Chapter Text
Pepsi bubbles fizzle up and threaten to spill out of the plastic green cups from Robin’s top cupboard. Popcorn pops in the microwave, filling the room with the smell of burnt butter. It’s starting to get truly hot now that it’s nearing the end of June, and the room seems to expand and contract with the heat.
Finney watches as Robin throws the empty soda cans from the counter into the recycling bin, not a chance of missing. He always had a good arm.
Robin turns to face Finney, and he’s got that magical smile on his face, the one that lights up any room he enters. Finney feels special, filled with that same light, because Robin only gives that smile to him. Robin has only got that sparkle in his eyes when he looks at Finney. “Excited?”
“To watch your favourite movie for the hundredth time? Why, of course.” Finney rolls his eyes as he says it, but he can't help his smile.
Robin steps up to him, taking his hands. “You don’t understand! It’s a piece—” he can’t seem to stop laughing, “—it’s a piece of pure art.”
Finney slips his hands out of Robin’s, trying to keep the heat from rising to his face, the heat that makes his stomach feel like it's curling in on itself. “It’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
Robin twirls around, hand over his forehead like a lovestruck girl. “A work of art, I say!”
There’s still ten seconds left on the microwave when he opens the door, picking up the brown expanded bag. He turns back to Finney, forever dazzling him with that sun-blessed smile, before saying, “Can you grab the Pepsis?”
Finney can’t help the smile on his face. “Yeah, 'course.” He picks up the glasses a little too fast, sugary liquid splashing onto his shirt. He laughs, even though it’s his favourite.
They walk out of the kitchen and into the living room, sitting down on the floor in front of the tattered blue couch. They never sit on it, it always reeks of spoiled milk and spilled beer, some days you could catch ants crawling between the cushions. Robin grabs one of his old picture books for them to set the cups down on and drops the popcorn on the ground, before walking over to the television to start to sift through the bin of VHS tapes.
Finney taps his foot against the carpet. The light shining in from the open window makes Robin sparkle. His hair swishes around his shoulders, bandana keeping it out of his eyes, muscles flexing slightly as he finds the tape. Finney’s hands twitch— he wants to reach out for Robin, touch him, hold him, something— but as Robin turns around to smile at him, he stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets.
The tape clicks as Robin slips it into the player, before running back to sit next to Finney, their shoulders knocking together. His hair tickles Finney’s neck, sending shivers up his spine. Goosebumps spread throughout his body, cold seeping into his bones, but Robin radiates heat. He helps.
Robin reaches for the popcorn, tearing it open and sending kernels tumbling to the floor. A laugh falls from Finney’s lips, though it sounds jittery to his ears, because he can feel himself shaking now.
Robin is still smiling. He’s always smiling. “It’s fine, we’ll clean it up later.”
The banging of Robin’s uncle playing drums in the basement reverberates through the floor. It makes Finney want to curl up into a ball. Robin’s uncle scares him, even if he’s been nothing but nice so far. He always wears a golden cross necklace, and Finney feels like he can't keep a secret around him— like Robin's uncle can see right through him, right to the very sins of his soul.
Finney’s knees instinctively go to his chest, inhaling sharply. Robin snaps to attention, like he’s been summoned, and he looks Finney right in the eyes, eyebrows stitching together. “You okay?”
Finney nods, head jerking, but he isn’t a very good actor.
Robin gives him a smile, a sweet one this time, a soft one, not one that could blind you if the sun hit it just right. “It’s just the drums. They’re a little jarring, I know, but they'll go away quick. He has to leave for work in like ten minutes.”
Finney stops chewing on his cheek. Robin lifts his arm up and Finney falls into him, letting Robin wrap his arm around his shoulders, surrounding him with warmth.
The movie has already started, and Finney decides it’s better to focus on that than all the different parts of Robin that he’s touching.
And if he shifts a little closer to Robin halfway through, if he buries his face in Robin’s shoulder at the scary parts, then the only one who could've seen is the plastic Jesus statue hanging above the television.
