Chapter Text
He was looking through the wrong end of a telescope, everything smeared and too far away. The sound was off, tinny and underwater, but he could make out the shapes. Noah, first—his mouth open, head tipped back in a laugh, the outline of his jaw sharp and pretty as a magazine ad. Matt stood close enough that their shoulders touched.
He tried to call out. His voice barely made a ripple in the air, like the words were getting lost before they left his mouth.
He started walking toward them, slow at first, then faster. He said it again, louder this time: “Noah.” It came out thick, packed with cotton, but it worked—Noah looked up, eyes wide. Finn felt the catch in his own throat, the sick twist of it. He meant to smile, to make the moment light, but his face wouldn’t do what he told it.
Matt leaned in, mouth close to Noah’s ear. He wanted to run, but his legs were slow, like he’d been filled with sand. He could see every detail now: the little freckle on Noah’s right cheek, the way Noah’s eyelashes stuck together in clumps. He saw Matt’s hand come up to cup Noah’s jaw, thumb brushing along the bone. Finn wanted to grab Matt by the collar, shake him, but he couldn’t get close enough.
“Noah!” He shouted it this time, a full-body effort, but it was too late—Matt’s hand was already there, guiding Noah’s face forward. Their lips met, awkward at first, then hungry.
He stopped moving. His whole body went cold, even as the world around him started to melt, the edges of everything puddling into a rainbow blur.
He tried to move, to break through, but there was something in the way—a wall, invisible, hard as ice. He pounded on it with his fists, tried to claw at it with his nails, but it didn’t budge. He pressed his face to the glass, breath fogging it, and watched as Noah melted into Matt’s arms, the two of them pressed together like a single, perfect animal. He screamed, but the sound bounced back at him, rattling in his own skull.
He screamed again, and the glass fractured. The world shattered with it, and Finn jerked upright in bed, sweat slicked down his back.
He was breathing hard, lungs pumping like he’d just run laps. He clawed at the sheets, empty, and groped for Noah’s shoulder, the familiar slope of it. Nothing. He swept the bed with his hand, found only cold, tangled cotton and a stray corner of the blanket. The clock blinked 7:29 in blue numbers. He reached for his phone, but it was dead, the screen a black slab that reflected the panic in his own face.
He shot out of bed. In the mirror above the dresser, his hair was stuck to his forehead, eyes ringed in gray, lips cracked. He stumbled toward the door in yesterday's clothes that hung off him like a second skin, Noah's scent—pine and something sweet—still caught in the collar. His feet found sneakers by the door; he jammed them on, not bothering with the laces.
Outside, the morning was already hot. He made it all the way across the lot, past the humid stink of trash bins and the clatter of the breakfast truck, before his brain caught up with his feet. He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t care. He just needed to see Noah, needed to see him breathing, moving.
He knocked on the trailer door, once, twice, three times. Hard enough that his knuckles flared. Nothing. He tried the handle, found it locked, and pounded again, louder. “Noah.” He said it like a fact, like he could conjure him out of thin air. He was about to start up again when a voice behind him said, “He’s gone.”
He spun. Millie was there, arms folded, her face unreadable. She wore a yellow hoodie with the sleeves shoved to her elbows, and her hair was frizzy around her face, like she hadn’t slept at all.
Finn felt his stomach drop. He started to ask—what do you mean, gone—but the words stuck. Instead, he just stared at her, waiting for an answer.
She looked at him, eyes flat, and said, “He left this morning. Got a ride to the airport at five.” She let the words hang, like maybe he’d ask a follow-up question, but Finn just stood there, skin electric.
He felt his head nod, a bobble more than a choice. In his chest, something unspooled and leaked through his ribs, sick and sour. Millie didn’t blink. She just kept looking at him, waiting for the rest of the gears in his head to catch up.
“You’re lucky we’ve known each other since we were kids,” she said, voice soft but not at all gentle. “If I didn’t—” She cut herself off, teeth clicking together. “If you ever lay a hand on him again, or if you mess with his head, I swear to god, I will tell everyone I know exactly what you’re like. I don't care if I get fired. I'll do it anyway."
His left hand did a tremor, a micro-quake that almost made him drop the keys. What you’re like. It stuck in his ear, repeated, the phrase growing spikes. He couldn’t look at her. He aimed his eyes at a spot over her shoulder, the warped seam where the trailer’s metal skin buckled, and tried to breathe through the taste in his mouth. It replayed anyway—Noah’s wrist in his hand, the look on Noah’s face when he said, You’re hurting me, and the instant Finn understood he’d crossed a line he could never uncross.
“Do you get it?” Millie asked. She was closer now; he could smell her shampoo, something cheap and aggressively citrus.
She was waiting for a response—he could tell by the way her jaw flexed, the way her arms pressed tighter to her ribs, like she was holding herself together.
“Well? Are you just going to stand there again?” She sounded tired, not even angry. “Jesus, Finn. I don’t know what he sees in you, but that kid thinks you’re the world. Just… let him go. Don’t do this to him again.” She shook her head, hair frizzing out like static, and turned to leave.
He didn’t know he was going to say it until it came out, too loud and too bare: “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked in the middle. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
She stopped, shoulders bunched up, but didn’t turn around. “Don’t.” The word scraped. She pushed her hands into the hoodie pocket and kept walking, slow, like she was dragging something heavy behind her.
He wanted to run after her, to make her understand. “I can’t just stay away from him,” he called, not caring who heard. “I can’t.” The words rang out, sharp and pathetic, and he hated the sound of them, the way they sounded like begging. “I need him. I need—” He couldn’t finish.
She spun, eyes hard. “You don’t get to need him.”
He wanted to say, I know, I know, I know. He wanted to say, You don’t need to threaten me, I already hate myself enough for both of us. But what came out was, “I have to try.”
Millie’s eyes went round, and for a second she looked almost sorry for him. Not quite. She shook her head. “You don’t know how,” she said, and it landed so gently he almost missed it. She held his gaze for a breath, two, then walked away.
He stood in the raw sun, the sweat cooling to cold on his skin, and watched the place where she’d stood, as if she might come back. But she didn’t. Nobody did. He was alone in the middle of the cracked pavement, and the only thing he could hear was the phrase, echoing, in a voice that sounded like his mom’s, or a teacher he’d had once, or maybe just the ghost of his own head: You can’t get there from here.
*
Three days at home and Finn still couldn’t get used to the way the house sounded at rest. No generator hum, no people talking outside his window, not even the distant arguments of craft services during lunch break. In Vancouver, the walls were old-growth cedar, thick enough to muffle even the city’s sirens.
He sprawled on the bed, phone on his chest, watching the parade of gray checkmarks beside his messages to Noah. He scrolled back through the thread, then let the phone drop beside him. The battery was at 2%. He imagined the phone dying mid-message, his voice cut off in the ether, and for a second the thought made him want to laugh. Instead, he said, “Come on, Noah,” to the ceiling.
He pressed his palms to his face and counted to ten, then twenty, waiting for the urge to text again to pass. It didn’t. Maybe this was what withdrawal felt like. There was something chemical about the way his body kept circling back to the same want.
A knock at the door, light. He jerked upright, phone tumbling down the comforter.
“Yeah?” he said, voice already hoarse from disuse.
His mom poked her head in, hair clipped up, eyes behind her old-lady readers. “You all right?” she asked, and he heard the careful note in her voice. “You been up here all day.” She glanced at the clock, then at the light leaking through the blinds, soft and late-afternoon gold. “You hungry? I can make you a sandwich.”
“I’m good,” he said, though he could feel the hollow in his stomach, the way it pressed up against his ribs when he breathed in too deep.
She lingered in the doorway, one hand on the frame like she needed to hold herself upright. “I found the number,” she said, and there was a twist to her mouth, the smile she did when she was trying to be gentle. She held out a Post-it, neon pink, the digits written in her big, looping script. “For Dr. Stoddart.”
