Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been about a year since they last spoke. Not because anything bad happened—there was no fight, no argument, no moment where everything blew up. They just kind of grew apart. New people, new routines, different circles. Group chats changed. Schedules stopped lining up. Messages slowed down. Replies came later. Eventually, they didn’t come at all. Neither of them ever said this is over. It just quietly became something they didn’t touch anymore. They were still on good terms but things just kind of stopped.

They still followed each other. Still watched each other’s stories. Sometimes even liked them. Enough to prove there was no bad blood but not enough to mean anything more. So when a mutual friend invited them both to the same party, it shouldn’t have meant anything. It was casual, a group thing—easy to say yes to. Easy to say no to. It was something they both could’ve skipped without explanation.

They didn’t. They both said yes. If he’s there, cool. If he’s not, whatever. But deep down, they both knew. They wouldn’t have come if they didn’t hope.

Noah gets there first. Not alone—he never is anymore. A few friends come in with him, the kind of group that already knows where to stand, how to take up space without thinking about it. Noah slips into it naturally, like he’s always been there. He’s talking within minutes. Laughing. Getting pulled into a circle, then another. Someone hands him a drink he didn’t ask for. Someone he barely knows hugs him like they’re close. Another person leans in too close to hear him over the music—asking what he’s been up to, like they haven’t already seen it online. He answers anyway.

The room is packed. Hot. Alive. He likes parties like this—where everything overlaps, because it’s easier to be here than alone. Easier than thinking too hard. This is normal for him. Parties always are. But every now and then, between conversations, Noah glances toward the entrance.

—

Finn shows up later, and he knows immediately that he’s late.

He pauses near the entrance, scanning faces he doesn’t recognize, trying to place himself somewhere that won’t feel awkward. These people clearly know each other. He already feels out of place in a way that makes him suddenly very aware of his own body—where to stand, how to move, what to do with his hands. He stands there frozen again, taking in the place like he’s trying to decide if it’s worth it. He almost doesn’t go in. But he was invited, so fuck it.

He stops just inside the door. He doesn’t see Noah right away. But when he does, it’s different. Different seeing him like this, because he realizes, suddenly, he hasn’t actually seen Noah—that this is the first time he’s seen him in person in over a year. Not through clips or photos someone else took. Not cropped or filtered or framed by a screen. Not through interviews that didn’t tell him anything important.

Finn watches him—noticing how comfortable he looks. How he’s not searching the room, not checking his phone, not waiting. Noah is real here. He's laughing, brushing past people, existing without any awareness of Finn at all. He looks good. He looks like he’s been doing fine without him. Finn swallows and looks away, feeling stupid for expecting anything else.

He keeps telling himself he didn’t come here for Noah. Even though every part of him did. And then suddenly, Finn wonders if Noah ever missed him the way he did. If Noah ever sat somewhere quiet and thought about this exact moment—about running into each other again, about what it would feel like. Or if Finn is just another person Noah grew out of without meaning to. Suddenly, Finn wants Noah to see. He wants Noah to see him. He wants to be Noticed.

And if Noah doesn’t notice him tonight, Finn already knows what he’ll do. He’ll just leave. Fuck the party. Fuck everyone in there. He wouldn’t care—doesn’t care. He’d just go home. What’s the point of staying.

But he can’t leave, he hasn't tried yet. So he moves deeper, mostly because standing near the door makes him feel stupid. The music is louder now. Someone bumps his shoulder hard enough that his drink spills over the rim. He barely reacts, he keeps walking, eyes already searching for Noah. Thankfully, Noah hasn’t moved much from where he was before, same spot, still half turned toward the same group, different people rotating in and out around him.

But there’s someone new standing closer to him now. A hand on Noah’s shoulder, casual enough that Finn tells himself not to read into it. People touch at parties. It doesn’t mean anything. Except the hand doesn’t leave. It slides down, Not sneaky—just natural. From shoulder to Noah’s back, fingers settling at his waist like he’s done this before. Noah doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even pull away. Instead, he leans in when the guy dips his head, smiling as something gets whispered into his ear.

Finn's grip tightens around the plastic cup without meaning to, fingers squeezing until the sides bend slightly. The fact that Noah looks comfortable with this random was making everything worse. He brings the cup to his mouth and drains it too fast, barely tasting anything past the burn. He doesn’t bother savoring it. He just needs it gone. As soon as the cup is empty, he drops it on the nearest surface and grabs another without thinking.

Noah can talk to whoever he wants. Noah has always been like this at parties—open, magnetic. Finn knows that. Except knowing doesn’t help. Because he can’t look away. His eyes stay locked on Noah. He already feels sick. He takes another gulp, then another, like he can drown it out if he tries hard enough. It doesn’t work and Finn realizes he might not survive this party without doing something incredibly stupid.

Noah smiles again. And Finn watches like it’s meant for him.

And then it finally happens, Noah notices him mid-sentence. It’s barely anything—just a flicker but Finn sees it anyway. Noah’s smile falters, just for a second, like his brain skipped. The guy next to him is still talking, still leaned in, but Noah isn’t listening anymore. His eyes are locked on Finn across the room. And without realizing, he waves. He gives Finn a small wave. Like he can’t really believe he’s here.

Finn doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t have time for that. He doesn’t hesitate. He immediately sets the cup down somewhere without looking. He starts moving before he can overthink it, shouldering his way through people. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. He just needs to get to Noah. And across the room, Noah shifts. He reaches up, gently peeling the guy’s hand off his waist. Says something quick—not rude, just detached. Finn barely notices. All he can see is Noah finally pushing through from the other side, eyes flicking up every few seconds like he’s afraid Finn might disappear through the crowd.

They both try to reach each other at the same time. They almost miss. Someone cuts between them and Finn swears under his breath. Then Noah turns and suddenly he’s right there—almost crashing into him. “Finn,” Noah says, breathless, like he didn’t expect him to actually show up.

“Hey,” Finn says back, way too fast.

For a second, they just stare at each other—people keep bumping into them and the music feels louder. Finn tries to focus on Noah’s face instead of everything else. He doesn’t think. He reaches out and grabs Noah’s arm, fingers curling just above his elbow like he needs to make sure Noah doesn’t disappear again. Noah looks down at the grip, then back up at Finn. His eyes slightly wide, bright. Finn leans in, mouth close to Noah’s ear so he doesn’t have to shout. “Can we—can we go somewhere else?”

Noah’s breath stutters. He nods immediately. “Yeah. Yeah.” He turns first, already moving, and tugs Finn along by the arm without letting go. Finn lets himself be dragged. Heart in his throat, the noise swallowing them as they push their way out of the crowd. Noah moves through the place like he’s done it before. He turns corners without checking, ducks past a group lingering on the stairs, keeps going like he knows exactly where the quiet starts.

Finn follows a step behind, still letting himself be pulled along by the arm, and by the time they reach the stairs, it’s already calmer. Muffled bass instead of full blown chaos. Finn glances around, then up at Noah’s back. “You been here before?”

Noah doesn’t slow down. “Yeah,” he says easily. “A couple times.”

“Oh. Right.” Finn lets out a short breath, tries to make it sound casual. “Yeah. Okay. Of course. Party guy, huh?” He regrets saying that. Already feeling awkward. Noah looks over his shoulder, holding his gaze for a second, then turns back around and keeps walking, tugging Finn up with him. “I guess,” Noah mutters, mostly to himself.