The moonlight streaming through Finn’s bedroom window emits a certain amount of light on his face, turning him white like he’s some sort of immortal being. Or a corpse.
A cool breeze blows in through the window, shifting the baby hairs around Finn’s face. He looks like a painting, like he’d be laid on a pink canopy bed and set to sit there for hours, never getting too exhausted, never losing his charm. His head is on the very edge of his pillow, one arm hanging down next to Robin’s face. They had been talking about the stars before Finn’s eyes fluttered shut, before his perfect eyelashes began to rest against his cheek— Finn had been explaining the cosmos, the asteroids, the milky way, his eyes sparkling like he was made of stardust. Robin had been enraptured; who wouldn’t be, when faced with such beauty, such a pure soul?
Robin used to go to church with his mami and uncle Roger every Sunday, back when he was younger. When he turned eleven, he went to his very last sermon. Though he didn’t know it was his last when he pulled on his church clothes that morning, when he tied his hair back and sat in the backseat of the car, head hitting the window with every pothole.
But he started to realise it, sitting in those church pews, back straight, calloused fingers tapping against wood. He realised it the more the pastor spoke, the way with every word his heart sank deeper and deeper into his chest.
That night, he pulled his hair out of his bun, unbuttoned his pristine white shirt, and played guitar until his fingers bled. Then, he wrapped them in the same bandages he used after whatever fight he was always getting himself in, he went to his mami’s room and told her he never wanted to go to church again.
He sat at the top of the stairs the next Sunday morning and listened to her argue with his uncle about it, but she always said that he would be allowed to choose his faith. She always said she wouldn’t force any beliefs on him.
Finn shifts in his sleep, and Robin snaps to attention. Nothing seems to be wrong. Finn looks perfect, as always, and finally peaceful, a way he only looks in sleep. Robin loves peaceful Finn, but he also loves every part of Finn, so he might be a bit biased.
How could loving someone so perfect be a sin? Every time Robin looks at Finn it discredits everything that pastor said to him. Every time Robin looks at Finn, he’s reminded of why he doesn’t go to church— why he doesn’t care about going to heaven, because what does it matter if he’s got eternal happiness after death, he’s got his eternal happiness right here?
He watches as Finn breathes, mouth slightly open. He listens as it lines up with cadence of the wind, as it creates a melody on its own.
Robin reaches up and presses his thumb against Finn’s wrist, feeling his pulse; babump, babump, babump.
Finn is alive. He’s a breathing, heart-beating human being. But he looks like he was dropped from the sky, sculpted by the hands of angels, and handed to Robin on a silver platter.
Robin lets the slightest of smiles grace his lips, lets his heart swell for just a moment, before dropping his hand. The world gets darker as he turns away from Finn, pulling the covers up, curling up on the futon and letting his eyes flutter closed. He tries to fall into sleep.
(He doesn’t succeed.)
The fan creaks every time it spins. Creak, pause, creak, pause, creak, pause. Finney watches. The off-white spins, flashing over the yellow popcorn ceiling.
It’s one of those summer days where it’s so warm out all you can do is lay on the floor and feel your body melt. Finney’s arms stick to the hardwood floor, threatening to pull the boards straight out any time he tries to move, while the rest of his body lays against Robin’s threadbare carpet. He would get off of it, the fabric warms his legs to the point of pain, but it seems that his body has liquefied.
Finney’s house doesn’t have air conditioning, that's why he's here. Though he's starting to regret it— Robin's air conditioning only works half the time. It was working when Finney showed up a couple hours ago and they started watching television. They sat so close together that Finney realised Robin’s body heat is dreadfully akin to the heat seeping off the concrete outdoors.
Halfway through the episode, the loud buzzing of the air-con sputtered, turning off and on in such a quick succession that it felt like Finney’s ears might burst, before stopping completely.
The television got too loud, the show too boring, everything became a bit too much, as it always does in midsummer. It seemed that Finney started seeing mirages— waves of heat rolling off of the yellow-tinted walls, puddles of water between the floorboards, Robin’s hand reaching for his and then pulling away.