Finn took the Post-it, felt his cheeks heat as he mumbled thanks. He pressed the sticky square flat to his palm. It was stupid to even ask for it. The guy was old, probably retired. He hadn’t found a single thing online—no LinkedIn, no RateMDs, not even a digital footprint. It was like Dr. Stoddart had vanished as soon as Finn outgrew him.
He heard his mom hover, her voice soft at the edge of the doorway. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.” The “anything” stretched in the air like gum stuck on a shoe.
Finn nodded, eyes still on the numbers. “Yeah, I know.”
She waited, like she might press him for more, but then just patted the doorframe and left. He listened to her steps fade down the hall, then the faint sound of the fridge opening, the rattle of glass. He waited until the house was silent again, then flopped back on his bed.
He peeled the Post-it from his palm and stuck it to his phone screen. He stared at it for a good three minutes before finally peeling it off, dialing the number, and jamming the phone to his ear. Each ring sounded like it was coming from inside his own head.
He tried to imagine what he’d even say. Hi, I’m Finn Wolfhard, you probably don’t remember me, but I used to see you when I was eight. Now I’m old enough to rent a car and I still can’t sleep through the night unless I know exactly where everyone I care about is. Also, I think I might have broken the only person who ever made it feel bearable to be alive, and I’m trying not to do that again, but I don’t know how. Also, I can’t stop picturing him with someone else, and it makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. So… any tips?
The phone kept ringing. A distant, echoing kind of ring—like it was bouncing off the walls of a long, empty hallway. He pictured Stoddart in an armchair, sipping tea, letting the phone go just to see if the caller would leave a message.
On the fourth ring, someone picked up. There was a click and a shuffle, then a voice—old, but sharp, the vowels clipped Canadian. “Stoddart,” it said, not a question.
Finn’s tongue locked up. He could hear his own breath, tinny through the speaker, and for a second he just sat there, paralyzed, the phone sweating in his hand.
“Hello?” The voice sounded closer now, annoyed but not surprised. “If this is a solicitor, I’m not interested.”
Finn hung up. His thumb jammed the red button so hard he thought he might crack the screen. He let the phone fall to his lap. His heart was beating straight out of his chest, thumping so loud he thought it might actually trigger the neighbor’s dog to start barking.
He pressed his fists to his eyes, hard, until little sparks popped behind the lids. “Fuck,” he whispered, and then again, louder, “fuck.” He let himself fall backward, arms flung wide, the phone wedged under his hip. It hurt, but he didn’t move.
After a while he rolled over, face mashed into the pillow. He lay there until the panic ebbed, replaced by a flat, gray emptiness that felt more familiar than it should.
He got up, feet heavy on the old wood floor. The room looked wrong, too bright, curtains thrown open and the city outside a wash of green and blue. He paced once, twice. He looked at the phone, the pink Post-it stuck to its face like a scab. He peeled it off, balled it up, and lobbed it at the trash bin.
*
The TV’s blue light pulsed up the walls, striping the posters of bands and old horror movies. Finn sat cross-legged on the futon, controller wedged between his knees, headset mic jammed so close to his mouth he could taste the plastic. His avatar’s corpse ragdolled across the screen, and Finn let out a strangled, “Motherfucker!” before respawning, thumb jabbing the stick hard enough to torque his wrist.
“Dude, you’re getting smoked,” Gaten’s voice said in his ear, the digital crunch of a bag of Doritos in the background.
“Shut up,” Finn said, but he was grinning. He took a long pull from the can of PBR warming between his feet, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “You’re only ahead because you camp like a little bitch.”
“Skill issue,” Gaten said, and cackled, the sound warping through the headset.
Finn flicked his wrist and lobbed a grenade straight into Gaten’s killbox. The screen bloomed with the hit marker, and Gaten’s avatar exploded in a confetti of limbs.
Finn whooped. “Get rekt,” he said, and finished the beer, the last mouthful gone skunky from sitting out. He set the empty can next to the two other ones on the carpet.
He squinted at the clock in the corner of the screen. 2:07 a.m. He tried to remember the last time he’d slept before three, or woken up before noon. Not since he’d gotten back. Not since the airport. Everything since then was a blur of late-night matches, old YouTube deep dives, and the slow, steady erosion of his ability to care about anything outside the four walls of his room.
The round ended. Gaten’s name floated above his own in the final standings. Finn exhaled, then hit the party chat button, rolling his neck until it popped.
“Again?” Gaten said. “Or are you tapping out, Wolfhard?”
Finn snorted. “I could do this all night.”
“I bet you could,” Gaten said, and there was a pause, the kind that only happened when someone was weighing whether to say the thing they really meant. “Hey, you good, man? You’ve been on, like, every night this week. I don’t think I’ve even seen you log off.”
Finn’s jaw tensed. He pushed the headset higher on his head, then picked at a peeling sticker on the controller. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, too quick.
“Liar,” Gaten said, and Finn could hear the grin through the static. “You’re not fine. You’re, like, the opposite of fine. You’re anti-fine. You’re—” There was a crunch, then a swallow. “You’re ‘Finn Wolfhard, future cautionary tale.’”
Finn let the controller go slack between his palms. “It’s called having free time.”
“Yeah, yeah. So what’s up? You can tell me. Is it, like… family stuff, or—” He paused, then did the thing he always did: barrelled past the point of no return. “Or is it girl stuff?”
Finn rolled his eyes, but the words stuck anyway. “Not girl stuff,” he said, and could hear the catch in his own voice, the way it slumped on the way out.
“Ha!” Gaten crowed. “Knew it. It’s always about the crush. Is it someone I know?” He let the question hang, then filled the space himself. “Is it that girl from the table read, the one with the hair?”
Finn almost laughed, the sound a dry bark in the back of his throat. “Shut up,” he said, but it didn’t have any heat. “Just—let me ask you something, okay?” He heard himself breathing, heavy, like he’d just run a mile and was trying to hide it from the gym teacher. “So, in theory, if I did like a girl. And I did something really fucking stupid to mess it up. Like, the kind of stupid that makes her never want to talk to me—”
“Dude!” Gaten shouted, as if Finn had just confessed to murder.
“Gaten,” Finn said, and the word came out as a sigh.
“Sorry, sorry, go on.”
Finn picked at the seam of his jeans, thumbnail worrying a thread to fuzz. “So let’s say I already texted, like, a million times, and she’s not responding. And I fucked up so bad that even her friends hate me now. What’s the move?”
Gaten made a thinking noise, a long “hmmmm” that buzzed through the headset. “So what else have you tried?”
Finn thought about it. “I called, too.”
There was a pause. “Bro, I mean, like, what have you actually done to fix whatever made her ignore you?”
Finn stared at the TV, at the bland respawn menu, the faint outline of his avatar slumped over a digital rock. “I don’t know if I can fix it,” he said. “It’s not, like…” He tried to find the word. “It’s not a fixable thing. It’s just… me.”
“Dude, that’s bullshit,” Gaten said, not even pretending to soften it. “You sound like my dad when he says he’s just built this way and then eats, like, four cheeseburgers and wonders why his cholesterol is fucked.”
Finn felt his jaw clench. “It’s not the same.”
“Sure it is.” Gaten’s voice was thick with snack dust and certainty. “You’re acting like you can’t even try. Maybe you just don’t want it enough.”
Finn let the silence stretch, headset buzzing with the faint electric whine. He wanted to say, That’s not true, but the words wouldn’t form—and the gap where they should’ve been hit him all at once.
Something raw and pissed off and alive flared in his chest.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
There was a pause, then Gaten laughed, the sound skipping with static. “What?”
“Sorry,” Finn said, standing up. His knees cracked. “I gotta go. Goodnight, man.”
There was a pause. "Huh? What are you—" Gaten started, but Finn had already hit the button. The party chat clicked off, leaving him alone in the blue flicker of the menu screen, the hum of the city outside his window, and a ringing in his ears that would not quit.
He pulled the headset off his ear, walked to his desk, and yanked the plastic bin from under the chair.