—

The balcony is empty. That’s the first thing Finn notices—the quiet. Noah steps up to the railing without saying anything. Finn follows, stopping beside him. They lean forward, forearms resting on the balcony rail. Then, Finn wraps his fingers around the cool metal, he exhales, long and shaky. Noah’s hand settles a second later. At first, there’s space between them. An inch. Maybe two. Then Noah shifts his weight—just enough that Finn feels it. The side of his pinky brushing Noah’s. Finn keeps his gaze down, heart thudding too fast. He wonders if Noah can hear it. Wonders if Noah’s pretending this doesn’t mean anything too.

He clears his throat without meaning to, and Noah’s pinky finally slips away. Finn immediately regrets it. “So, what do you think of the party?” he says quickly, pretending like he wasn’t miserable on the inside for making Noah move his pinky away.

“Honestly?” Noah shrugs. “Not bad. I like it.”

Finn nods. He shifts his weight, then stops, like he’s suddenly aware of how much space he’s taking up. “Yeah. I, uh—I got here kinda late.”

“I know,” Noah almost says. He bites it back. He doesn’t want to admit that he noticed because his eyes kept drifting to the door. That every time it opened, his chest did something stupid. That he kept telling himself Finn probably wasn’t coming, and then immediately scanning the room again anyway. “Yeah,” he says instead. “I noticed.”

Finn’s mouth twitches, like he’s not sure if that was a joke. “So,” he tries again. “Have you—uh. Done anything fun?”

Noah tilts his head, considering. “Fun how?”

“I don’t know. Like. Party stuff.”

“Not really. Just… partying, I guess.”

“Cool,” Finn says. Then, his brain fully betrays him. “Cool, cool. So, uh, what about kissing?” Noah turns his head at that and their eyes meet. “What?”

Finn immediately regrets everything, he looks away. “I mean—” staring anywhere but Noah’s face. “It’s a party. Like. Drinking games. People do that.”

Noah scoffs, but he’s smiling. “No, Finn. Haven’t done that.”

He doesn’t mean to feel relieved. He still does. “Oh,” he swallows. “Okay.”

Noah watches him for a second. “That’s what you’re gonna ask me? Not, how are you, Noah?” He says gently. “Or how have you been, or maybe... what you been up to? Just—that?”

Finn immediately panics like he can’t tell if Noah is just joking around—being sarcastic. Or serious. And Finn wouldn’t even mind if he was being serious. If anything, he had the right to. “No, I was gonna ask that. I just—” He exhales. “How are you, Noah? Like. Really?”

“I’m fine.” His smile softens. “And you?”

Finn nods too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine too.”

They turn toward each other at the same time. It almost makes Noah laugh. The noise from downstairs feels far away up here, muffled by the walls. Noah tilts his head, watching Finn a little too closely. “So,” he says lightly, “have you kissed anyone tonight?”

Finn stiffens immediately, “what? No,” he says, defensive, making it awkward for himself. “I literally just got here. And—why would I?”

“I mean,” Noah says, shrugging, “you said it, Finn. It’s a party.” There it is. That old tone. Like they’re seventeen again and standing too close for no reason.

Finn scoffs, flustered. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently. “Relax.”

Finn exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say things like that and then act like you didn’t just—” He trails off, shaking his head. “I am relaxed.”

Noah hums, unconvinced, still looking at him.

Finn doesn’t even remember leaning in. He just realizes he’s there—close enough to see the faint shine on Noah’s lips, close enough to feel the heat of him despite the cold air brushing against his face. Noah’s eyes flick down for a second, then back up again, like he’s checking something, like he’s deciding.

Then Noah pulls back. Not far but enough. He shakes his head once, slow, almost reluctant, like he’s arguing with himself more than with Finn. His smile doesn’t disappear, but it softens, turns shy in a way that feels unfair. “I can’t—” he starts, voice quiet, soft in a way that makes Finn feel like he could talk him into anything if he tried.

Finn swallows. He doesn’t move away. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he says, just as quietly. The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re wrong. Because he sees it immediately—the way Noah’s expression shifts, just for a heartbeat. Something closing in on itself. Noah looks down at the balcony rail, fingers tightening around the metal before he lets out a short breath and straightens again.

“It meant everything to me, for years.”

The ache hits Finn so suddenly it makes him inhale sharply. He steps closer without meaning to, like his body’s trying to fix something his mouth already ruined. “What do you mean?” he asks, softer now. Careful.

Noah lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “God, you really don’t know.”

Finn frowns. “Know what?”

“When we were younger,” Noah says, finally looking at him again, eyes warm and devastating, “I had this… this huge crush on you.”

The world doesn’t stop, but something inside Finn does. “What,” he says, stupidly. Noah smiles, a little embarrassed now, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug, like saying it out loud made it real in a way he didn’t expect. “Yeah.”

“On—” Finn points at himself without realizing. “Me?” His face feels hot. His heart starts doing something messy and uncomfortable, like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest. Finn has to take a second to tell himself that they were kids. It was a long time ago. It shouldn’t matter now.

Noah laughs again, softer this time. “Was it really not obvious?” Finn just stares at him. “I thought you were so cool,” Noah continues, “I always have.” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “I still think you are.”

They stand there, inches apart, not touching, and Finn realizes something awful and perfect all at once. Maybe Finn has been carrying something just as big this whole time. Something he never named. Something he only notices now that it’s standing right in front of him, real and breathing and looking at him like this.

“You think I’m cool?”

The words come out softer than he expects, a little unsteady. Noah can probably hear it—that tiny crack in his voice but he doesn’t take it back. It’s almost like he’s asking for permission to believe it.

“No.”

Finn’s heart drops for a split second before Noah keeps going, already rolling his eyes like he’s annoyed with how obvious this is. “Yeah, Finn. You’re cool. You write, you act.” he gestures vaguely, like he’s listing things off without thinking too hard about them, “you direct now. That’s cool. That’s a lot.”

“So,” Noah continues, like he needs somewhere else to put the moment before it gets too big, “since you won’t ask, I will. What have you been up to the past few… months? Or—year, I guess.” He pauses, then adds casually, “It’s been a year, right?”

But Finn notices the way he says it. Like he already knows. Like he’s checking if Finn knows too. Hoping that Finn knows. Hoping that Finn is aware of it too.

“Yeah,” Finn says. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. A year. Exactly. And uh, I’ve just been writing, I mean—you know that already, but…” He hesitates, rubbing his thumb against the side of the railing. “What do you think? About the music. The lyrics. Are they—” He stops, then finishes anyway. “Do they mean anything to you?” He winces internally. He sounds like he’s desperate for Noah to notice. And he is. He is desperate.

“They’re good,” he says.

Finn lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Good?”

Noah shrugs. “I mean, not exactly my taste,” he teases, tilting his head. Then, quietly, “but—it’s you.”

Finn feels his heart pounding faster than before. They fall into silence again, his eyes still lingering on Noah—he wasn’t even looking back at Finn. His breath stutters, realizing how stupid he probably looks right now. He turns his head away, clearing his throat, staring straight ahead. “When you—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “When you got the invite. I mean, the message.” He swallows. “Did you… did you think of me?”

Noah doesn’t answer right away. Then he laughs softly, shaking his head. “I mean, yeah. Obviously.”

Finn’s chest aches. “Yeah?”

Noah finally looks at him again. “Did you?”

He nods. “Yeah. I did.”

Noah’s eyes drop—just for a second, and Finn feels it like a pull in his chest. He mirrors it without thinking, gaze slipping down, Finn leans in again. But Noah is more hesitant, like he’s reminding himself not to. His lips part just slightly, and Finn’s chest tightens at how close they are to doing something incredibly stupid.

Then noise spills up from below—laughter, something crashing, someone yelling over the music. Noah is the first to pull back. They both look down, and Finn spots him immediately—the annoying guy from earlier. He’s laughing too loud. Finn shakes his head looking down at him, then he looks at Noah. And he doesn’t miss the way Noah’s expression softens when he sees him. Finn feels it in his stomach before he understands why. “You two close?” He asks. He doesn’t need to point. Noah already knows who he means.