Soon enough, Finney tapped Robin’s hand three times (like he always does when everything’s a bit too much), and Robin immediately clicked off the television.
Robin looked at him, with those deep brown eyes, and waited. Waited until Finney would say something, do something, push him away, pull him close.
Finney is fine now. It goes away quick, but now he’s lying on the floor of Robin’s living room and he doesn’t know how to close the gap. He turns his head ever-so-slightly, the humidity weighing down on him like a thick, fuzzy blanket. He watches.
Robin is laying sprawled across the too-small couch, legs draped over the armrest, head resting on one of the pillows his grandmother was always sewing. He’s got his eyes closed, his hands clasped over his stomach. His hair spills out from under his head, shining from the sweat beading on his forehead. He almost looks dead, like a corpse that hasn’t made its way into its casket yet; until he brings his hand up to his mouth and yawns.
It’s stupid, how it’s only the littlest of things that seem to send Finney into a downward spiral, and yet, that’s what does. He presses his fingers into the carpet, bones pushing against dry skin, nails close to bending and breaking. He can’t bear to look at Robin. He turns his head completely to the side, eyes shut tight.
He doesn’t understand where the hope comes from; the hope that anyone will stay forever, the hope that anyone could love him more than a friend, the hope that someone could know him completely and still stick around. He’s awkward, and he says stupid things, and he’s selfish. When he gets overwhelmed, he gets tunnel vision, he doesn’t care if Robin will get bored or feel weird— it seems that he only cares about himself.
He’s already surprised that Robin’s stuck around for this long; it must suck, knowing Finney. It must suck, spending every day with him. There must be some other reason he’s sticking around, maybe it’s pity, maybe someone’s paying him, maybe he wants to seem strong, protecting someone so weak. Whatever it is, Finney knows it’s not love. It can’t be.
Finney is not built to be loved. He’s hollow, thin strips of torn up fabric sewn haphazardly together, and it seems that his creator forgot to fill him with any form of stuffing, any softness.
He understands why everyone tends to avoid him, or they see him and have the unexplainable urge to beat him to a pulp. He gets it. He looks in the mirror and wants to hit himself too. He looks in the mirror and wishes he would disappear too—
“Finn.” He feels a hand on his shoulder, jostling him back and forth. “Finn. Finn. Finn, are you alright?”
Finney squeezes his eyes tighter. He can feel the callouses of Robin’s fingers through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, but he doesn’t want to meet his eyes. A single tear runs down his cheek. He wants to rip his skin off.
“Finn.” There’s a certain level of desperation in Robin’s voice now, pity dripping from his lips, and then—
“Finn.” Robin’s voice is hard as he takes Finney’s face in his hands, turning it so that they can look in each other’s eyes. Robin’s dart around his face; seemingly checking for any injuries, or any clues to what’s wrong, and then they’re back to looking right into his soul. “What’s wrong?”
Finney’s got the lies built up in his throat, ready to spill out onto the carpet and light them both on fire, but all that comes out when he opens his mouth is, “Am I boring you?”
The question comes with silence, nothing other than the ringing in Finney’s ears. Robin presses his lips together, eyes starting to shine, and then he pulls Finney into his arms, roughly, squeezing tight enough to block airways.
“You could never bore me.”
Another sob takes hold of Finney’s body as he wraps his arms around Robin. "Never?"
“Never.”
Finney’s nails dig into Robin’s back.
Robin is in the basement, hands wrapped in bandages, practising his punches, when the phone rings. It’s late— later than he’s supposed to stay up, but he’s home alone, and he’s sixteen years old, so why does he have a bedtime anyways?
He wipes the sweat off his forehead and picks up the phone, leaning against the wall, breathing fast.
“Robbie?”
But a phone call’s never a hindrance when it’s Finn. “Hey. What’s up?”
“I...”
Robin stands up straighter. He can hear the sadness in Finn’s voice— it always takes on a certain quiet, soft, meek cadence whenever something’s wrong. “Finn? What’s wrong, what do you need?”
“Can you meet me at the park?”
Robin’s fingers tighten around the phone. “Right now?”