It was a time capsule: Red Bull cans, ramen wrappers, a moldy napkin. He dumped the contents on the rug, hands already sticky from the syrupy dregs at the bottom. The pink Post-it landed face-up, like it had been waiting for him. The numbers were smeared, but not unreadable.
He peeled the note off the carpet and wiped it on his shirt. His hands shook, but not so much that he couldn’t dial. Each button press felt like it might crack the phone in half. He jammed the phone to his ear and waited.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
He nearly hung up, the phone slick in his sweating hand, and then a voice came through—thin, crackling, as if dragged from the bottom of a well.
“Hello?”
Finn’s throat went dry. He almost hung up again, but the silence stretched, waiting for him to fill it. “Hi. Uh. Dr. Stoddart?” He could hear himself stutter, could hear the echo of his own voice bouncing back.
A pause. The sound of a cough. “Who is this?” Not annoyed, exactly. Just tired.
“It’s—Finn. Finn Wolfhard.” He winced as he said it, like he might get struck by lightning for using the full name. “I was a patient. A long time ago.”
Another pause, this one nearly a full measure. “Finn,” the doctor repeated, as if testing the shape of the word, then: “You must be calling from the east coast. Do you know what time it is here?”
Finn looked at the clock, the blue digits bleeding into each other. “Sorry. I didn’t— I can call back tomorrow.”
The doctor made a noise, half sigh, half laugh. “No, no, it’s fine. I hardly sleep anymore.” There was a static hush, like the doctor was weighing the voice against a library of old patient files. “It’s been… well, quite a while, Finn,” he said, drawing out the pause. “What can I do for you?”
Finn almost laughed, but it would’ve come out wrong. He stared at the wall, at the grain of the wood, and tried to find the place in his brain where the words lived. “I— I think I need help,” he said. The phrase hung there, more embarrassing than any symptom. The word “help” made his tongue itch. “I’m not even sure what I need, exactly.”
He heard the doctor make a considering noise. “From what I recall, you used to have quite a bit of trouble with panic,” he said. “Is that what’s happening now?” The question was so gentle it almost pissed him off.
He curled the Post-it in his fist, squeezing it until the edge cut the pad of his thumb. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “I mean, not like before. Usually I can handle it.” He could feel the urge to explain, to make it sound less pathetic, but the words just sat there. “But I had one. A real one. And it was bad.” His voice was tight. “I… I need to talk to you. If you have time. I mean, if you’re still...” He trailed off, not sure if he was supposed to say “in practice” or “alive.”
The doctor made another sound, something between a sigh and a hum. “I am retired, Finn. But I keep a few patients. If you’re willing to make it in early, I could see you next week. Monday or Wednesday.”
Finn’s heart thumped hard enough that it made his vision swim. “Can I come sooner?” he said. “Like… tomorrow? I’ll take any time you have. Even ten minutes.” There was a silence. Finn stared at the wall, the blue light of the TV flickering over the mess, and waited for the verdict.
The doctor came back on the line. “I have a slot at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. But you’ll need to come to my house. I don’t keep an office anymore.” The address followed, a street Finn vaguely remembered from some ancient car ride, back when his parents thought if they played enough Dan Mangan on the radio everything would be “chill.”
He wrote it down on the Post-it, pressing so hard the tip of the pen nearly tore through. “I’ll be there,” he said, and even as he said it, he could hear the desperation. He didn’t care.
The doctor’s tone softened, just a little. “Try to sleep tonight, Finn. I’ll see you in the morning.” The call ended before Finn could say thank you.
He stood in the middle of his room, phone still pressed to his ear, and let the silence settle over him.
*
The next morning, Finn sat on the living room couch, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his phone screen blue-bright in his hands. He stared at the address, reading it over and over, as if the numbers might swap places and give him an out.
The whole house was too clean, every surface wiped and shining like a rental. He could hear his mom in the kitchen, running the faucet, the sound of water slapping metal and the occasional clink of a mug. His dad’s voice floated in from the dining room, low and steady, punctuated every few seconds by the ping of an incoming email on the iPad.
Finn didn’t move until his mom came around the corner, a pale green mug cupped in both hands.
“Wow,” she said, voice bright. “An early riser. Should I be worried?” She plopped down next to him, knees bumping his thigh. Finn could smell the coffee on her breath, strong and sweet, the way she liked it.
He shrugged, still looking at the phone. “I need a ride this morning,” he said, and tried to keep his voice even, like it was no big deal.
Her eyes did a quick up-and-down, as if checking for signs of fever or aliens. “Of course,” she said. “I’m just happy you’re leaving the house. It’s been, what, three weeks of you in that dungeon?”
Finn shrugged. He didn’t want to give her more than that. She’d prod, eventually, but for now the fact of him asking was enough to keep her in the soft, floaty space of maternal victory.
She nudged his leg with her knee. “Where we headed?”
Finn read the address off the Post-it, careful not to let his voice catch on the syllables. “It’s, uh, Stoddart’s house. The doctor. He said to come by at nine-thirty.”
His mom’s face did a slow, gentle rearrangement—surprise, then something softer. “You called him?” she asked, and the words came out quiet, almost afraid to scare him off the idea.
He nodded, picking at the seam of his jeans. “Yeah. I just… I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
She reached over, squeezed his hand. “I’m proud of you,” she said, and the words made his insides fold in on themselves, sharp and warm all at once. She let go before he could squirm away from it. “You want breakfast first?”
He shook his head. “I’m good.” He wasn’t, but the thought of eating made his stomach feel like wet paper.
His dad shuffled in, tablet under one arm, reading glasses perched on the very tip of his nose. He eyed Finn, then the clock, then Finn again. “You’re up early,” he said, not quite a question.
His mom answered for him. “He’s got an appointment. With Dr. Stoddart.”
His dad made a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a hmmph, then parked himself at the other end of the couch. “Therapists,” he muttered, half to the screen and half to the room. “Whole racket’s built on making you feel like you need ‘em.” He scrolled, thumb flicking with military precision.
Finn squinted at the floor, waiting for the old man rant to wind down, but his mom just said, “Don’t listen to him, Finn. You do what you need.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze, quick and sturdy, like she was trying to bolt him together.
The drive was quiet. He watched the city through the window, the old streets flicking by, every block swimming with memories he mostly wanted to drown. His mom didn’t try to fill the silence. She just let him sit, humming along to some old 80s playlist on the radio. He tried to memorize the way the light hit the dash, the smell of her perfume, the way she drummed her fingers on the wheel when they stopped at red lights. He kept thinking he’d say something—tell her he was sorry, or that he’d try harder, or that he wished he was easier to love—but the words backed up and stuck in the traffic of his throat.
The house was small. Just a squat little box, paint peeling at the trim, a single rosebush out front with more thorns than flowers. The porch creaked when he stepped on it. He knocked, then wiped his palms on his jeans, the sweat already slicking up his skin.
The door opened with a click. Dr. Stoddart looked exactly the same as he had all those years ago: white hair everywhere and a face that had settled into a permanent expression of “I know more than you and I’m not impressed.” He wore the same blue cardigan, the same round glasses.
“Finn,” said Dr. Stoddart, voice craggy but not mean. “Right on time. Come in, come in.”
He followed the doctor through a dark hallway lined with old books and framed degrees. The office looked the same as in his head: two armchairs angled at each other, a lamp with a faded shade, a wooden box of Kleenex on the side table, and a dish of those hard strawberry candies that only old people ever bought.
Finn sat, hands in fists, and waited for the doctor to take his chair. The man did, slow and careful, then folded his hands in his lap and cocked his head.
“Nice to see you again, Finn,” Dr. Stoddart said. “I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”
Finn swallowed. “Sorry for calling so late last night.”
The doctor waved this off. “I’ve had stranger calls.” He settled in, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, and did a slow once-over, eyes flicking up and down, not subtle but not rude either. “You’ve grown,” he said, with a little snort. “I mean, obviously, but it’s always a shock. I have a photo from the waiting room—when you were what, ten?—and you’re in a fedora and sunglasses, like you were about to pull a heist.”