“Yeah,” Noah says easily. Distracted. Still watching him.

“I mean, he seemed really... into you.”

“Really?”

“No.” Finn cuts in immediately.

Noah blinks. “Oh—”

“Probably has a girlfriend.” He says, forcing a shrug. He doesn’t know why he says it. He already knows the truth. He knows what’s happening. He just knows he doesn’t want Noah looking like that again—soft, open, distracted from him. Noah stares at him for a second, then shakes his head, laughing quietly. “No. He doesn’t, he’s—”

“So,” Finn cuts in again, continuing before Noah can add anything else, before he can explain, before Finn has to hear how long or how serious or how easy it is. “What are you doing after this?” He already regrets asking. He doesn’t want the answer. He just wants to stop thinking about the way Noah leaned in. About how close they were.

Before Noah can respond, shouting erupts below—his friends, clearly drunk, chanting something stupid. Finn latches onto the distraction immediately. “They always like this?”

“Like what?” Noah asks—cautious. He already knows Finn’s tone means something and he’s bracing for it. Finn shakes his head once, quick. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. Doesn’t want to be that guy.

“Nothing. I just—” He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about your friends.”

“My friends?” Finn scoffs before he can stop himself. “They’re not even here. You didn’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “You didn’t stay long enough. Back then. To even get to know them.” It slips out, old frustration, still bruised. “And I don’t remember you ever liking this stuff,” he adds before he can stop himself.

“Finn. I’m not doing this. Especially not here. We’re not in the same circle anymore. And that’s fine. It really is. Let’s just accept that and move on. Okay?”

“I have accepted it.”

“It doesn’t sound like it, and last time I checked,” Noah continues, voice quieter now, “we literally split over that. Different lives. Different people. And the only reason we even talked after was because we had to do these stupid table readings together—”

“They weren’t stupid,” Finn says immediately.

“You barely even looked at me.”

Finn blinks. “I—” He falters. “Listen—”

“Oh my God.” Noah rubs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through. “Believe me, I’m over it. It’s fine.”

It gets quiet between them—but the music from inside is still loud, people shouting and laughing like nothing in the world is wrong. Finn grips the railing harder, knuckles whitening. “You didn’t text,” Finn says suddenly. His voice sounds off to his own ears. Noah doesn’t look at him. “You didn’t either.” Finn nods like he expected that. His fingers tap against the rail, restless.

He doesn’t look at Noah when he asks, “are you with him?”

Noah hesitates. The pause is barely a second but it’s enough. It’s there. Noah’s shoulders tense. His mouth opens, closes. Finn sees it all. The hesitation, the calculation, the useless carefulness.

Something cold drops straight into Finn’s stomach, sharp enough that he actually has to swallow, hard, like he might actually gag if he doesn’t. He feels stupid for even asking. He already knew. He could literally tell. Yet he still asked. Thinking getting that closure will somehow help feel better. It obviously didn't. He presses his lips together and nods once, like he’s confirming something to himself. “Okay,” he says quietly.

“Finn—”

“I mean, no, that’s—that’s cool.” He forces a small laugh that doesn’t sound like one. “Good for you.” Noah looks at him, guilt flashing across his face. “I’m sorry. I just—”

Finn cuts him off without meaning to, “why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you let me get close to you?”

“I don’t understand. We didn’t even—listen I haven’t seen you in so long, Finn—”

Finn knows he rushed it. Just a few shared looks. A few careless touches. Minutes, not even an hour, standing too close on a balcony. He knows he got ahead of himself—jumped straight to wanting, like he hasn’t  been holding that space open for Noah for over a year now without even realizing. He’s been waiting for this exact closeness, this brief moment where it felt possible again.

It makes him feel insane. How fast it happened. How easily he slipped back into it. One night and suddenly it felt like everything was right there again, within reach. It wasn’t Noah’s fault. Finn feels like he was the one leaning in—reading too much into every smile, every pause. He should’ve just stopped the second Noah pulled back. But he misses him. Misses Noah in a way that doesn’t care about time or distance or how long it’s been. A year doesn’t erase knowing someone since you were kids. It doesn’t undo how familiar it still feels to stand that close, to want without thinking.

“I almost kissed you,” Finn says, the words slipping out sharper than he meant. “Just now.”

Noah immediately glances down toward the party. Toward the people. Toward him. Panic flickering across his face. Finn steps closer anyway, lowering his voice. “Doesn’t it mean anything?” His throat tightens. “If I did—wouldn’t it mean something?”

“You said it didn’t have to mean anything.”

Finn doesn’t move any closer. He wants to but he knows he can’t. He immediately starts regretting what he said earlier. “Right.” He nods to himself. Like he’s agreeing to something he doesn’t want to agree to. “Yeah—alright.” He doesn’t hesitate, he turns and walks away like it meant nothing.

Noah stays on the balcony, confused. It happened too fast. He stares after him like Finn might turn around if he waits long enough. But he’s gone. He’s not coming back and he knows it. He keeps wondering when it went wrong again. Not the first time—this time. He knows it isn’t all on Finn. He didn’t stop him. Didn’t step back soon enough. Didn’t say no when he should’ve, not really. If anything, he let it happen—let Finn lean in, let himself lean into it.

The fact that a part of him wanted Finn closer. Wanted him to stay. Wanted him to finish what they almost started. None of that helped with the guilt he was feeling. Noah grips the balcony rail harder, then looks down. The guy he’s been talking to lately is still there, laughing with someone, drink in hand.

Someone safe. Someone new. Someone who doesn’t carry years of history, and for a second, Noah almost lets that be enough. Almost. Because what if it didn’t have to be like this. What if they didn’t have to leave things half-open again. What if it only took one of them doing the wrong thing—crossing a line they’d both been careful not to touch to finally stop this cycle. Could they really start over?

If Finn walks out now, if he disappears back into the crowd or worse, out the door, Noah knows this feeling will rot inside him for months.

He doesn’t think anymore. He turns, pushing through the balcony doors, rushing downstairs. The noise crashes back into him. His eyes scan the room, heart racing, breath shallow, searching for one familiar shape in a sea of people. He weaves through them, ignores the looks, the spilled drinks, the hands brushing his arms.

He just keeps moving, faster now. Because whatever happens next whether it’s a mistake or a beginning—he knows one thing for sure. He can’t let Finn walk away again without trying. And It’s almost ridiculous how fast Noah finds him. Finn’s there—in the kitchen with a drink in his hand, talking to someone Noah doesn’t recognize. He’s not laughing. Not really listening either. Just present, like he’s trying to distract himself.

Finn’s eyes flick up for a second and then he looks away, turning his shoulder like Noah isn’t there. Noah exhales sharply through his nose. “Finn.” He doesn’t wait. He steps forward and grabs him by the arm. Finn stiffens, then turns, annoyance already on his face. “What.”

“We need to talk,” Noah says. “Come on.” Finn glances past him, toward the room, toward the noise. “About what.” Noah tightens his grip without realizing it. “Not here. Let’s—let’s go back upstairs.”

“No.”

“Finn—”

“Listen,” Finn cuts in, pulling his arm free. He lifts his drink, takes a sip he doesn’t seem to enjoy. “Let’s just—let’s just have fun, okay? It doesn’t matter now.”

Noah stares at him, chest tight. “It does matter.”

Finn laughs under his breath, “Yeah? Well. It doesn’t matter to me. So now what?”

“You know it matters.”