“Preferably.”
“Alright. I’ll be there in ten. Same spot?”
“Same spot.”
“See you there.”
“You too.”
Robin stands there for only a second, listening to the dial tone, before dropping the phone back into its slot and running up the stairs. He slips his shoes on, debates putting on a sweater (he decides against it— these days you can always feel the touch of the sun, no matter how dark it gets), and leaves without locking the door.
Getting there faster won’t help him fix Finn’s problems any more than if he walked, yet he still jogs down the sidewalk, streetlights setting an eerie glow on the silent night. No one’s out this late in the suburbs, it’s all new parents and their toddlers or geriatrics who can’t keep their eyes open past ten. He runs past the cookie-cutter houses, warm air caressing his face, until he lays his eyes on the bench in the park.
Jogging was a good idea. Finn is already there.
Robin crosses the street without looking both ways, jumps the fence without a thought, and falls down next to Finn. Finn laughs at him, but it’s quiet and it fizzles out quick.
Robin turns so that he can face Finn completely, his side against the back of the bench. He takes a deep breath. “Hey. What’s up?”
There's a slight smirk tugging at Finney's lips. “Did you run all the way here?”
Robin shrugs. “Maybe.” His eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness of the park, and along with that, the way that Finn hasn't turned completely to look at him.
There’s a buzzing in Robin’s ears. It fills in the silence. “Finn? What’s wrong?”
Finn is picking at his nails again. Robin’s been trying to make him stop.
“Finn?”
Robin reaches for Finn’s hands, but that’s before Finn turns around and the streetlights illuminate the blooming bruise on the side of his chin.
Robin’s heart rises to his throat. “Oh my God,” he says, reaching up and holding Finn’s chin, tilting his head to get a better look.
Finn clears his throat. “My dad’s getting worse.”
Robin tries to blink the tears out of his eyes, inching closer. “I can see that.” It’s a bad one; Robin can see that even though it hasn’t fully come in yet, purple like the crocuses he used to pick and make into bouquets when he was younger. “Still hurt?”
“Only when I touch it.”
Robin nods and lets go of Finn’s face. Finn pulls his legs up to his chest, letting the uninjured half of his face rest on his knee.
Robin smiles, trying to pour all his sympathy into his eyes and his face and his body. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Finn purses his lips, hugging his legs even tighter. He won’t meet Robin’s eyes. Robin doesn’t want to push it. “I...” He clears his throat again. “It’s because we’re getting closer to my mom’s... well, the day she... y’know.”
Robin sits there, not making a sound. Sometimes, all Finn needs is time.
So, they sit. For a while. Finn opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it, then closes it again. Robin watches a tear streak down his cheek, twinkling when the lights hit it right.
Robin reaches out to Finn, slipping his hand into one of Finn’s. Instead of pulling away, like Finn always does, their fingers slot together.
Robin could stay here forever. Really, he could. Finn's hand seems to send sparks up his arm, filling his whole body with warmth. He doesn’t mind waiting. He would wait forever for Finn.
Finn licks his lips, before raising his head and finally looking him in the eye. “He keeps... he keeps trying to take it out on Gwen. I try to stop it, I really do, but there’s only so much I can take, and only so many times I can be at home. Gwen... Gwen reminds him of our mom. I keep trying to save her, but... but—” He lets out a sob, burying his face into his knees. Robin squeezes his hand.
He waits some more. The only noises filling the air are the chirping of cicadas and Finn sniffling.
They’re silent for so long that it catches Robin off guard once Finn starts speaking again. “But you know what’s the worst part?”
Robin lets out a breath as Finn lifts his head back up. “Oh, Finn.” He goes up on his knees, leaning closer, brushing the hair out of Finn’s eyes.
“I... I’m starting to get angry, too.”
Robin’s hand freezes at Finn’s temple. “What do you mean?”
“I see Gwen do something similar to our mom and I’m... I’m angry. I’m angry like he’s always angry.” There’s so much anguish in Finn’s eyes; it’s weighing down on Robin, he feels like he might collapse. “What if I end up just like him? What if I’m already just like him?”