Finn managed a laugh, or something like it. He’d forgotten about the fedora phase. He probably still had it, jammed in a closet somewhere,. “Yeah. I was a weird kid.”
“You were a very smart kid,” the doctor said, and Finn heard the correction like a light tap on the glass. “I kept expecting to see you in a movie, and then, well—” He gestured vaguely at Finn’s face. “The Netflix one. What’s it called again?”
Finn cleared his throat, a dry click in the back of his mouth. “Stranger Things,” he said. The words came out smaller than he meant, the syllables flattening against the inside of his teeth.
Dr. Stoddart snapped his fingers. “Right, right! My granddaughter is obsessed with it.” The doctor smiled, the lines around his eyes folding in, but didn’t wait for Finn to answer. “Anyway,” he said, “that’s not what you came here for." He leaned forward, elbows on the armrests, and steepled his fingers. “You said you had a panic attack. When was this?”
Finn ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, feeling the old grooves, the microchips from years of anxiety bites. “A few weeks ago,” he said. “In Georgia.” His hands did a dumb little flutter.
“And what triggered it?” Stoddart asked, voice so neutral it almost sounded like a dare. The old man’s gaze was fixed on Finn, not blinking, not even a little, and it made the room feel smaller, crowded with expectation.
Finn’s mouth went dry. He tried to think of the easiest, least humiliating version of the story, but it all tangled up in his head.
He caught himself scratching the side of his hand until the skin went hot and red. “It was the last day on set before break,” he said. “There was this dinner, like a cast and crew thing. But before that, I found out—” He stopped, chewed the inside of his cheek. “Someone I care about had lied to me. Or… not lied, but kept something from me. And then at the dinner, there was this other guy who kept—” He tried to find a neutral word. There weren’t any. “He kept touching him.” His voice cracked on the last word, so he coughed, tried to play it off. “It just pissed me off, and then later, when we were alone, we got into this huge fight.”
He could hear the blood in his ears, a static buzz that made the room shrink. He wanted to stop, to let the doctor do his shrink thing and fill in the rest, but Stoddart just sat there, waiting. Finn felt himself go cold, then hot, then cold again.
“I said all this horrible shit,” he went on, voice thin as tissue. “And then I—I grabbed him.” The words tasted like rust. “Hard. I didn’t mean to, it just—happened. And then I had a panic attack, and I just…” He wanted to say, I wanted to die, or I wanted to disappear, but he couldn’t make the words fit. “I fucked it up,” he said instead. “I fucked everything up.”
He watched the doctor’s face, waiting for a flinch, or a little frown, or some sign that he was a monster. But Stoddart’s face didn’t move. He just nodded, slow, like he was cataloguing Finn’s symptoms on a clipboard only he could see.
“So you hurt someone,” the doctor said, voice even, “and then you hurt yourself about it. Is that about right?”
Finn’s throat closed up. He nodded, too fast, then shook his head, then shrugged, all in the space of a second. “I never thought I’d be that guy,” he said. “I never wanted to be that guy.”
Stoddart leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. “I get the sense you’re not really here about the panic attack.”
Finn let out a noise, something between a laugh and a cough. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess not.”
The doctor nodded, rubbing his chin with a blunt, squared-off hand. “So. Tell me, why do you think you got so angry you lost control?”
Finn tried to answer. “It was—like I said. He lied to me. Or, I thought he did. And then he just let this other… this other guy…” The sentence collapsed. He felt stupid, childish, even as the old heat flared up in his chest. “I don’t know. I just lost it.”
Stoddart just waited, not even blinking. Finn felt the silence stretch, so he filled it. “It wasn’t perfect before that,” he said, picking at the hem of his t-shirt. “Me and him. That other person—” He stopped. He didn’t want to say the name, but it was there, anyway. “Noah,” he said, voice thin. “He’s… he’s so different than I am. He’s like this… really honest and open person who just… is himself. All the time. Everything I’m not.”
The doctor’s eyes flicked, just once, to Finn’s hands, then back up. “And how does that make you feel?”
Finn stared at the carpet. He couldn’t even see the pattern, just a blur of brown and gray. “I don’t know. I’m happy for him, I guess. I think he’s… he’s really brave. But it’s just—” He shrugged, the movement sharp and helpless all at once. “I’m not like that.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” Stoddart said, and the words were gentle, not a trap. Finn almost believed him.
But then he was talking again, faster, the words tumbling out. “It’s not fine. Because I want to… I want to be like that, too.” He hunched up, shoulders to his ears, like he could curl into the chair and disappear. “But I can’t. I just can’t.”
Stoddart leaned back, hands steepled. “Why not?”
Finn looked at his knees, where a little patch of denim had worn thin. “It’s not that easy,” he said. “You know what I was like.” He swallowed, feeling the old, sour taste at the back of his throat. “I finally have friends now. Real ones. I don’t want to risk all that for… for something I’m not even sure of.” He rubbed his thumb hard at the fabric, until it burned. “Does that make sense?”
The doctor nodded. “It makes sense,” he said. “But let’s talk about what you’re not sure of.”
"You know what I mean," Finn said, hating the way his voice went thin.
The doctor smiled, the smallest possible crinkle at the corner of his mouth. "Indulge me," he said. "Spell it out."
Finn shifted in the chair again, knees knocking together. "I don’t have a label for it," he said. "I just know I like him. I really, really like him. That’s all I know." He let the words drop, sudden and heavy in the space between them.
Stoddart nodded, giving nothing away, then asked, "How long have you felt that way?"
Finn huffed a laugh, the sound closer to a cough. He had to think about it, because it felt like it had always been there, not so much a switch as a slow, invisible leak that finally filled the room. "A while," he managed. "But I was never gonna do anything about it. It was just—feelings, you know? I was supposed to just… have them and not act on it." He chewed on his thumbnail, the skin already raw. "But then it happened anyway. It wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t supposed to be him that night." He heard the words come out and wished he could snatch them back, but the doctor just hummed, like he was listening to a song he already knew the ending to.
"So what do you want, Finn?" Stoddart asked. "Forget what you think is possible or allowed. What would you actually want?"
Finn almost laughed. He looked at the ceiling, at the old water stain spreading out like a cloud. "I’d want to be with him," he said. "And I’d want to be open about it. And I’d want people to not… to not bother us about it." He shrugged, as if it was just some dumb wish.
Stoddart let the silence hang for a moment, then said, “How does it feel to say that out loud?”
Finn tried to find the feeling. It was slippery, more a series of little shocks than a single emotion. He could feel his fingers tingling, his jaw tight. “Weird.”
“That’s okay,” Stoddart said, then flicked his eyes to the old brass clock on the bookshelf. “How long are you in town for?”
“Two weeks,” Finn said. “Then I have to go back.”
The doctor nodded. “I could make some time for you,” he said. “A few more sessions, if you’re willing. Maybe help you ask yourself the right questions.”
Finn swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.” He was almost out of the chair when the words slipped, unplanned, from his mouth: “Do you think he’ll take me back?”
Dr. Stoddart’s mouth did a little twist at the corners, less a smile than a warning flag. “I’m not in the prediction business,” he said. He stood, and all the bones in his knees cracked in protest. “If you want my honest advice? Don’t ask if he’ll take you back. Ask if you can become the version of yourself you’d want him to take back.”
Finn blinked, caught off guard by how dumb and smart that sounded at the same time. He tried to laugh, but it stuck in his throat. “Do you think I can change?” The question landed heavy, like a coin dropped in an empty well.
Stoddart didn’t hesitate. “Anyone can change, if they want it enough.” He walked Finn to the door, hand resting on the knob as if to keep them both from floating off. “But most people don’t want to until it hurts more not to.” The words rattled around in Finn’s head as he stepped onto the porch. The sun was out now, white and sharp, and he had to squint against it. He muttered a thanks, then walked down the steps, the doctor’s voice still chasing him down the street.