“We haven’t talked—for a year. For a reason. Get that through your head, Noah. Just let it go.”

Noah scoffs. The switch-up makes his head spin. Finn was the one pulling him closer, the one looking at him like that, the one who couldn’t seem to keep his hands or his eyes to himself and now he’s standing there acting like it’s nothing. Like it’s easier to pretend none of it mattered than to admit it did.

“You make a move and then you tell me to let it go? This—whatever this is—it’s not unfixable,” Noah presses, voice tighter now. “It was one moment. One mistake. Why are you acting like it’s already ruined?” Noah keeps looking at him, noticing the way Finn won’t even meet his eyes, the way his fingers keep tapping against the plastic cup. “Are you fucking drunk?” Noah asks. “Look at me.”

“I wish,” Finn says under his breath. He wishes he was completely gone. Wishes his head wasn’t this clear, this loud. Wishes he could blame the ache in his chest on alcohol instead of knowing exactly where it came from. Wishing he could black out instead of standing here, fully aware of the fact that walking away is the only thing he knows how to do when something starts to matter too much.

“Okay, so you are drunk—”

“Are you?” Finn asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Drunk,” Finn says, finally looking at him now. His eyes flick over Noah’s face like he’s searching for proof of something. “Because you’re acting like you are.”

“What are you talking about?”

Finn’s grip tightens around the cup in his hand. “You’re okay with that?” he asks, “just—doing this? With me?”

“We’re not doing anything.”

They’re standing close—close enough that anyone passing by could tell this isn’t casual. The kitchen is packed, music thudding, bodies brushing past them every few seconds. Neither of them move away. Finn leans in—close to Noah’s ear, private. “Not doing anything? But we were about to. You know that.”

“We can talk, we can—” Noah swallows hard, looking down, trying his best to think of something to say, something that’ll make sense, something that doesn’t sound so desperate, like he hasn’t been holding back this whole entire time, “we can fix this.”

“I mean maybe you are drunk,” Finn says, pulling away, completely ignoring Noah’s attempt to solve the problem—shrugging like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just drop something awful between them. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if you were.”

Noah just looks at him. “Are you saying I don’t know what I want?”

Finn’s heart starts hammering, hard. He’s trying to play it cool. Act like he doesn’t really care when it’s actually eating him up from the inside, and all he can do is focus on Noah’s face, the way he’s not backing down. “You’re with him,” he says. Like it doesn’t matter. “So—”

Noah cuts him off. “Yeah, because it’s been a year. Like you said. But it wasn’t just a year for me,” he continues. “It was years. Years, Finn. And I told you that. I fucking told you that.”

Finn hears it. Every word. And it’s too much. People walk past them. Noah doesn’t care. He stays right there, eyes locked on Finn like this conversation matters more than anyone watching. Finn can’t handle that. He pulls away—just enough to break the contact. Just enough to breathe. He laughs once, short, shaking his head like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Yeah,” Finn says quickly. “You’re drunk.”

Noah stares at him. Disbelief flashes across his face, and Finn can’t look at him anymore. He turns his head, anything to avoid meeting Noah’s eyes. Because if he does—if he really sees him standing there, choosing him in the middle of a crowded kitchen at some stupid party—he might break. So he pushes Noah aside, not hard, barely even enough to count. But it’s something. And it hurts him deeply.

Noah looks at him, confused, brows knitting together like he’s about to say something—then he feels it. Someone stepping in behind him, “hey, I’ve been looking for you.” Noah stiffens. He turns—then glances back at Finn, but he’s gone. For a second he just stands there, staring at the space Finn occupied. Noah hears his name being called, closer this time, hand brushing his arm. “Sorry,” Noah mutters automatically. He barely hears himself. His eyes are still scanning the room, uselessly, stupidly. “I—yeah. I’m here.”

—

Finn ends up in a different room entirely. He doesn’t remember walking there. Just remembers needing air, needing distance, needing out. The music is quieter here but it still presses in on him. He leans against the counter, head tipped forward, staring at nothing. He doesn’t cry. But it’s close. It sits right behind his eyes, burning, threatening every time he breathes in too deep.

So he drinks instead. One cup turns into another. He doesn’t even taste it—just swallows, grimaces, reaches for more.

He was supposed to make Noah notice him. And he did. God, he did. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that it almost worked. He can feel his face becoming warm again at the memory. The way Noah had leaned in, one second more and they could’ve kissed. It could’ve happened.

He presses the heel of his hand into his forehead, eyes closing. If anyone had seen them on that balcony—looking at each other like that, it wouldn’t have stayed a secret for long. It never does. One photo, one video, one rumor spun the wrong way and suddenly it’s headlines, explanations neither of them would want to give.

He told himself he was being responsible. He was just doing the right thing—protecting Noah, that pushing him away was the right thing to do. But his idea of responsibility doesn’t stop the way his chest tightens at the idea of Noah not waiting. He doesn’t want Noah to forget. He doesn’t want Noah to move on, or be fine, or choose someone else because a year passed and life kept going. He doesn’t want any of that.

But Noah doesn’t owe him anything—Finn knows that, knows it so well it makes him sick. And then he sees him again. Across the room, already laughing. Like Finn didn’t walk away from him minutes ago. He scoffs under his breath, turning his head away. It feels like being haunted. He changed rooms, changed drinks, tried to shake it off and Noah is still there, still everywhere.

He feels childish. He was there first. He knows Noah better. Whatever that guy is offering can’t possibly compare to history, to years, to everything they never said out loud. Finn tips his head back and stares at the ceiling, blinking hard. He feels ridiculous. Pathetic. “It doesn’t matter,” he mutters under his breath. But it does matter. It matters the second Finn sees it happen.

He doesn’t even mean to look—his eyes just flick over. Noah kissing someone else. Finn looks away immediately, he doesn’t need to see it twice. He knows exactly who it was. Knows exactly what it meant.

He immediately grabs his drink and downs it without thinking, too fast and reckless. The alcohol burns and he barely registers it until he’s choking, coughing into his fist, eyes squeezed shut. He swallows again, deeper this time, and the room tilts slightly. His stomach lurches in warning, he hiccups hard. He presses his lips together, swallowing it down along with everything else—jealousy, regret, that awful hollow feeling spreading under his ribs.

He keeps his eyes closed because he knows if he opens them, he’ll look again. And he can’t watch Noah kiss someone else. He can’t stand there and be normal about it. He can’t take it anymore. Finn stumbles through the hallway, pushing open the first door he sees—two people on top of each other, it was like he was getting punished. A reminder that this could be Noah any time soon and not with him, but with someone else. His stomach immediately twists at the thought.

He quickly mutters a breathless sorry and backs out, heart hammering so hard it makes his ears ring. Hand slapping against the wall as he turns, finally spotting the bathroom down the hall. He practically lunges for it, shoving the door open and slamming it shut behind him so hard it rattles. He barely makes it to the toilet. He drops to his knees, hands gripping the bowl, and throws up hard—violent. His whole body jerks with it, shoulders caving in, breath breaking.

Acid burns his throat and he chokes on a sob he doesn’t mean to make. And like his brain hates him, like it wants to punish him even more, the image flashes anyway. Noah with that guy. Finn retches again, harder this time, gagging, tears spilling out. They drip off his nose, blur his vision. “Shit,” he whispers hoarsely, voice wrecked.

He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, but it’s useless—he’s crying now, quietly at first, then not so quietly. Who would hear him anyway? He can feel his ribs ache—chest too tight to breathe. He hates himself for it. Hates that he came, that he hoped. Hates that he let himself believe for even a second.

