Work Text:
you would swear i lost my mind, the things i do
i know i'm hard to love sometimes, but i'm
soft around you
Snow is falling in fat, slow flakes, illuminated by the pale streetlamp out front and by the porchlight above Finn’s head. He’s getting pretty cold, and he’s not dressed for the weather; he only has his college sweatshirt and pajama pants on under his long coat when he definitely needs more than that, and his socked feet are protected from the elements only by his crappy rubber shower slides. It’s fine, he’s just out for a cigarette.
So what if it is two in the morning and it’s his second within the hour, which actually feels like way too much and he’s stressed out about that? He’s definitely out here because he wants to smoke, and not because he is vibrating with worry about Murphy getting home from the party safely in the snow.
He didn’t really want to go. Finn watched him get ready, so he knows. Murphy’s hands were shaking as he fixed his hair in the mirror by the door, teeth worrying at his lip while he waited for Raven and Emori to come walk with him there. It’s easier seeing her, now that she and Emori are together. Sometimes they all even hang out, smoke weed from Murphy’s battered little pipe all crammed into the broken shower in the attic.
Finn likes living in this house, with Murphy. They’re the only seniors, so they got the biggest room, the one with dark brown shiplap on the walls and stupid little porthole windows. Murphy doesn’t sleep in there most nights. He likes to sleep in the attic. Finn doesn’t like to think about how lonely that makes him feel, how much he misses hearing Murphy’s quiet breathing in the other bed when he’s not in the room.
He bounces his knee, trying to keep warm. Finally, a slim figure crunches down the snowy sidewalk, because the school doesn’t plow this far from campus. Finn sits up straighter, sucks on his cigarette. The figure makes a little excited noise, shuffles forward faster. Yes, it’s definitely Murphy, and he’s definitely intoxicated.
“Ugh, thank god,” he groans when he finally makes it to the path leading to their porch, stumbling just a bit on the wooden stairs. “Whoops!”
“Be careful,” Finn chides him quietly, popping his cigarette between his lips to reach for Murphy with both hands, catching him and lowering him onto the step next to him.
Murphy sits and leans into him, sticking his hands under his armpits and resting his head on Finn’s shoulder. They are comfortable enough with each other for this to be almost normal, but Murphy is more touchy than usual. It feels different. He’s warm from the liquor, pink in the cheeks from the cold. Finn frowns, because his eyes look wet.
“You okay?” he murmurs, taking another drag of his cigarette.
Murphy sighs, turns so his forehead is touching the back of Finn’s neck. Skin on skin. He’s freezing. “Party sucked,” Murphy groans, closing his eyes. “Bellamy was there.”
No wonder he's upset. Finn tisks. “Ah, and I’m assuming he didn’t confess his love for you?” He was going for playful, but Murphy sniffles and sighs again, too drunk not to be upset for real.
“No, he didn’t,” Murphy confirms miserably, shifting a little closer. “We didn’t even talk, he just glared at me once and then later I saw him making out with Gina by the fireplace… ugh. I shouldn’t have even gone.”
Finn nods, finishing his cigarette. He’s gotta agree there, not that he’d ever say that out loud. It’s more important to Finn that he gets out every once in a while, sees some friends. He loves Murphy, loves Bellamy, too, but they’re terrible for each other, at least romantically. Too much pain between them. Finn doesn’t trust Bellamy not to hurt Murphy, not anymore. But he might be a little biased, as stupid and in love as he is.
When he sticks his cigarette in the snow to snuff it, Murphy whines.
“Fuck, noooo, you finished it,” he says, teeth chattering just a little. “I was gonna ask for a sip.”
‘A sip,’ god, that’s cute. Finn fishes around in his pocket to hide his smile and retrieves his pack, offering it to Murphy. “Want one of your own?”
Murphy pulls away from him just a little, looking at him, like he’s just realized how close they’re pressed together on the porch. His eyes shine, glassy and kinda bloodshot, from booze but also maybe from crying, just a little. A strange expression settles over his face, like he’s thinking, or realizing.
Gravity shifts, and Finn feels a little weightless.
“I can’t smoke a whole one,” he insists, slipping a cigarette from the package and bringing it to his pretty lips. Finn is hyperaware of each point of contact between them (their thighs, Murphy’s fumbling fingers on his, their shoulders), aware that he is staring far too much and moving not enough. They both look at the unlit cigarette.
Murphy pats his pockets lazily, not really looking. His eyes are on Finn.
“I need a light,” he says when he places the filter in his mouth, even though that’s obvious.
Finn’s zippo is in his hand. He looks at it for a second, makes a choice, then leans forward, cupping his hand around the end of the cigarette and flicking it on.
“Pretty boys don’t light their own cigarettes,” his mouth says, reckless and unthinking. It’s not even his line. He can’t remember who said that to him first, but it’s all he can think about right then, all his brain could come up with to say.
Murphy’s eyes widen, and where any other time he might laugh at Finn, tease him about how cheesy the line is or turn it into a joke, he just inhales. Tiny flames leap. Finn flicks the lighter shut, eyes alternating between the glowing orange embers and their reflection in Murphy’s blue eyes.
Murphy laughs as he exhales, breaking their eye contact and running a nervous hand through his hair. “I know you’re not talking about me,” he mutters, pulling on the cigarette so he doesn’t have to talk, doesn’t have to look at Finn.
Finn keeps looking at him anyway. This is how it happens; he decides, before he understands he has, that he’s going to be brave, and say 'fuck it' to whatever comes next. He doesn’t think, he just does, and he doesn’t fight the fear.
“No,” he says, sure and calm. “I am.”