*
The plane jerked hard, and Finn’s teeth clicked together. He’d been staring at the seatback in front of him, trying to will his brain into a blank, meditative hush, but now it was all white noise and the bitter, industrial taste of the coffee he’d choked down two hours ago. The flight was almost over. New York City lay somewhere under the gray soup outside the porthole, waiting to swallow him whole.
He flexed his hands on the armrests, then forced himself to let go and rest them in his lap. He’d been clutching everything lately—the phone, his own neck, the inside of his cheek—like if he stopped gripping, even for a second, he’d drift off the face of the earth. He looked down at the tray table, where he’d scribbled a list of talking points on the back of a Customs form. All the ink had bled through, the words “I’m sorry” and “I want to try” barely legible above a spiderweb of coffee stains and doodles. He crumpled it and shoved it in his backpack. He doubted he’d need a script.
The seatbelt light dinged on. The woman next to him, already in a full business suit and a mask that covered half her face, started packing up her laptop with a speed that made Finn’s own hands tense up in sympathy. He wondered if she could feel the static pouring off him. He wondered if anyone on the plane could.
The landing was a blur—screech of tires, sour waft of jet fuel, the seatbelt sign dinging off and a hundred bodies lurching upright in a single, desperate jerk. Finn’s hands shook as he packed up his bag. He could barely see straight—every edge was too bright, every sound amplified. The woman beside him elbowed past, perfume like crushed dandelions, and for a second he wanted to ask her if he looked okay, if he looked like someone who could be forgiven. He kept walking.
The airport was all glass and echo. He called a cab at the rideshare stand, thumb trembling as he typed in the address. He’d gotten it from Millie after an hour of groveling—no, that was too soft a word, he’d begged, he’d fucking begged, and she’d made him say out loud what he was going to do, then made him repeat it so she could be sure he wouldn’t fuck it up. The address sat at the top of his texts, above a single line from Millie: “Don’t make me regret this.”
The cab smelled like old fries and the driver kept the radio on a low, staticky jazz that made Finn’s teeth hurt. He watched the city flicker by—block after block of wet pavement and fluorescent shop signs. It was late, later than he’d realized, and the rain was coming down in a steady, relentless hiss.
Before Finn could process the passing blocks, the cab blinked to a halt. The meter flashed a number he didn’t even register. He fumbled out his card, left a tip big enough to make the driver’s eyebrows nudge up, and slid out, almost slipping on the curb. The cab’s taillights smeared red over the wet pavement.
He stood there, bag slung over one shoulder, blinking up at the brownstone. The lights were on in the front room. Through the sheer curtain, he could make out silhouettes—someone moving, another shape curled on a couch. He wiped his face on his sleeve, then realized it was useless. He didn’t even have a coat. He hadn’t thought to bring one. It hadn’t been raining when he left Vancouver.
He laughed at himself, a wet, gutted sound, letting the rain work its way under his collar and down his back. He waited. One minute, two. He told himself he was psyching up, but really, he just wanted to see if the universe would let him off the hook, if maybe Noah would come outside for some other reason and find him. Five minutes. The skin around his knuckles was numb.
He could do this. He could do this. It was just a door, a bell, a few steps, and then whatever came next.
Finn flexed his hand, the knuckles white and raw. He could do this. No, he was going to do this. He said it out loud—“I can do this”—and the sound surprised him, a little squeak in the dark.
He climbed the steps, stood under the porch light, and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. He reached for the bell, then stopped, then did it anyway. The sound echoed. His body moved on instinct, backing away from the door—two steps down, as if giving the bell's ring space to do its work.
He heard footsteps, and then the door opened. There was Noah, framed in the light. For a second, Finn’s brain shorted out—he could only see the exact shape of Noah’s mouth, the way it twisted like he was about to say something, then didn’t.
Finn said, “Happy birthday, Noah,” and his voice came out too thick, too bright, like he’d been saving it for a year.
Noah just stood there, blinking, until a second shape popped up behind him—his sister, Chloe, phone in one hand and a fork in the other. She looked at Finn, then at Noah, then at Finn again, and said, “Are you going to let him in or just stand there like a psycho?”
Noah seemed to snap back into himself. “Yeah, sorry, come in,” he said, and stepped aside. Finn almost tripped on the threshold, feet numb from the rain.
He followed Noah down the hallway, the air inside warm and sweet with the smell of sugar and candle smoke. Chloe drifted ahead, calling “Mom! Dad! Finn’s here!” like she was announcing the arrival of a circus act. In the living room, Noah’s parents were stacked on the couch. They both turned, and Finn felt the heat rise up his neck.
Noah’s mom smiled, but there was a flicker in her eyes, a quick up-and-down as she measured the situation. “We didn’t know you were coming,” she said, polite but with a hook in it.
Noah said something—maybe an explanation, maybe just a sound—but Finn barely caught it. He was too busy watching the way Noah’s hand hovered near the back of the couch, like he might need to grab it for balance.
Finn said, “It was kind of a surprise. Sorry,” and tried to smile, but his lips stuck to his teeth.
Chloe was the first to cut through the static. “Wait, aren’t you guys literally seeing each other tomorrow?”
Finn blinked, jarred out of the swirl in his head. He nodded, clutching his bag to his chest, and said, “Yeah. Sorry, I just—” He couldn’t finish, didn’t know how to say it: needed to see you, needed to be here, needed to prove that he could.
Noah stood a little off-kilter, one socked foot half-curled on the rug, gaze fixed somewhere around Finn’s left knee. Finn felt every eye on him.
He cleared his throat. “I know it’s late. I just… wanted to say happy birthday. In person.” The words landed and stuck to the carpet like chewed gum.
Noah’s dad, from the couch, said, “That’s very thoughtful,” which somehow made it worse. Finn felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck. He’d rehearsed this a hundred times—what he’d say, how he’d say it—but the words had always been for Noah, not his entire family in a room that looked like it had been staged for an Ikea ad.
Noah’s mom stepped in, voice gentle but with a steel core. “Would you like some cake, Finn? Or tea? You must be freezing.”
It took Finn a second too long to realize she was actually waiting for an answer. He shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said, and his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “I’m…I just came to say something. And then I’ll go.”
Finn looked at Noah, aimed for his face, but only got as far as the bridge of his nose.
“Noah, I—”
“You’re wet,” said Noah, voice low, but not in the way Finn expected. Just a plain fact, like he was pointing out a stain.
Finn blinked. He looked down. Water was dripping from his sleeves, leaving a dark pattern on the hardwood.
“Yeah,” he said, and it came out with more relief than shame. “I am.”
Noah’s mouth did a twitch. “You should change,” he said, low, like they were sharing a secret. “You’ll get sick if you stay in those clothes.” He hesitated, then added, “Do you want to go to my room? You can borrow some of my stuff.”
Finn nodded, a single, sharp jerk. “Yeah. Please.” He followed Noah out of the living room, feeling the gaze of everyone in the house ride up his back like a draft.
The hallway was narrow, lined with framed photos—Noah as a baby, Noah in a school uniform, Noah on a beach with a sunburn and a gummy smile. Finn caught flashes as they walked, each one a little pinprick reminder that he was an intruder here, a guest star in an episode already written.
The stairs creaked under their weight. Noah led the way, not looking back, just climbing like he was on autopilot. The carpet runner was navy, worn smooth in the middle, and Finn couldn’t help but notice how many times it must have been vacuumed, how many years of footsteps it had absorbed. Everything in the house felt lived-in, soft at the edges, nothing like the sharp, echoing cold of his own place back home.
At the top of the stairs, Noah turned left, pushed open a door with a scuffed patch where the knob had hit too many times. Finn ducked in and stood just inside the threshold, dripping onto the hardwood. The room was bright, string lights taped up around the window, a desk cluttered with notebooks and a fossilized bowl of ramen. The bed was unmade, sheets a tangle of blue and white. There was a faint, familiar smell—something clean, a little like laundry detergent, a little like the inside of Finn’s own pillowcase after a long day.