Robin knows his silence only makes it worse, but he can’t move, can only let the words wash over him. “Finn.”
The tears are coming faster now, rolling down Finn’s cheeks with ease. Robin lets go of his hand, cupping both of Finn’s cheeks, bringing their faces so close together he can feel Finn’s heaving. “You are not like your father. You never were and never will be. Your father is a horrible man, and you’re the best person I know. The only thing you have alike with him is your blood, okay? Nothing else.” He swallows. “You can believe me, alright? Because, well... because I love you.”
The entire city, scratch that, the entire world seems to go silent with his confession. Finn’s tears seize their downward descent, the wind stops whistling, the bugs stop buzzing.
A smile, albeit a small one, begins to stretch across Finn’s face. His eyes shine.
Although Finn never says it, Robin can see the “I love you too” in his eyes.
Finney knows of Robin’s violent tendencies. Of course he does, who couldn’t? The worn-out punching bag in his basement, the pile of bandages in the upstairs bathroom, the scars along his knuckles, the bruises, the suspensions, the threats, the anger; Finney could even say that he’s used to it.
He likes (or a stronger word that he can’t seem to push out from his lips, a word that he won't allow cross his mind) that part of Robin, just like he likes every part of Robin, but he can’t say he’s ever enjoyed violence. It reminds him too much of days hiding in corners or behind locked doors, shielding Gwen’s body with his own.
He’s sitting in Robin’s basement, back against the shitty paint job of a wall, on a throw pillow. They don’t have any real furniture down here— only the shiny black drum kit and Robin’s punching bag, each in opposite corners of the room. It feels barren and bunker-esque down here. Finney tries to ignore it.
Finney’s eyes follow Robin’s movements; each punch, each heave in his chest, each time he pushes back his sweat-soaked hair, each curse when he messes up.
Robin shakes out his wrapped-up hand and Finney watches drops of blood hit the vinyl floor.
Finney knows that Robin would never hurt him. Robin wouldn’t hurt a lot of people, actually, and maybe that’s why Finney isn’t particularly fazed by the punches, the kicks, the fights in general. Robin’s cause is good, his intentions are as well.
A particularly strong hit lands on the punching bag, making it smack against the wall. Finney flinches, drawing his knees up to his chest. After the horrid feelings go away, he always feels childish curled up into a ball like this, and yet it’s the only position he ever finds himself in.
Robin’s hits are getting harder, more precise. Finney curls further in on himself, nails digging into his legs. Robin’s eyes are ablaze— shining with anger and determination. Each hit echoes through the room like a bad drum solo, rattling in Finney’s eardrums. He feels like he’s at a particularly loud school dance. His eyes focus on a coffee stain (or maybe it’s beer? Or vomit?), he feels like he’s shaking, but he’s sitting completely still.
The sounds stop. Finney blinks, hands unclenching from his legs.
“Finn?” Robin’s voice fills the room, bouncing back and forth off the walls.
Finney swallows before lifting his head back up, meeting Robin’s eyes. Robin’s eyebrows are stitched together, but no longer from anger— he has his lips pressed together in the way he always does whenever his eyes fill with regret.
Robin opens his mouth and stands there in silence, before snapping out of it and asking, “Wanna take a walk?” His hands are frozen around the end of the bandage wrapped around his hand.
Finney nodded, slowly relaxing his limbs and standing up. He leans against the wall and watches as Robin feverishly unwraps his bandages, throws them in a pile beside them, the blood soaking into the cracks between the floorboards. He takes a deep breath, shakes out his hands, then looks up at Finney and gestures towards the doorway. He’s trying to smile, Finney can tell, but the cracks in his lips are obvious.
They walk in silence. The sun is starting to set, so they don’t have the heat beating down their backs anymore, but the humidity still crawls into Finney’s lungs. Or maybe the silence is just suffocating, watching Robin walk a few paces ahead of him, unclenching and clenching his fists.
They’re a block and a half away from Finney’s house, and he’s pretty sure they’re going towards the Grab ‘N Go, when Robin clears his throat.