What Finn doesn’t know is that Noah saw him leave. Not all of it—just enough. And he knew that look. He knew that kind of hurt. And suddenly, everything felt wrong. Public and so wrong. That’s what the kiss felt like. It was so sudden. The way it happened without asking, without space, without care.

The guy beside him is still talking like nothing happened. Noah doesn’t hear a word of it. He can’t help but feel annoyed, he can’t count how many times he has had this conversation before—not here, not like that, you can’t just do this whenever you want. But he didn’t get it. He was careless. Didn’t understand—didn’t want to understand.

But Finn would. Finn knew the rules. The way eyes lingered, the way one wrong moment could spiral into something public and permanent. Finn lived in that same space Noah did. They grew up together learning all about it. He would’ve checked. Finn would’ve looked at him first.

Noah’s gaze drifts to the hallway Finn disappeared down, heart pounding harder with every second that passes. “Hey,” he hears, hand lingering at his waist like he hasn’t gotten the message yet. Noah steps back, finally pushing him away properly this time with a small scoff, his attention is already gone.

—

Noah knocks once. Then again, harder. “Hello?” His voice cuts through the bass thudding from downstairs. No answer. “Finn?” He leans in, pressing his ear to the door, breath held. He can hear it. Movement, uneven breathing. “Hey,” he says, quieter now. “Finn. Open the door.”

There’s a pause, then fumbling. The lock clicks wrong the first time. Then, it opens slowly. Just enough to show Finn’s face—flushed, mouth damp like he didn’t get a chance to wipe it properly. He’s standing there like he barely remembers how. One hand braced on the frame, the other wiping clumsily at his mouth. His eyes are red and glassy, lashes wet.

Noah’s stomach drops. “Hey—what happened?” He says, already reaching for him. “Are you—”

“Noah?” Finn says quietly, eyes squinting—like he didn’t expect him to follow at all. Finn drags the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing instead of cleaning. His lips tremble. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, he’s been holding it in since the second he walked in here. “I don’t know what I was doing out there,” he sobs, words tripping over each other. “I don’t know why I said that, I don’t know why I—fuck, I’m so sorry.”

He wipes his mouth again, misses, wipes his cheek instead. Finn is wasted. Usually, he’s sloppy-funny drunk. But this time it’s bad. Really bad. Noah immediately steps inside and shuts the door behind him. The bathroom is too small, smelling faintly of alcohol and soap. Finn sways where he’s standing, gripping the edge of the sink, trying to keep himself upright.

“You’re okay. Just—breathe.”

Finn shakes his head, violently. “No. No, it—” His voice cracks so hard he has to stop. “It matters,” Finn says suddenly, louder, like he’s arguing with himself. “It matters. I tried to act like it didn’t, like I could just—be cool about it.” He looks at Noah, eyes shining, “but it does, it always has.” His voice breaks completely this time.

“I thought I could handle it,” he whispers. “I really did. I thought I’d see you and be normal. I thought I could just pretend. But then I saw you and I just—fuck.”

“You’re not in trouble,” Noah says softly. “Nothing’s ruined. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Finn shakes his head hard, dizzy with it. Tears spilling faster. “I saw it,” he blurts. “I saw you and I—I couldn’t—I didn’t know what else to do.” And that’s when Noah realizes—this has been sitting in Finn for a year, waiting to spill. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed to feel things.”

Finn tries to get it under control. He really does. He drags a shaky hand over his face, then presses his palm hard over his eyes like that might stop it—like if he blocks his own vision, the tears will listen. His shoulders hitch anyway. He bites down on his lip like he’s angry at his own body for betraying him. He doesn’t resist when Noah gently turns him toward the sink. He’s unsteady, leaning too much of his weight into Noah without even realizing it. Noah reaches past him and turns on the cold water.

“Just hold still, okay?” Noah murmurs.

Finn nods, hand still half-covering his face like he’s ashamed to be seen like this. Noah wets his hands, then carefully brings them up, cool water brushing over Finn’s flushed skin. He flinches at first, then exhales shakily. The cold helps—just a little. Noah wipes under his eyes, slow and careful, like he’s afraid to hurt him. Finn squeezes his eyes shut tighter, breath stuttering.

“I didn’t mean to,” Finn mumbles, words slurred together. “I really didn’t.”

“I know,” Noah says quietly.

Finn sniffles, voice barely there. “Can we—can we still talk?” It comes out small. Almost pleading.

Noah’s feels the way his chest tightens. But he keeps his expression gentle. “Yeah,” he says without hesitation. “Yeah, we can.” He knows Finn probably won’t remember half of it tomorrow. Knows this isn’t the moment for big conversations or answers. But he can’t upset him right now—not like this. He turns off the sink and grabs a paper towel, dabbing Finn’s face dry.

They end up on the bathroom floor, backs against the cool tile. Finn is quieter now. Not okay—but calmer. Breathing still uneven, like aftershocks. Noah sits beside him, shoulders touching, both just staring at the wall. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

“Do you even like him?” It hurts just saying it. He doesn’t look at Noah when he does. He stares at the tile instead.

“I mean, it’s only been a week.”

Only a week.

Despite being unbelievably drunk, Finn feels his chest lift anyway. A stupid, hopeful feeling. Because what the hell is a week compared to years? Compared to everything they’ve been and weren’t brave enough to name.

Finn looks at him. And he leans in without meaning to—too close, clumsy, until Noah can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Is he funny?” He asks suddenly, eyes locked on Noah’s face like he’s scared to blink. Noah huffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “No. No, not really.” He glances at Finn, then looks away again. “At least not like you.”

Finn hums. “What’s he like then?”

Noah shrugs. Then shrugs again, like he’s trying to shake the thought off. He doesn’t want to think about him right now. “I don’t know,” he says. “Honestly, I only kind of like him—but that’s when I’m drunk.”

It gets quiet, and Noah can’t help but feel like he said something wrong or weird. He exhales through his nose, like he’s already regretting it. “I mean—haven’t you noticed? He kind of looks like you. So when I’m drunk, he looks even more like you. And I don’t have to think about it too much. I don’t have to—” Noah laughs under his breath, “he’s not you,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t talk like you. He doesn’t make me laugh like you do. He doesn’t—” He cuts himself off, slowly realizing what he’s saying.

He slowly looks at Finn. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I must be drunk too. Just… maybe not like you. Not as drunk as you.”

“Oh,” Finn breathes. He suddenly laughs, drunk and breathy, like he can’t believe himself. Noah doesn’t tell him to stop. He doesn’t mind it. If anything, he wants Finn to pretend he never heard any of the things he just said.

“You’re not happy,” he says, words tumbling, unfocused. “You pretend he’s me—you said it.” Finn doesn’t even notice the tears spill over. “I wanna make you happy,” his voice cracks halfway through the sentence. “I really do.”

“I am happy.”

Finn shakes his head, almost angry at that. “I wanna be the reason.”

“Finn,” Noah says gently, “you’re drunk.”

“You don’t even like him,” he cuts in, louder than he means to. His chest heaves, “you don’t. And I’m not a kid anymore.” He pokes a finger into Noah’s chest—not angry, just needing proof that Noah is real, still here. “We’re not kids anymore,” he says again, sniffling, eyes glassy. “You don’t get to treat this like we are.”

Up close like this, Finn looks wrecked and earnest, painfully beautiful in a way Noah isn’t prepared for. Not composed. Just real. Noah can already feel it, how badly it affects him. They’re too close now. Breathing the same air. Finn smells like alcohol and something achingly familiar. His finger still presses lightly into Noah’s chest, sliding just a little when Noah inhales.

“I can make you happy,” Finn whispers.

“You already do.”