Noah flicked on a lamp, then crossed to his dresser and yanked out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with a cracked-beyond-legibility logo. He tossed them on the bed and said, “Here,” still not meeting Finn’s eyes. Then he sat down, perched on the edge of the mattress, hands folded between his knees, and stared at the floor. The silence got loud fast, the only sound the faint tick of the radiator and the drip of Finn’s jacket onto the floor.
Finn peeled off his hoodie, which made a wet, slapping sound and left a cold ghost of itself on his skin. As he pulled the t-shirt over his head, he caught Noah watching him in the mirror above the dresser—but when Finn turned around, Noah’s gaze was already back on his shoes. Finn stepped out of the jeans, which felt like they’d been shrink-wrapped to his shins, and wriggled into the sweatpants. He tried to make it look casual, but his hands shook and the waistband twisted. He realized he hadn’t even bothered to close the bedroom door behind him.
Finn shut the door with a careful click, exhaled until his lungs felt like wrung sponges, and turned. His hands hovered, then dropped, no idea what to do with themselves. “I’m sorry for showing up like this,” he said, and the words made the air between them feel sticky and thick. “I know you probably don’t want me here.” His tongue felt too big in his mouth. He waited, but Noah just kept staring at the patch of floor between his feet, feet pigeon-toed and one sock slouched down at the heel.
Finn wanted to fill the silence, but his brain was short-circuiting on the next line. He tried to laugh, but it snagged on the way out. “I just—I wanted to say some things. To you.” He heard himself say “uh,” and his face went hot. “Can I sit?” He gestured at the bed, like maybe the bed would get up and walk out if he didn’t ask nicely.
Noah nodded once, and scooted back until his spine hit the wall. Finn sat, careful to keep a full cushion of space between them, knees knocked together, hands clamped between his thighs to keep them from shaking. For a minute he just looked at the wall calendar over the desk—October, a photo of a mountain that looked like it belonged on a screensaver. He tried to memorize the shapes of the snow, the way the clouds curled around the peak.
“I’m not good at this,” Finn said, and the words came out flat, with no room for air. He felt the urge to start with a joke, but the words wouldn’t line up in his mouth. He flexed his hands in his lap and made himself look at Noah
“I shouldn’t have come here. Not after what I did,” Finn said. “I… I hurt you.” The words felt like they’d been rolled in gravel before coming out. “I said a lot of shitty things, and—” He squeezed his fingers together, knuckles going white. He could see the shape of Noah’s wrist in the blue light, remembered the way it had felt under his hand, the way Noah’s face had gone so still. “And I grabbed you.” He wanted to say, I’m not that guy, but he was, wasn’t he? He’d been exactly that guy. He waited for Noah to say something, or get up and leave, or just let the silence bury them both. But Noah just sat there, eyes shining and unreadable, jaw set like he was bracing for a punch. “I’m so fucking sorry,” Finn said. “I don’t even know if I have the right to say that. But I am. I’m sorry.” He let out a breath, slow and shaky, and it felt like every word was catching on the way out, getting stuck before it could land.
“I know you don’t owe me anything. Least of all a conversation. But I wanted to say it to your face.” Noah’s lips parted, as if to respond, but then closed again. He looked down at his hands, then up at Finn, and in that split instant Finn saw the tremor in his own reflection, the way his own fear was mirrored back at him. Finn swallowed, hard. “I’m not trying to get you to forgive me,” he said. “You deserve to know why I was such a fucking disaster.”
He rolled his shoulders, searching for words that might not exist. “It’s not an excuse. I don’t—I don’t want to make it sound like an excuse. But I need you to know that it wasn’t about you. Not really. Every time I got mad, or jealous, or just… lost it? It was all my own shit. Stuff I never figured out how to talk about.” He caught Noah’s eye, then let his gaze drop to the comforter instead. “I don’t know how to be with someone. I barely know how to be with myself on a good day. And when I thought I was going to lose you, I just—”
He made a noise, low and ugly, and pressed his palms over his face until the world went black. “I was so scared you’d figure out I’m not worth it.” The words hung there, loud and soft at the same time. He peeled his hands away, not sure if he’d been quiet for a second or a century. “I really like you, Noah. God. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone. And it’s not just the amazing sex, or—or the way you’re funny, or how you do that thing with your tongue when you’re thinking really hard, or how you make everything feel so much lighter, or—” He swallowed hard. “Or how you always try to see the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it.”
He ran out of breath, hands a tight knot in his lap. “I just… I want to be the kind of person who deserves you. Or at least, who doesn’t fuck it up.”
He let the words drain out, waiting for the silence to bury him. When it didn’t, he looked up. Noah was still there, eyes locked in, and something in Finn’s chest did a weird, stuttering jump.
Finn huffed, a laugh with no joy in it. “God, does any of that even make sense?” The question fell out of him, limp and desperate.
Noah blinked, slow, like he was surfacing from underwater. He nodded, then shook his head, then did both at once, and for a second Finn wanted to laugh at the way they mirrored each other, like two idiots trying to explain quantum physics to a dog.
Noah looked at Finn, really looked, and his mouth did this tiny, sideways twist that Finn had always loved—like he was holding back a smile, or maybe a whole universe of things he was too scared to say. He said, “Can I—?” and then stopped, the words evaporating as soon as they hit air.
Finn wanted so badly to touch him. To just put a hand on Noah’s shoulder, or his knee, or anywhere that would tell him he was still real, still allowed to be here. Instead, he said, “Can I hold your hand?” and the question felt like a joke, but also like the most important thing in the world.
Noah nodded, quick, and let his palm float up, open. Finn reached for it. The contact was electric—like static, or the first step off a curb you thought was higher. Noah’s hand was smaller than Finn remembered, or maybe it was just the way their fingers slotted together, loose but definite. Finn sucked in a breath, and the whole room seemed to shift, like the gravity had changed.
He looked at their hands, then at Noah’s face. “Remember that time I told you I’d explain the meaning behind that song?” he said. “You Can’t Get There from Here.” Finn tried to smile, but it came out lopsided.
Noah’s throat worked, a dry swallow. “Yeah. I remember.”
Finn nodded, eyes on the blue of Noah’s bedsheets, on the way their hands looked together against the fabric. “It’s about wanting something so bad, but knowing you’ll never get it. Because that’s just not who you are. Or you think it isn’t. So you never even try.” He squeezed Noah’s hand, felt the bones shift under his skin, and looked up. “But I want a lot of things, Noah. I want to be more honest. I want to be open about how I feel. I want to let myself feel things and not just… armor up all the time. And I want you.”
Noah’s eyes got wet. Finn watched the shimmer rise, the way Noah’s bottom lashes caught the light, and he felt something in his own chest strain. A single tear snuck out, sliding down the curve of Noah’s cheek like it was running ahead of the rest, and Finn almost stopped. Almost. But he made himself keep going, voice wobbling but not breaking.
“I’ve been going to therapy,” Finn said, and the words felt like a confession, even though he’d already said most of the hard stuff. He let out a breath, then laughed, tiny and sharp. “I’m learning things about myself. I’m learning that… maybe I don’t have to be this way. Maybe I can change—if I want it bad enough.” He pressed his thumb into the meat of Noah’s palm, grounding himself. “And I do. I want it. I want to be better. For myself. But also for you. You inspired me, Noah. You made me want to try.”
Noah’s mouth twitched, but his lips stayed pressed together. The tear left a wet track, but he didn’t move to wipe it.
Finn’s own pulse pounded in his ears. He felt his face go hot, and for a second he was sure he’d said too much, or said it wrong, or maybe just ruined everything all over again. “I know I don’t deserve you,” Finn said, and he hated the way the words sounded, weak and movie-scripted, but it was true. “But I’m here anyway. I’m asking.”