Silence again.
“I would never hurt you.”
It rings out along the street. Finney stays silent. What’s he supposed to say to that? He believes it. He knows it, down to his very soul, that Robin loves him, and that means that he’d never hurt him. But he’s scary nonetheless.
“I just... I get so angry. Sometimes for good reason, and sometimes over small, stupid things.” Robin’s hair swishes back and forth as he walks. “Today I hit my leg on that really sharp countertop in the kitchen, the one you used to cut yourself on all the time. And you saw me. I was furious.” When Robin laughs it’s not larger than life like it usually is, but instead small and sad, like he’s trying his best not to be heard. “I don’t mean to scare you. But when I don’t have any assholes to take it out on, I try very hard to leave it to just the punching bag. Because I don’t want to get so angry I stop thinking straight. I don’t want to get so angry that I forget who’s important to me. Who I love.”
Robin looks down, kicks a rock by his foot. They both watch as it skips down the sidewalk. Finney jogs up to Robin.
Finney’s not good at the whole physical touch thing. If someone touches him for too long it makes it feel like bugs are crawling under his skin, and he feels awfully stilted and awkward whenever he goes out to touch someone else. He’s not built for love, as he's mentioned before.
But it seems that Robin doesn’t care whether he’s built for it or not.
Finney slips his hand into Robin’s, just for a moment, squeezes once, then lets go. It’s not much of anything, but when he looks at Robin, the melancholy has been replaced with a face-splitting smile.
Finney shoves his hands into his pockets and whispers, “I know.”
Robin’s smiling so wide that his nose is scrunching up, he seems to be buzzing. “Forgiven?”
Finney’s smiling too. Robin is contagious. He nods, and Robin practically leaps into the air, spinning around in front of Finney. Finney laughs. “Jesus Christ! I wasn’t mad at you at all!”
“Shut up! I’m having a moment!” Robin returns back to Finney’s side, but he’s still bouncing, a skip in every step he takes.
“You sure are.”
They emerge from the corner of the street, out onto the grass at next to the curb. The Grab ‘N Go’s lights flicker in front of them, faint as the setting sun shines on them. Robin wraps his hand around Finney’s wrist, waiting for the cars to pass by before running across the street.
They stumble through the doors, out of breath from running (or maybe the uncontrollable laughter). It’s almost empty— there’s an old man looking through the beer fridge, a kid who couldn’t be older than eight playing at the pinball machine, and a blonde girl sitting behind the counter chewing gum.
Robin pulls Finney into the snack aisle immediately, laughter still spinning around their heads. “Usual?”
“Robbie—”
Robin’s already grabbing the salt and vinegar chips that Finney always gets, other hand reaching for the barbeque ones that he’s always loved.
“Robbie, wait—” He reaches out, grabbing Robin’s hand before it can reach the bag. “I can’t pay for any of this. I didn’t bring any money.”
“Oh, who cares! I'll pay." He holds the two bags out to Finney, drops them into his arms, before reaching into his bag pocket— and freezing.
Finney can’t help the laugh of disbelief tumbling from his lips. “I swear to God—”
“Wait, no! Have some faith in me!” He checks his other three pockets, before pulling something out of his front pocket slowly; not meeting Finney’s eyes. Finney leans forward, squinting, and—
“Is that a two-dollar bill?”
Robin grimaces. “So... no chips today, unfortunately...”
Finney puts the chips back, nothing left in him to be mad or disappointed or anything but happy. “Y'know what two dollars can get you?”
“What?”
“A large slushie. C’mon.” Finney makes his way back to the front of the store, to the slushie machines situated right next to the cash.
Robin leans against the machine. He huffs. “We really can’t afford two smalls?”
Finney makes a show of looking offended. “Well, excuse you.”
Robin rolls his eyes. “You know I don’t give a shit about sharing a drink with you. My problem is that you have terrible taste.”
“Blue raspberry is better than regular raspberry.”
“They taste the same. The same.”