Finn doesn’t think about it. He just leans in. His teeth bump Noah’s lip and he freezes immediately, breath catching like he’s done something unforgivable. It’s clumsy, almost painful in how ungraceful it is, and Noah doesn’t kiss back He just sits there. Silent.

Finn pulls back, barely an inch, eyes unfocused. He doesn’t look relieved—he looks terrified. Like he’s waiting for Noah to push him away, “I—” Finn tries, voice breaking immediately. But Noah doesn’t let him finish. He leans in instead, slow this time, unsure, like he’s testing something. Their lips meet again, softer but still not right. Still awkward. Noah exhales against Finn’s mouth, and Finn feels it everywhere, like it sinks straight into his ribs.

Finn makes a quiet sound without meaning to. It’s needy. Embarrassing. Too much and too early. Fingers brushing Noah’s wrists—hesitant before sliding down and tangling with his hands. Noah stiffens at the contact, then relaxes into it, gently squeezing back.

Noah tastes everything—the gross alcohol, mint and something sour that makes him pull back just enough to frown, confused, before he realizes—and his expression softens instead of turning away. That almost makes Finn cry. Noah couldn’t care less right now. He presses his lips against Finn’s again.

They slowly break apart—both of them are breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing with every uneven inhale. Noah’s eyes drop immediately to Finn’s mouth, red and swollen, still parted. Finn doesn’t look up. He’s staring at their hands, Intertwined. His thumb twitches against Noah’s palm.

—

Finn shouldn’t be this close.

His mouth keeps finding Noah’s neck, not careful—just everywhere. Too many kisses, layered on top of each other, messy and desperate, like he’s trying to make up for lost time all at once. It’s obvious he’s drunk. His lips press, drag, miss, come back again. He exhales hot against Noah’s skin between kisses, little broken breaths like he keeps forgetting how to breathe. Every time Noah shifts, Finn follows immediately, chasing him without even realizing it, nose bumping, teeth grazing, mouth open and searching.

A year. A whole year and this is how it comes out—like hunger. Finn’s hands are everywhere, not knowing where to settle. They grip Noah’s shirt, then his shoulders, then slide down only to come back up again. His forehead knocks against Noah’s jaw, clumsy, and Finn makes a small, frustrated sound before kissing him again, harder this time, like that will fix it.

Noah can feel how badly Finn wants this. How much of it is need and how little of it is thought. Finn kisses like he’s been replaying this exact moment in his head and doesn’t know how to slow it down now that it’s real.

“Finn—” he starts, but Finn doesn’t hear it. He presses closer, mouth dropping back to his neck again, again and again—like Noah’s skin is the only thing keeping him sane. Noah’s hand lifts, resting against Finn’s shoulder, making him shudder at the contact.

This is wrong. Noah knows it is. It feels real—Finn’s hands, his mouth, the way he’s clinging like he’s been starving, but that’s the problem. It only feels real because Finn is drunk. Would he even remember this tomorrow? Would he wake up with a headache, fragments and nothing else—no memory of Noah’s neck, no memory of how desperate he sounded, no memory of how close they were on this stupid bathroom floor? The idea makes Noah’s stomach twist. Someone has to stop this. Someone has to be the adult here. And it’s clearly not going to be Finn. “Stop—stop, Finn.” He pushes him back, not hard but firm enough to break whatever this was.

Finn is breathing hard now, chest rising and falling too fast, “why?” He asks. “Please—why?” He reaches out again, but Noah catches his wrist before he can touch him.

Finn blinks at him, confused. Tears spill over suddenly, like they were waiting for permission. He scrubs at his face with the heel of his hand, sniffling hard. Finn’s lips tremble. “Is it because I’m drunk?” At least he was somewhat aware. But he doesn’t even let Noah answer, he pushes himself up too fast, nearly tipping over as he staggers to his feet. He grabs the edge of the sink to keep himself upright, knuckles whitening as he grips it. “I can sober up,” he insists, panic creeping in. “I will. I can—look, I’ll sober up, okay?”

Noah sighs and gets up before Finn can fall again, catching his arm and steadying him. “You’re already crying again,”

“I’m not,” Finn says, frustrated, “I’m not.”

“You are.” Noah doesn’t listen. If he lets Finn keep talking something stupid will spill out. He turns the tap on full blast this time—guiding Finn forward without asking, fingers steady at his jaw, “you need to freshen up. Immediately.”

Finn gasps the second the water hits his face. His shoulders jerk, breath hitching. “Hey—” he sputters.

“Hold still,” Noah keeps his hand there, too focused on the act to think about anything else. It’s quiet for a moment after that. Just the sound of running water and Finn breathing through it. He blinks hard against the water, eyes unfocused, dazed like he’s waking up somewhere unfamiliar. Noah keeps rinsing his face, careful. Then Finn looks up, strands sticking to his forehead, his lashes clumping together. His cheeks flush pink against the cold, lips parted as he drags in air. His eyes meet Noah’s in the mirror. Red-rimmed and glassy. His voice is soft when it comes, “I love you.”

Noah doesn’t react at first. He just stares, heart slamming so hard it makes him feel dizzy. He isn’t sure if he heard it right. Maybe the water warped it into something else. Then panic hits. “No,” he says under his breath, more to himself than to Finn. He splashes more cold water onto Finn’s face immediately—too fast and too much. Finn flinches, sputters, but doesn’t pull away.

The door bangs open. “Noah—” that voice.

Noah rolls his eyes without meaning to. He bites back an annoyed groan, jaw tight. Of course. Of fucking course. He doesn’t even know how this guy keeps finding him.

He lets Finn lean into him, arm firm around his waist. “Come on,” Noah says, already pulling him away from the sink. “We’re going upstairs.” He manages to open the door and he sees him standing there. “Wait—” he starts, stepping forward.

“Can you just—” Noah cuts in, not looking at him. “Actually—yeah. Help me.”

Finn can’t even tell what’s going on. It was all happening too fast and the music was back—not loud but there. He sees another figure, familiar and annoying. He immediately leans too heavily into Noah. He doesn’t want that other guy there. “Fuck you,” Finn mutters suddenly, slurred, not even lifting his head.

“What?” He says, confused.

“Ignore him,” Noah says flatly. “He’s drunk.”

They get Finn into the hallway. His feet drag. He nearly misses a step on the stairs, stumbling hard enough that Noah’s grip tightens instantly. “Hey—watch it,” Noah mutters, hauling him upright again, heart still racing. Finn gets dragged between them, head lolling slightly, wet hair still clinging to his face.

They end up in one of the rooms upstairs. It’s quiet. Dim. Someone’s spare room, clearly not meant for this. They quickly guide Finn to bed and the second he’s down, his body finally understands it’s allowed to stop, he sinks into the mattress. His head rolls to the side, eyes fluttering half-open, unfocused.

“Hey,” Noah murmurs, soft. Finn doesn’t really respond. He just exhales, long and loose, mumbling nonsense. Noah sits down on the edge of the bed without thinking. He watches Finn for a few seconds—the way his chest rises and falls unevenly. That’s when he feels it. Finn’s hand, fingers loose, finding Noah’s hand, like he knows it belongs there even if his brain is gone. His thumb brushing Noah’s knuckles once, faint. Finn’s eyes are barely open when he does it.

For a moment, Noah lets it happen. Then he remembers. He stands up too fast. Not because of Finn—because he can feel it. The presence behind him. The eyes. The weight of being watched. Finn’s hand slips free as Noah pulls away. Noah walks toward the door and the guy follows immediately.

“We leaving?” he asks, casual, like this is obvious. Finn’s turned onto his side now, face pressed into the pillow. Already drifting. Noah swallows. “Thank you,” he says suddenly. “I can—” He gestures toward the bed. “I can take it from here. Seriously. Thank you so much.”