He squeezed Noah’s hand, not sure if he was anchoring himself or offering a lifeline. “I’m sorry for hurting you,” Finn said. “For not being brave enough, or honest enough, or just enough, period. For every time I made you feel like you were a problem to solve instead of a person I fucking loved being around.” He stopped, because he’d almost said it—loved—and he didn’t know if he was allowed. Maybe he’d never be allowed. But the word hung there anyway, loud as a fire alarm.
He waited for Noah to let go. For Noah to laugh, or say something cruel, or tell Finn to get out and never come back. But Noah didn’t move. He just sat there, silent, letting the tears gather and spill.
Finn let go of Noah’s hand and reached up, slow, so Noah could flinch away if he wanted. He wiped the tear away with his thumb, then let his palm rest against Noah’s cheek.
He pressed his palm to Noah’s cheek a second longer, thumb skating a slow circle below the eye. He wanted to say something else, something that might make it easier for Noah to look at him, but his mouth had run dry. He dropped his hand, let it flop useless to his thigh, and stared at the floor instead. “So that’s…” He cleared his throat, tried again. “That’s all I came to say. I just—thought you should know.” It sounded dumb, like a cop-out, but he didn’t know how else to wrap it up. Maybe there was no good way.
Noah still hadn’t moved. He was looking at the gap between their knees, his own hands joined in a tangle so tight the knuckles blanched. The silence felt like a dare.
Finn shifted, knees creaking against the edge of the mattress. He looked at the wall, at the calendar, at anything that wasn’t Noah. “So, uh. I guess I’ll…” He stood, the motion awkward, a puppet on a bad string. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess,” he said, and tried to smile, but his lips didn’t get the message.
He was halfway to the door when Noah said, “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was soft, and Finn almost missed it under the tick of the radiator.
Finn stopped, hand already on the knob. “I just figured you’d want time to—” He made an uncertain gesture, as if the rest of the sentence would materialize in the air. “Unless you’re, like, already sure you don’t want any of this. Which is totally—” He meant to say fine, but the word caught on a burr in his throat.
Noah shook his head, a tiny, precise motion. “Stop,” he said, and his eyes finally met Finn’s. There was something new in them—tired, but bright, like a bulb that flickered to life after a blackout. “You said your piece, so now let me say mine.” He patted the bed beside him, and Finn came back, slow, like he was afraid the floor might give out.
Noah waited until Finn sat down, their knees touching this time. He looked at their hands, his own still knotted, then at Finn’s, which hovered in the air like a question. “Yeah, you were a jerk,” Noah said. “You hurt me. A lot.” He shook his head, not angry, just matter-of-fact. “And I don’t mean physically. I mean all the ways you made me feel… less than. Or like I was just filling up space, and you’d rather be anywhere else.” The words landed, but not with the force Finn expected. They just settled there, heavy and true.
He started to apologize, but Noah kept going. “But you also made me feel safe. And cared for. And, like, so, so alive.”
Finn couldn’t move. He let Noah’s words soak in, each one a slap and a balm at the same time.
Noah sniffed hard and wiped his cheek with the heel of his palm. “I’m not saying you get a free pass for everything,” he said, voice steadier now. “But I know what it’s like to be scared of wanting something. And I know how hard it is to actually show up.” He looked at Finn, really looked, and Finn felt his whole body clench, waiting for the verdict. “I didn’t answer your texts because… I thought it would be easier. And I didn’t think you wanted this. Not really. Not enough to do the work.”
Finn opened his mouth to argue, but the words dried up. He’d spent so long convincing himself that Noah was the one with all the leverage, that Noah was the one who could take it or leave it—he’d never actually considered how much it must have sucked to be on the other side of all that uncertainty.
He said, “And now?”
Noah’s mouth twisted again, but this time it was almost a smile. “Now I think you’re actually being real with me. Like, really real. It’s… weird. Good. Refreshing, even.” He laughed, a short, surprised sound. “This is the Finn I wanted. The one I always felt was in there somewhere. I just… I want more of that. A lot more.”
Finn nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He tried to memorize the moment, the burn behind his eyes, the way Noah’s knee pressed into his, the soft heat between their joined hands.
Noah went on, voice dropping. “But I’m scared, too. Like, really fucking scared. What if it just goes to shit again? I don’t know if I could take it.” He squeezed Finn’s hand so hard it hurt. “I’m already… kind of broken down. You know?”
Finn nodded, slow, like he was lining up a shot in a game he’d never played before. “I can’t promise it’s gonna be easy,” he said, voice hoarse. “I still have a lot of shit to work through.” He chewed his lip, searching for the least embarrassing way to say it. “I’m probably gonna mess up. Like, I can’t say I’ll never get jealous, or shut down and go full emo, or say something stupid instead of just talking it out. I can’t—” He hesitated, the words catching on the way out. “I can’t be your Instagram boyfriend. Not all the way, not yet. But I want to try telling people. Not, like, the internet. But the people who matter. I want that. If you still want me.”
Noah swallowed, a visible shudder rolling through his neck. He looked down at their hands, then up, blinking hard, and said, “I choose to believe you.” The words landed with a weird, off-center gravity. “I choose to believe this can work. That you mean it. And…” He trailed off, then let out a shaky breath. “I want to be here with you for all the messy parts. Even if you fuck it up sometimes. Even if I do.” His mouth twisted, like he was fighting back a smile or a sob—Finn couldn’t tell which.
Noah shifted closer, close enough that their knees knocked. Their hands—still tangled—rested in the narrow space between their thighs. Noah gave a gentle tug on Finn’s hand, drawing him forward as he leaned in—slow and uncertain, as if he was giving Finn a chance to dodge.
Finn didn’t. He met him halfway, and their lips brushed, soft, nothing like the desperate collisions from before.
Art by 승ꜱᴇᴜɴɢ
Noah kissed him again, a little firmer, and Finn felt the heat of it bloom up the back of his skull. He let himself sink in, let his mouth open just enough for Noah to flick his tongue along Finn’s lower lip. Finn shivered, then laughed into the kiss, a little broken sound that felt like it belonged to someone who’d just found air after being underwater too long. He shifted, pulling Noah in by the neck, and they kissed again, slow and weirdly careful, as if afraid to scare each other off.
When they finally pulled apart, Finn’s lips tingled and his whole face felt hot. “God, I missed that,” he said, the words slurred by the smile he couldn’t hold back.
Noah’s cheeks went pink, a flush that started at his ears and worked its way in. “Me too,” he said. He sounded shy, but there was something in his eyes—alive, sharp, a brightness Finn hadn’t seen in months. “You’re different,” Noah said, and then, before Finn could ask what that meant, he added, “I like it.”
Finn felt his chest do a weird, juddering flip. He thought about all the things he’d wanted to say, all the ways he’d planned to prove he could be better, but none of it felt necessary now. He squeezed Noah’s hand, then leaned in and kissed him again, just because he could.
He rested his head on Noah’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of laundry soap and the faintest trace of sweat. He wanted to stay there forever, or at least until the next disaster.
Noah ran a hand through his hair, then checked his phone and made a sound like a kicked puppy. “Shit. It’s almost ten. I have, like, four years of packing to do and I haven’t even started.” He glanced up at Finn, sheepish, as if apologizing for being abducted by reality.
Finn smiled, a slow, lazy stretch of his mouth. “Yeah, I should probably head out. Let you get your shit together.” He meant it, but he didn’t move. His knees still touched Noah’s. His hand still cradled Noah’s on the bedspread, thumb rubbing a slow, unconscious circle into the skin.
Noah shook his head, quick. “You don’t have to go. You can—” He stopped, and Finn watched the words try to line up in his brain, then tumble out anyway. “You can sleep here. If you want.” He said it like a challenge, like Finn would dare him to say it again.
“In your parents’ house?” Finn said, grinning. “You know they’re, like, thirty feet away, right?”
Noah shrugged, but his mouth twitched up, sly. “They’re not going to care. It’s not like we’re going to—” He stopped, then made a face. “Sleep. Only.” He held up a finger, warning and promise both.