Finney pops one of the large cups out of the holder. He shrugs. “Well, we’ll just fill half of it up with raspberry, and half of it with blue. Don’t you think that’s—”
Robin gasps so loud that it cuts Finney off, grabbing his arm.
Finney turns towards him, eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Listen.”
In the silence of Robin’s words, the speaker fills in the gaps with a song that Finney’s heard a million times on Robin’s turntable.
Now here I go again
I see the crystal visions
Finney matches Robin’s wild smile, watching as he starts to drum his fingers along the metal of the slushie machine, eyes closed, head bopping.
I keep my visions to myself
It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams
And have you any dreams you'd like to sell?
Dreams of loneliness
Robin spins around, out into the entrance of the store, twirling and flailing his arms. Finney thinks that’s what Robin reminds him most of: a perfect childhood, something he didn’t have but his brain likes to trick him into thinking he did. Robin might be part of those tricks, but even if Robin was plotting to murder him, he doesn’t think he’d care all that much. Or, at least his heart wouldn’t.
Like a heartbeat drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost
And what you had
Ooh, what you lost
Robin does one last spin, stumbling as he stops to face Finney. He’s got a wide grin on his face, one that emits such light that you wouldn’t even notice the night falling outside. His eyes sparkle as they land on Finney’s, his body moving like a flowing river. This time, he’s not just dancing, he’s started to sing along— his voice a perfect harmony over Stevie Nicks':
“Ooh, thunder only happens when it’s raining! Players only love you when they’re playing!”
The blonde girl at the counter has stopped smacking her gum, instead sitting with her mouth wide open, eyes raking over every inch of Robin’s body.
“Say women, they will come and they will go... when the rain washes you clear, you'll know..."
The way her eyes seem to take off every piece of Robin’s clothing with just a sharp look makes Finney want to crawl out of his skin. He looks away from her, ready for the heartache of Robin’s gaze in her direction, but when he looks back—
Robin’s looking at him. Robin doesn’t take his eyes off of him.
“Oh, thunder only happens when it’s raining... players only love you when they’re playing...”
Robin is getting closer to him, swaying his body like they’re in a nightclub and not their neighbourhood’s dingy convenience store.
“Say women, they will come and they will go... when the rain washes you clear, you’ll know...”
That’s when it strikes Finney. Robin has the same look in his eyes that the girl does. Except, Robin’s not looking at her. He’s looking at Finney.
“You’ll know...”
Robin takes Finney’s hands, swaying him along. He can’t seem to do anything but let Robin control his every move.
“You will know...”
Robin’s eyes are locked in on Finney’s. Finney would try to break the all-encompassing eye contact, yet he’s frozen in place, he wouldn’t dare look away.
“Oh, you’ll know...”
As the music fizzles out, Robin spins Finney around like they’re amateur ballet dancers. When Finney comes back around and they’re face to face, all the hunger in Robin’s eyes has dissipated. Finney could almost say he imagined it.
(Except, even he doesn’t have the audacity to dream of Robin looking at him like that someday.)
“Finn? You alright?” The lazy grin isn’t endearing anymore, now all it does is pierce his heart.
He blinks, tries to shake off the feeling. “Yeah, sorry, zoned out for a second there.”
“It must be because you were so very mesmerised by my dance moves,” Robin says, doing one last twirl before going right back to the dispensers, filling the cup up with blue raspberry.
Finney tries to crack a smile. “I see you’re listening to me.”
“Shut up.” Robin switches the cup over to regular raspberry, filling the rest of it and grabbing two straws. He moves to the counter, fishing his two dollars out of his pocket.
The girl bats her eyelashes at him, but he’s too busy unfolding the bill to notice. She taps her fingers against the glass counter— slowly, seductively. Robin’s too busy smiling at Finney, raising his eyebrows and trying to make him laugh. When she hands him his change, her fingers linger, but all Robin does is pull away, thank her politely, and pull Finney out of the store.
He holds up the slushie between them, smiling. “Wanna go up on the roof?”