“Wait—what?” He laughs once, confused. “Noah, we don’t even know the guy. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“What?” He frowns. “I’m just saying—”

“He’s wasted,” Noah cuts in. “He’s sick. He can barely keep his eyes open and you think it doesn’t matter?” He just stares at Noah now, genuinely confused. “Since when were you such a helper?”

“That’s what you think of me? That I’m not someone who can help?”

He scoffs, giving up way too fast. “Whatever. This shit is stupid.” He brushes past Noah hard enough that their shoulders collide. At the door, he doesn’t even turn around. “You’re really doing all this for some fucking random?” The door slams. Noah exhales, tension draining from his shoulders in a way that almost feels like relief. Thank God. Finally. Then the door swings open again. He pokes his head back in like some child. “I expect you to be in my car in ten minutes,” he adds, like he’s setting a rule.

Noah just stares at him. The door shuts again—this time for real. “What the fuck?” Noah mutters under his breath. He didn’t realize how much of an asshole he could be. Or maybe he has before and just didn’t want to deal with it. Either way, it doesn’t matter now. Not when Finn is here. He turns back to the bed. Finn hasn’t moved much. Curled slightly onto his side, breathing slow. He looks asleep. Noah sits down on the edge of the mattress again.

“Asshole,” Finn whispers.

“What?” Noah was already half-convinced that Finn was completely gone.

“He’s an asshole,” Finn says again. Noah lets out a small breath that turns into a smile. “You heard that? Or saw—I mean. Yeah. Hard to miss.” Noah tilts his head. “I thought you passed out,” he adds softly.

Finn shakes his head, then he shifts, restless even in stillness. His brow furrows, lips pressed together like he’s holding something back. Then, almost against his will, his eyes open. They’re glassy again. “I’m not weak,” the words don’t come out as defensive—more like scared, almost like a confession.

Noah’s chest tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Finn—at the way his hand curls faintly into the sheets like it’s reaching for something that isn’t there. “I know,” he says finally. His hand lifts without thinking, brushing damp hair off Finn’s forehead, careful and slow. “You’re not.”

Finn’s breath stutters at that. “Then let me,” he whispers. “Please.” He tries to sit up. It’s clumsy. His head tips forward too fast and Noah’s hand shoots out immediately, firm on his shoulder. “Hey—no. Finn.” Noah steadies him, “careful.”

Finn lets himself be guided back down, defeated in the way only drunk honesty can be. He doesn’t argue. He just sinks into the mattress again, chest rising too fast, eyes blinking hard like he’s trying not to cry. His hand finds Noah’s again without looking. He grips it tighter this time, like he’s afraid Noah will move.

“I can do it,” Finn says. “I can take care of you.” He swallows, throat bobbing. “Of us.” The word us sits between them. “You know I can,” he adds, quieter now. But Noah doesn’t say anything, and Finn’s face crumples a little at the lack of response. His grip tightens again, then loosens, like he’s embarrassed he reached at all. “I’m not weak,” he repeats. It sounds smaller this time. More desperate. Like if he says it enough, maybe it’ll be true to someone else too.

Noah can feel his throat burn. He doesn’t trust himself to speak—not when Finn is like this, not when the alcohol makes everything honest and temporary. Noah’s thumb moves gently along his cheekbone—Finn leans into it immediately, eyes fluttering shut again, relief softening his features like he’s been waiting for permission to rest. “I know,” Noah murmurs again, softer than before.

Finn’s breathing evens out mid-inhale. His grip slackens. “I can do it,” he whispers one last time—barely there. His grip loosens and he’s finally asleep.

—

Noah checks his phone again. He doesn’t know why—he already knows what’s there. Missed calls. Messages he hasn’t opened. The same name lighting up his screen like a reminder of something he doesn’t want to deal with yet. He locks it without answering, lets it drop face-down on the mattress.

Finn hasn’t moved. Noah watches his chest rise and fall. He tells himself he should get water. That he should do something. He’s already preparing himself for the crowd downstairs, for the effort it’ll take just to get back. He pushes himself up. A hand closes around his arm. It’s weak, but it stops him completely. Noah looks down. Finn’s eyes are open—barely but they’re on him.

“Will you go back to him?” Finn asks. His voice cracks on the word him.

Noah exhales, something in his chest loosening. Relief—he’s awake. He really thought Finn would be out for the whole night. He doesn’t pull his hand away, doesn’t even realize he’s holding on.

“Don’t go,” Finn swallows. His voice drops, almost embarrassed. His grip tightens for a second, then loosens again, like he’s afraid he’s asking for too much.

The phone buzzes again in Noah’s pocket. He ignores it. He looks down at Finn, the tear tracks he didn’t wipe away properly, the way his face is turned up toward Noah like this is the safest place he knows.

Noah wants to stay. Wasn’t he the one who said it could be fixed? That if one of them crossed the line, really crossed it, then maybe they could start again—clean, honest, real? Something that didn’t feel like borrowed time.

Noah shakes his head. This isn’t real. Not like this. Not when Finn can barely keep his eyes open. Whatever Finn is feeling right now is spilling out of him because he’s drunk, because he’s exhausted, because everything hurts too much to hold in. And Noah can’t build something real out of that. He can’t let himself believe this is the moment that means something, even if every part of him aches to.

Before Finn can say anything else, Noah moves. One second Noah’s sitting there, distant and quiet, and the next Noah’s reaching for him. Finn blinks, disoriented. “What are you—” he mutters, confused.

Noah already has it. Finn’s phone. His thumb hesitates for a second over the screen, then presses in the passcode without thinking. It unlocks. His chest tightens painfully. The same stupid code. The one they made up years ago, half as a joke, half because it made them feel like they had something private in a world that never left them alone—laughing about how no one would ever guess it. Finn never changed it. Noah doesn’t let himself think about what that might mean.

“Who can I call?” he asks softly.

Finn shakes his head, a small, miserable sound escaping him. “Noah… please.”

“Who can I call, Finn.”

Finn doesn’t answer. Noah nods to himself, even though it hurts. “Okay. I’ll get a cab.”

Finn lets out a short, breathless laugh that turns into a wince. He presses his palm to his forehead, then drops it again. “You’re really doing this.”

Noah doesn’t answer and Finn scoffs weakly. “Not like you can escape me anyway.” That gets Noah’s attention. He looks back “What do you mean?”

Finn squints up at the ceiling, words slow but honest. “We’ve got… shit. So much to do together, Noah—we work together, literally. You know. You’re not disappearing.”

He knows Finn’s right. This isn’t some clean break. It never has been. They’re not done with each other other. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Who knows. He locks the phone and lets it fall onto the bed between them. Then he sits back down on the edge, shoulders slumping, like the decision has finally crushed him. Finn shifts behind him. It takes everything he has—every ounce of balance and stubbornness just to sit up. He pushes himself upright anyway. He leans forward, forehead pressing into Noah’s back. Then his face slides into the crook of Noah’s neck, breath warm. His arms come around Noah from behind, loose at first, then tighter, afraid Noah will stand up again.

Noah goes completely still. He closes his eyes. He just lets Finn hold him—because tonight, this is all either of them is allowed.

“I meant it.” The words don’t sound slurred this time. “When I said it,” Finn whispers, swallowing hard. “I meant it.”

“You don’t—” Noah starts, panic flaring instantly. “Finn, you don’t even know what you said.”

“I do.” Finn’s arms tighten around him, no hesitation this time. “I do know. I remember.”

Noah doesn’t dare to move. He keeps looking down—avoiding Finn who was still clinging onto him from behind.