Murphy looks at him again, smoke slipping from between his parted lips and spiraling into the air around his face. He’s beautiful. Finn’s always thought so, even back when he thought Murphy was kind of an asshole. There’s no easy answer for when this change happened, when Murphy went from a friend of a friend Finn always found himself defending to his closest friend, someone he really, really cares about. Someone he’ll sit out on the stoop in the cold for, wait up for even though he’d really rather be in bed by now, because he wouldn’t be able to sleep until Murphy gets back home anyway.
Murphy’s eyelids slip a little lower, heavy. He licks his lips. “You can’t say that right now,” he whispers, eyes on Finn’s mouth. “You don’t want to.”
“Why not?” Finn replies, shifting ever so slightly so they are facing each other, inches apart. A dare. His heart is thundering in his throat, but he won’t move, not until Murphy does.
“Because,” Murphy continues, leaning closer. “Now I have to kiss you.”
Finn smiles, feels a flash of something thrilling inside, the rush of a gamble paying off. “Then do it,” he taunts, no bite in it.
Suddenly, there is no space between them at all. They lean in together, in one motion, and Murphy’s lips are chapped, mouth tastes like nicotine. Finn knows he does too, and that sparks something alight in him, makes him wind his hand around Murphy’s waist and press their chests together. Close is not close enough.
Murphy moans and shoves his tongue into Finn’s mouth sloppily, a little bit gross, and Finn remembers where they are. Murphy is still drunk, and the cold is really starting to hurt his ass.
Gently, he presses his hand to Murphy’s chest.
“Hang on,” Finn breathes, smiling a little. He can’t help it, he’s practically giddy. “You’re drunk.”
Like he only remembers this at Finn’s words, Murphy frowns, then goes pale. “Yes, I am.” He’s looking… peaky.
Finn’s eyes widen. “You’re also gonna puke.”
Murphy nods desperately. “Any second now.”
“Okay, deep breaths,” Finn says, gathering Murphy up in his arms and pulling them both to their feet, tossing the cigarette into the snow. “In through your nose, out through your mouth, with me.”
He breathes with Murphy, managing to rush them through the front door and into the tiny bathroom on the first floor in time for Murphy to flip the toilet lid back and empty his stomach into it. They do this a lot, unfortunately, because Murphy has a “hell stomach” (his words) and pukes in times of extreme distress or, in this case, the consumption of alcohol. Finn doesn’t mind helping, especially since the breathing exercises he taught Murphy actually work sometimes. Not now, though. The poison has got to come out. Murphy vomits, and keeps vomiting.
“Jesus, Murphy, how much did you drink?” Finn asks quietly, brushing the sweaty hair from Murphy’s forehead, rubbing his back in slow circles.
“Most of it’s water,” Murphy moans into the toilet bowl, spitting and sniffling. “Raven made me hydrate.”
Finn smiles, closes his eyes for a second to send her his silent gratitude. “That’s good,” he says, trying to make his hand at Murphy’s back rhythmic and soothing as possible. It won’t end this any faster, but it will hopefully feel nice, help warm him up a little.
They lapse into silence, punctuated every now and then by Murphy spitting into the water.
“I’m not puking because of you,” he blurts, face still in the toilet bowl. “Because we kissed, or whatever,” he pauses, takes a breath. “It was really nice, actually. I wanna kiss you again.”
Finn can hear how embarrassed he is, how stupid he feels even saying it. It is a stupid thing to say, because he pukes all the time, but he’s drunk and nervous and shit, Finn is nervous too. Still, there’s a strange calm there, a sort of relief that something finally happened between them, and that it felt so normal and right when it did. So normal and right that Murphy puked after, even.
“Great to hear,” Finn laughs a little, latching onto the sentimental surge within him that compels him to lean forward, resting his cheek on Murphy’s back without putting weight on him, just touching. “I wanna kiss you again, too. A lot.”
Murphy pulls away from the toilet and swipes at his mouth, forcing Finn to sit back up. His eyes are red-rimmed and burning him under their scrutiny. Finn holds his breath.
“Can I brush my teeth first?” Murphy slurs, a sleepy smile spreading across his face.
Finn laughs, open-mouthed and honest. Murphy is so funny. So silly, when he’s drunk and shy. Finn wants to kiss him stupid.
“Do you want my help on the stairs?” he asks, rising slowly to his feet and offering his hands for Murphy.
Murphy sighs, shutting the lid of the toilet and flushing before accepting Finn’s help. “I don’t think I will have much choice in the matter. Either I let you help me or I am not getting up the stairs.”
They both smile, and Murphy slumps forward, wrapping his arms around Finn loosely. It would be sweet, standing there hugging, if they weren’t jammed together in the dinky bathroom above Murphy’s puke toilet, half stepping on each other the room is so small. Their hearts are at the same height. Murphy has his chin resting on Finn’s shoulder, hands curling up the back of his sweatshirt, and maybe it is just sweet, even if they’re a little gross too.
They shed their coats and shoes and stumble up the stairs, whispering and giggling like kids. There are other people living here, after all, and those people are already rightfully fed up with their shit by this point in the semester. Murphy sits on the bathroom counter while they both brush their teeth, Finn standing braced between his skinny thighs. They lean into each other, sharing air, exchanging body heat.
After, Murphy slides down from the counter and right up against Finn, draping his arms around his neck.
“I’m happy I’m home,” he murmurs into Finn’s hair. Finn closes his eyes and imagines he is keeping that sentence there for later, something hidden just behind his ear, too precious, too sensitive for outside air. It feels like a secret, the kind of sentiment Finn has a responsibility to keep safe.
“Me too.”
That night, Murphy doesn’t sleep in the attic. Finn gets to listen to him breathing from right next to him, in his bed.