They used to hang out up on the roof all the time, whenever Robin got suspended. They’d meet up there, while Robin was supposed to be out mowing the neighbour's lawn, during whichever class Finney could afford an unexcused absence in. They hadn’t been up there since last fall, though.
It was the same as always; the rusty ladder missing the bottom rung, the spiderwebs in the air vent, the unobscured view of shitty suburban life. The Grab ‘N Go doesn’t change for anyone.
Robin jumps up onto the vent, the half-sun behind him making him look like nothing but a vague silhouette. Finney hops up beside him, hissing at the feeling of hot metal on the skin of his leg. Robin laughs at him. It echoes through the air like birdsong.
“Oh, shut up.”
Robin’s still laughing as he pops one of the straws in the drink and takes a sip, immediately scrunching up his nose. “Y’know what, you’re right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Blue raspberry does taste different than regular raspberry.” He makes a big show of swallowing the slushie. “It tastes so much worse.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Finney says, grabbing the drink and taking a sip. “This tastes heavenly.”
There’s a sly grin across Robin’s lips. He looks at Finney, then down at the slushie, then back up.
Finney lowers it back into his lap. “What?”
Robin shrugs, looks away, but he’s still grinning like he knows something.
Finney laughs, yet his uneasiness rings out in the sound. He leans forward. “What? Is there something on my face?”
Robin looks back at him, then flicks the still-wrapped second straw across the vent so that it rolls to the other side of the roof. “Guess we don’t need the straw I picked out for you, do we?”
Finney glances down at the cup, the straw that he just drank out of, the straw that was in Robin’s mouth—
He rears back from the drink, trying to get as far away from Robin as he can, he can feel the blood rushing to his face, he feels so hot he must have a fever—
“Hey, hey,” Robin’s laughing, but concern still shines in his eyes, “it’s alright, I don’t mind at all.”
Finney can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the straw, plastic stained blue, dripping with the slightest bit of saliva. He can’t— he can’t— his heart is beating out of his chest, he can’t do this, he can’t let this happen with Robin—
“Hey!” Robin rushes forward, knocking the slushie out of Finney’s hands; it tips off the vent and hits the concrete, two dollars wasted.
Finney still stares at it, even now.
Then, Robin’s hands are around his face, forcing him to look right into those black abysses of eyes. Black abysses filled with concern and sympathy and love.
Finney believed it when Robin told him he loved him, but whenever he doubts it, he thinks of the sparkle in Robin’s eyes anytime they look at each other. It’s like Robin can see into his very soul, and even then, the love still shows.
“Finn, what’s bothering you? It’s just a drink. I was joking, I don’t care at all.”
But now Finney’s got bigger problems; their noses are so close if he moved forward even an inch they would touch, and Robin’s breath against his lips sends shivers up his spine.
The sun barely peeks out across the horizon. They’re about to be dropped in near-total darkness.
Robin’s playful smile is gone. He stares into Finney’s eyes with a newfound determination. He turns away, looks to his left, then to his right, before coming right back.
“Why are you afraid?”
Finney’s fingers dig into his palms. He’s never been this close to anyone before, and he assumed it would be nerve-racking, but it’s strangely comfortable with Robin. A wind blows by, and Robin’s dark hair tickles his face. “Afraid of what?”
Robin squints, like he’s trying to solve a problem. He licks his lips and Finney tries not to let his eyes stray. “Love.”
“Love?”
Robin chews on his lip. “Yeah. Love. Why are you afraid of love?”
They sit there in silence. The last of the sun disappears behind the cookie-cutter house roofs.
Robin leans forward, pressing their noses together. “If I kiss you, will you stop me?”
Finney’s tongue is swollen inside his mouth, but he manages a shake of his head. Or maybe not. He can barely notice anything at all except Robin, right in front of him, asking for a kiss.
A kiss.
Finney won’t pull away; he won’t stop him. Because he’s not nervous at all anymore— muscles no longer tense, fists no longer clenched. He could even say this is all he’s ever wanted.
Robin smiles, tucks Finney’s hair behind his ears, and leans into him.
When their lips meet, Finney can confirm it.
This is everything he’s ever wanted.