“I love you,” Finn says again, voice breaking completely this time. “I didn’t forget it. I didn’t make it up. I didn’t—” His words dissolve into a sob. No matter how hard he tries to hold it back, he can’t. He presses his forehead into Noah’s shoulder, shaking. “I can say it again,” he pleads, muffled now. “Just—just tell me to. Ask me. I’ll say it. I will. I swear.”

That’s when Noah’s fear overtakes everything else. “I have to go,” he says quickly, voice already cracking. “Finn, I can’t, I really can’t—” He tries to pull away. But Finn panics. He lunges forward, clumsy and desperate, dragging Noah down—they tumble onto the bed sideways, Finn curls around him from behind, arms locking around his waist.

“No—don’t,” Finn gasps. “Please don’t.”

Finn buries his face into Noah’s neck, breathing hard, tears soaking straight through Noah’s shirt. His grip is too tight. “Did you not miss me?” He blurts out, “not even a little? Because I did. I did so much it fucking hurt.”

“This whole year,” Finn continues, voice rising and breaking over and over, “every time I saw you—every interview, every clip, every stupid photo—I felt sick. Like I was missing something I wasn’t allowed to touch anymore. And I should’ve texted,” he says, almost angrily at himself. “I know that. I know I should’ve. But you didn’t either. Why didn’t you? Was I really that easy to forget?”

“Finn—” Noah whispers.

“Don’t,” he says quickly. “Just—just listen. Please.” He sniffles hard, wiping his nose on Noah’s shoulder without even thinking. “When you saw me on screen,” he says, quieter now, voice trembling, “I know you did. I know you watched. Because I watched you too. And it felt like—like I was choking.”

“I wanted to reach out,” Finn confesses. “Every single time. I wanted to say something, anything. But I didn’t. And I hate myself for that. I really do.” He shifts, clinging tighter. “I’ll fix it,” he promises desperately. “I swear I will. I’ll call you every day. I’ll text. I’ll show up. I won’t disappear again. Just—stay. Please.”

Noah feels the tears on his skin before he realizes he’s crying too. “And don’t go to him,” Finn adds suddenly, bitterness seeping into his voice. “Did you see how he talked to you? Like you were—like you were nothing.”

That’s when Noah finally breaks. “Stop,” he says hoarsely. Finn doesn’t stop. “You deserve better,” he insists. “You deserve someone who actually sees you. I can do that. I do do that.”

“No,” Noah says louder now and Finn finally goes quiet. “This isn’t fair,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re drunk. You don’t get to do this to me.” Finn doesn’t say anything to that. Nothing. And that’s how Noah knew—this isn’t going anywhere. He’s not wrong.

“But I’m not lying,” Finn whispers desperately. “I’m not.”

Noah could feel the way his chest ached with regret. Not for what he said, but for being so painfully sober. For staying present. He wished he’d numbed himself more, wished he could stop thinking, stop remembering. Wished he didn’t care enough to follow Finn at all. He doesn’t know if Finn is just bad at drinking. Or bad at stopping once he starts. Maybe just bad at holding himself together when there’s nothing left to distract him. Maybe it’s all of it.

Finn’s arms are still around him. Weak now. He doesn’t have the strength to hold on anymore, but doesn’t know how not to. Noah reaches down carefully, he peels Finn’s hands off him, one at a time. Finn shakes his head immediately. Even without seeing his face, Noah can feel the refusal in the way his fingers cling, weak and pleading. “It’s okay,” he starts.

“No,” Finn murmurs. “Don’t—”

“I’m not leaving,” he says softly.

The words don’t fix anything. They’re not supposed to. They’re just something gentle to land on. Finn hesitates, then his grip loosens. His hands slip away like he’s too tired to argue anymore. Noah turns toward him. They end up face to face, close.

Noah sees all of it, the wet cheeks, swollen eyes, lashes clumped together. He looks embarrassed even in his half-drunk haze, like he’s aware of how much he’s been doing. He lifts his other hand and wipes at Finn’s cheek with his thumb, gentle and unhurried, brushing the tears away even though more keep coming. He smiles, small and tired, not teasing—just soft. “How can you even cry this much?” he murmurs.

Finn lets out a shaky laugh without meaning to, then immediately presses his lips together like he’s embarrassed by it. Noah’s fingers slip into his hair, combing through it gently, “you won’t even remember this,” he says, and he hates himself a little for saying it, but it feels necessary.

Finn’s eyes flutter. He’s barely holding onto consciousness, words soft and slurred but sincere. “I will,” he insists, faintly frowning, shifting closer without realizing it, his forehead nearly touches Noah’s. “I can. I’ll remember.” 

Noah only looks at him, listening. Admiring.

“I will, okay?” He mumbles again. “Tomorrow,” he swallows. “When I wake up. You’ll be there, and I’ll…” he adds, voice fading. “I’ll remember.” Finn’s grip on Noah’s hand loosens, fingers slipping, but he manages one last squeeze. “You’ll be there,” he whispers again. “Next to me.”

His eyes finally close. Finn falls asleep like that—mid-thought, mid-hope. His breathing settles, finally calm. Noah doesn’t move for a long time. He stays awake. He watches Finn sleep, thumb tracing patterns along his face, memorizing the shape of him like this. Then, gently, like it’s something sacred, he leans closer and presses a gentle kiss to Finn’s forehead. “Goodnight, Finn.”

—

Finn wakes up with a groan. His head is pounding, sharp enough to make him squeeze them shut again. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. The room is dim and unfamiliar, no windows, no sense of time. Panic spikes in his chest—he genuinely thinks he’s been kidnapped. But then it hits him. A party. Right. He slept at some fucking party. He’s not sure how but whatever.

He manages to push himself up, swaying slightly, and stumbles out into the hallway. Downstairs, the place looks worse in daylight—or whatever passes for morning. People are passed out on couches. Empty cups everywhere.

He opens the fridge and grabs the first water bottle he sees, twisting the cap off with shaking hands. He drinks too fast, winces, then drinks more anyway. He doesn’t bother looking around. No one’s awake to notice anyway.

Outside, the sun hits him full in the face. It’s blinding. He squints, shielding his eyes, the brightness making his head throb harder. Why was he even here? He stands there for a second on the steps, disoriented, trying to remember why he even came here.

Then it clicks again. He was invited by a friend. He got dropped off and then forgot about it completely. He only said yes because he thought Noah might be there.

Finn stands there, water bottle dangling uselessly in his hand. And for a brief, stupid moment, his chest tightens—but he’s quick to shrug it off. Noah probably never showed up. That makes sense. Noah always had better things to do. Maybe a better party or something. Better people.

He doesn’t remember anything else. Not conversations, not faces, not how he ended up in that room upstairs. Just a heavy feeling sitting low in his stomach, something feels off. Like when you forget something important but can’t remember what.

Oh. He gets it now. His belongings. Frowning, Finn pats his pockets, a flicker of anxiety jolting through him. Phone. Wallet. Keys. All there. He’s not even sure how they’re all still there—how it didn’t get lost. He sighs and pulls his phone out anyway, thumbs hovering before he opens his messages.

Noah’s name is right where it’s always been. The last message sits there untouched.

One year ago.

It’s still the same and Finn stares at it longer than he means to. His throat tightens, but he swallows it down and locks his phone, shoving it back into his pocket. He turns away from the house and starts walking. “Whatever,” he mutters to himself.

The street is quiet. He should probably call a friend to come pick him up or something. He pulls out his phone again, already calling, waiting. And while he waits, he’s already decided two things. One, he’s never coming to a party like that again. And two—whatever felt off will probably go away. It always does. Finn doesn’t look back, he keeps walking, not knowing that the only thing he’ll remember from that night is the feeling that something almost mattered.