s alerted instead by the smell of food, wafting in from the door Finn cracked earlier for cross ventilation.
It’s weak at first, just enough to tickle Finn’s nose but not enough to rouse him from the half-sleep he fell into about an hour ago (three, sharp, to the sound of cicadas and rustling grass just outside the window). When another ten minutes pass, and an unfortunate sneeze rips out of Finn’s throat and himself upright, straight out of sleep, then, then he smells the food, something savory and hot, and he isn’t sure what to make of it aside from that it makes him an inappropriate and unwanted amount of hungry.
Why now? He asks himself, plucking each limb out of the blankets one at a time with a fragility expected of a sleepless, sore body. Who’s even up this late?
There aren’t any stairs in this house, only a long hallway that leads out into a living room and a kitchen right behind it. It throws off Finn’s half-asleep muscles, Finn stumbling when his feet hit more of the long flat, hardwood instead of steps. At least the edge of the wall is there, the end of the divide between hallway and living space; he can grab onto that to right himself, eyes downcast to his feet so that he can keep track of where they are.
Looking down doesn’t help much, his toes multiplying and dividing and swimming in and out of focus, sending his empty, yearning stomach into loops. Desperate for reprieve, Finn looks up from his feet, only to see two familiar tawny irises staring right back at him.
Gadget. In the kitchen. Making Bacon.
Finn can’t reconcile these three facts, not together, not this early, so he just stares.
It quickly becomes stalemate: Finn, still in yesterday’s clothes, creased in odd places, eyes with sleep in them, hair in knots and swept all over the place; Gadget, stationed in the kitchen, eyes torn from their bleary stare at the stove. Neither budge.
The absurdity of the scene stuns Finn into silence, bacon and stove and too-small apron and wild eyes and all, every bit of it. He can’t think of anything to say other than, “Why?”
Gadget doesn’t even answer properly, only saying, “Hungry,” with an urgency that frightens Finn and, after slapping a strip onto a hot pan, asking, “Want some?”
“Yeah,” Finn replies, too dumbstruck to say anything else.
The smell pulls Finn forward with a dramatic, bone-crushing gravity, and soon he stands by Gadget’s side, handing him strips and eventually the spatula left forgotten on the opposite counter. All transpire with no words, just gentle breath and a slight wheeze from Gadget’s poor, straining lungs.
Finn watches the tremble in Gadget’s hands with a wary eye. “Did you sleep?” He asks.
Gadget keeps his gaze trained on the bacon. “Three hours.”
“More than me,” Finn replies, envious, thinking back to his breathing exercises and burning muscles. “Why?”
The air around them freezes, ice cold despite the warmth of the desert air and of the pan. Time starts again when Gadget flips the bacon, two strips at a time, slaps and sizzles from the fat smacking against their eardrums. “Bad dream.”
Finn hums. “Wanna talk?”
The last strip falls a little harder than needed, flipped callously and splashing bits of grease off of the pan. “It’s dumb.”
“Dreams are dumb,” Finn replies simply. “Talking helps.”
The sizzling of the fat drums against the walls, filling the room with incessant, consuming sound. Gadget edges around Finn to a cupboard on their right, flipping open the panel for paper plates. “Later. Bacon first.”
Finn watches, wordless, as Gadget piles the bacon onto a plate, then hands him more strips from the mountain of bacon in front of him when the pan is empty.
-
So far, most of the boxes are in the garage, and furniture in the truck, so Gadget and Finn can only seat themselves at the card table unfolded in the center of the living room. By this point it’s five, and the first, barest rays of sunshine tint the sky a low, foggy grey instead of black. They eat in silence.
Finn tries to thinking of how to approach the elephant in the room—the fact that Gadget’s dark circles look deep enough to hide in, that he moves like his bones might shatter if he’s bumped the wrong way, that Finn, upon further reflection, doesn’t even remember Gadget coming back to the bedroom—but after three strips eaten and an uncountable swarm still on the plate between them, Finn only manages, dumbly, “Taste good?”
Of course, it tastes good, Finn scolds himself. Who asks if bacon tastes good?
Gadget is caught off guard, mouth stuffed with pork product and in no position to chew and swallow; his cheeks puff out like a chipmunk’s.
Finn, realizing his folly, mutters a soft, “Oh.” Then, “Bad timing.”
A moment passes. Gadget chews and swallows, Finn grabs some more bacon from the pile between them, and finally, finally, Gadget answers, “Yeah. Crispy.”
Thank Chaos Gadget didn’t rib Finn for asking such a dumb question. Though, to be fair, Gadget looks far more interested in falling over than ribbing. Finn wonders how he’s still awake.
Finn nibbles at the strip perched between his fingers, and he waits. Gadget doesn’t continue. Instead, they do another round of their dance: Gadget crams, chews, chokes down the bacon, while Finn grabs another strip from the pile with stiff, robotic movements.
“Mom taught you to fry it?” Finn asks, when Gadget’s reaches for strips without speaking again.
A pause in Gadget’s reach. Then, “Not mom.” Gadget’s quick to stuff his mouth with the pork.
They go another round, Gadget eating, Finn waiting. “Mom hates it,” Gadget says, at last. Finn sees his fingers twitch in the general direction of the pile between them, but for once Gadget breaks their cycle, speaking twice rather than once. “I think it tastes good, though.”
Finn hums, and then he keeps watching, observing, waiting for a chance to broach the main issue – Gadget’s poor sleep – only the chance never comes. Finn simply watches Gadget’s head dip and nod, jerking upright occasionally, and then there’s one time when Gadget dips especially low, chin to his sternum, and Finn knows Gadget will bite his tongue if he jerks up again. Finn wants to drag Gadget back to bed, lay there beside Gadget and hope they both fall asleep, but speaking now, full volume, apropos of nothing might startle him.
Gadget’s head dips again, which finally prompts Finn to ask, light and quiet, “Wanna head back?”
Gadget shakes his head no, a slow, careful side to side. Finn sees how Gadget’s eyes beg the opposite, how his limbs hang low and heavy and how he sways in his chair, and Finn is sure Gadget could just sleep now, in the chair, upright and bacon in his hands, if he really wanted to.
“Why not?” Finn asks.
“Dumb dream,” Gadget repeats from earlier, mumbled towards the bacon on the plate between them instead of at Finn.
And maybe Finn asks because he’s too tired for tact, but he goes ahead and he asks, “Why dumb?”
Gadget answers with a question of his own. “Who gets upset over a dream about bacon?”
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