Work Text:
“What was it like?” Gwen asks.
They’re laying side by side on Finney’s bedroom floor, passing a blunt between them, the window open behind them, letting in the sounds of the streets below. Dad has left them alone more, since everything that happened. He was there for a while, but the pull of the bottle called to him like a siren song. At least he’s not smashing it over Finney’s head anymore. That’s a plus, he guesses.
Finney’s had too many nightmares to flinch at Gwen’s question, but he doesn’t answer either. He takes another hit from the blunt and exhales the smoke at the ceiling, watching it puff up in circles. Remembers warm hands, rough fingers, the way eyelashes fell against tanned skin, the curl of hair that fell in his face…
“Not gonna talk to me, asshole?” Gwen asks.
Finney turns to face her, finally. He can’t be mad at her, not really. His therapist told him that everyone deals with trauma differently. Gwen wants to talk about it. Finney wants to smoke until he forgets. “You should go to bed, Gwen.”
Gwen looks like she wants to say something else, but Finney shoots her a look that shuts it down. “Fine,” she says. She takes one last hit and then stands. Finney doesn’t watch her, but he can hear her footsteps as she retreats back into her bedroom, the door slamming behind her. He wonders if Dad even notices.
Finney stares up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. He’s done it so many times, but he comes up with a different answer every time. They weave together, creating an intricate web that makes it hard to differentiate. There’s two that are interwoven, spacing out in the middle before coming back together, but with the same starting and ending point. Do they count as one, or two? Finney can never decide, and the weed doesn’t make it any easier.
“You should go to bed too.”
Finney doesn’t even react to Robin’s voice anymore. He did the first few times. After the basement, after the ambulance and Gwen sobbing into his hair and Dad breaking down in apologies. The first time he heard Robin’s voice outside the phone.
Now he just turns his head. Robin’s sitting on his bed, watching him back. He’s in a pair of ripped jeans and a raggy t-shirt, his jacket baggy and his curls falling in his face. “You listening, asshole?” Robin asks.
Finney rolls his eyes and turns back to the ceiling, to the long cracks. “What do you care?” He asks. “You’re dead.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t care about you.” Robin sits up on the bed and nudges Finney’s shoulder with his foot. “You got out, idiot. That means you’re supposed to live. Not rot on your floor with a blunt.”
Finney takes another hit and exhales the smoke towards the ceiling. “What’s it matter?” he asks. “It fucking sucks. Everyone keeps throwing shit at me and expecting me to get better. Medication. Accommodations. Fourty-five minutes a week of talking to a boring fucking lady. None of it matters.” He looks up at Robin, finally, and the two of them make eye contact. “I miss you.”
The silence stretches between them, long and heavy. And then, Robin smirks. “I would say the same but, y’know. I’m dead.”
That gets a laugh out of Finney, and he’s surprised how wet it is. He wipes at his eyes with his free hand. “Shut the fuck up. You’re an asshole.”
Robin drops on the floor next to him, sitting up against the wall where Finney is laying flat. “And you’re supposed to be the good one.” He takes the blunt from Finney. “That was our thing, remember? I had the knuckles, you had the conscience.”
Finney sits up too, so they’re shoulder to shoulder. “You had feelings too.”
Robin smiles sadly. “Yeah? And look where that got me.”
Robin leans forward and presses their foreheads together. From this close, Finney can count the colors in his eyes, the exact pattern of a curl, the scar he got from falling off a bike when they were kids. It’s too much. Finney closes his eyes, but he can still feel Robin right there.
“Go live, Finn,” Robin whispers. “Being dead fucking sucks. Trust me.”
Finney feels a tear fall down his cheek. “How?” he asks. He hates how shaky his voice sounds, so he breathes in and tries again. “How am I supposed to live with all this shit? Without you?”
Robin’s voice sounds thick when he replies. “You’ll figure it out,” he promises. His thumb brushes the tear away, and Finney leans his cheek into the warmth of Robin’s palm. “You always were the smartest of the two of us, kid.”
Finney leans forward, his eyes still closed, and presses his lips to Robin’s. Robin kisses him back, all soft and slow, tears falling between them until Finney can’t tell whose are on his tongue. Robin pulls back first, lingering, his breath hot on Finney’s face. Finney tries to chase his mouth, the heat of his breath, the press of their skin, but there’s nothing. When Finney opens his eyes, he’s all alone, the blunt dangling from his fingers and quickly burning out.
The first time this happened, Finney screamed. He hit the wall until his knuckles bled, until Gwen rushed in, until even Dad recognized the screams.
Now, he just grabs his lighter from his pocket and sparks it with shaky fingers, holding the blunt up. He takes another slow drag, letting the weed fill his lungs, the empty space where Robin’s lips had been.
“Fuck,” he whispers to his bedroom, and he drops his head between his knees.
END