Finn barked a laugh, the first real one in weeks. He leaned in, kissed Noah on the mouth, quick and greedy, like he could fit the whole summer’s worth of missing him into one second. Noah kissed back, and Finn felt the heat rise up the back of his neck. He wanted to stay here forever.
Noah broke first, but not by much. His voice was rough at the edges. “Give me five minutes. I’ll go tell my mom you’re staying.”
“Go,” Finn said. He watched Noah stand, watched the way his shoulders squared up as he left the room, and he felt the shape of his own heart: full, frantic, a little raw but still beating. Still here.
*
Finn lay on his back, Noah’s head tucked under his chin. He could feel the slow glide of Noah’s breath warming the hollow of his throat. He wanted to memorize it, every inhale and exhale, the way Noah’s ribs rose and fell, the way his hair smelled faintly of coconut.
Noah said, “This is nice,” and the words vibrated into Finn’s collarbone.
Finn said, “Yeah,” and let his hand settle on the small of Noah’s back, just to prove it wasn’t a dream.
He didn’t want to ruin it, but he said, “Not gonna lie, I didn’t expect to end up in your bed tonight.”
Noah made a noise, maybe a laugh, maybe just air being pushed out. “No?”
Finn shook his head, scraping his chin against the top of Noah’s hair. “I kinda thought I’d be back home. Maybe with a black eye. Or at least a broken heart.”
Noah’s fingers tightened in Finn’s shirt, a little twitch of muscle. “I’m glad you thought wrong.”
“Me too,” Finn said. He let the words hang, then added, “Aren’t your parents gonna think it’s weird I’m sleeping in here?”
Noah made a noise in his throat, not quite a laugh. “I didn’t exactly tell them you’d be sleeping in my bed,” he said. “With me also in it.” He angled a look up, his hair flopping over one brow, and Finn felt the urge to push it back, to get a clear shot at those eyes.
Finn grinned, slow and lopsided. “Reckless,” he said. “I like it.” He twined their ankles together under the covers and let his hand drift along Noah’s back, just above the waistband of the borrowed sweats. “I feel kind of bad, though. I didn’t even bring you a present.” The words came out lighter than he’d expected, almost a joke, but the truth of it stung a little. He’d had three weeks to figure something out, and all he’d brought was himself—barely held together, still damp from the rain, and still unsure if he’d be wanted at all.
Noah wriggled closer, so they were chest to chest, breath to breath. “You did,” he said, voice gone soft and weirdly serious. “You gave me the biggest surprise of my life.” He blinked, and Finn watched the lashes catch on each other, a slow-motion tangle. “I mean, you showed up. You said all this stuff. That’s, like, top-tier birthday material.”
Finn let that roll around his head for a second. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. 11:43. He could feel the minutes ticking down, the end of the day coming up fast. “It’s technically not too late to give you a present,” he said, voice low, conspiratorial. “If you want one.”
Noah’s hand caught his as Finn’s fingers crept under the hem of his shirt, cold against warm skin. “Only sleep,” Noah said, but the words were muffled by the way his face was already buried in Finn’s collarbone.
Finn's mouth went dry. "We could do that," he said, brushing his thumb along the sharp knob of Noah's hip. "But I had something really special in mind for you. If you want.” He let his hand creep higher, up the ladder of Noah’s ribs, slow and careful. “But only if you’re up for it.”
Noah buried his face in Finn’s neck. “Does this surprise require, like, a lot of noise? Because my mom is a light sleeper.”
Finn grinned, all teeth and mischief, and pressed his lips to the top of Noah’s head. “That depends,” he said, running a thumb along the hem of Noah’s t-shirt. “Are you planning to be loud?”
Noah made a face at him, half challenge, half warning. “I’m not the problem,” he said, but his voice was already going breathy, the words softening as Finn’s hand drifted up his back, under the shirt.
Finn pressed his mouth to Noah’s jaw, then cheekbone, then the soft hollow beneath his eye. He took his time, slow, like he was mapping constellations—every freckle, every invisible scar. Noah’s skin was warm, velvety, and when Finn traced the edge of Noah’s ear with his tongue, he felt the shiver that ran through both of them. Noah made a sound—half laugh, half whimper—then twisted, pressing their bodies tighter together under the blanket.
Finn wanted to keep going, to press his mouth to every inch of Noah until they were both out of air, but Noah’s hand caught him at the shoulder, gentle but definite. “Wait,” Noah whispered. “Just—hold on.” He rolled out of Finn’s grip, landing on his knees at the foot of the bed, hair wild and eyes shining.
Finn blinked, dazed, as Noah rummaged through the piles on the floor, then the closet, then a drawer Finn hadn’t even noticed before. “What are you doing?” Finn whispered, but Noah just shushed him, laser-focused, searching for something in the mess.
A second later, Noah made a triumphant noise and came up holding a little plastic dome. It looked like a toy, or maybe something you’d buy for a toddler’s birthday, but when Noah set it on the carpet and hit the switch, Finn realized what it was. The machine spun up with a soft, whirring purr, and then the ceiling exploded into a riot of stars—pinpricks of green and blue and violet, all spinning and swimming in slow, lazy orbits. The whole room went cosmic. Finn couldn’t help it: he grinned, wide and unguarded, the way he used to when his brother pulled off a perfect cannonball.
Noah flopped back on the bed, then reached up and flicked off the lamp. The stars brightened, the entire ceiling a planetarium, and Finn felt his chest get tight in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. He looked at Noah, who was propped up on an elbow, watching him with a smile that was all teeth and challenge.
“Noah Schnapp,” Finn whispered, “you didn’t tell me you were romantic.”
Noah shrugged, but his ears went pink. “I wasn’t going to waste it on just anyone,” he said. He lay back, arms over his head, and the stars painted his face with shifting blue shadows. Finn wanted to memorize the look of it, the way the light picked out every angle and left the rest in velvet black.
He leaned in, mouth to Noah’s neck, and kissed along the line of his throat, then down to the collarbone, then lower, following the line of stars that landed on Noah’s skin. He could feel the pulse under Noah’s jaw, quick and hard. He licked a stripe down to the hollow at the base of Noah’s throat, then kissed there, slow, open-mouthed, until he felt Noah’s breath catch and go ragged.
Noah’s hands landed in Finn’s hair, fingers twisting, not pulling, just holding him there. Finn let himself drift, kissing down, slow, letting his mouth travel across the soft skin below Noah’s chin, then over the curve of his shoulder. He liked how warm Noah was, how he shivered and went still when Finn traced his tongue along the collarbone, tasting salt and the faint, sweet note of whatever soap he used. Finn could feel every tiny hair stand up under his lips. He wanted to laugh at how easy it was to make Noah melt, but instead he kept going, kissing down the left arm, mapping it with his mouth. He took his time at the crook of the elbow, then kissed the inside of Noah’s wrist, once, twice, three times, like he was sealing a promise into the skin.
Noah made a sound, not quite a word, and Finn grinned into the pulse there, then looked up. “You good?” he whispered.
Noah nodded, face turned away, but Finn could see the smile in profile. “Yeah. It’s—” He didn’t finish. There was nothing to finish.
Finn sat up, hands on either side of Noah’s ribs. He watched him, every line of his body outlined in blue starlight, and he wanted to memorize the way Noah looked right now, stretched out and waiting. He hooked a thumb under the waistband of Noah’s boxers and raised an eyebrow, asking. Noah lifted his hips, so Finn peeled them down, slow, until they were just another puddle on the floor.
He wrapped his hand around Noah’s dick and held it there, thumb tracing the ridge at the head, the way the skin pulled tight and glossy. He watched it for a second, not even pretending to look away, just absorbing every detail—the way the veins twisted up the shaft, the tiny pale scar at the crown where the skin changed texture. He wondered if Noah had ever noticed it, or if he was the first person to see it up close. The thought made the back of his neck prickle.
He felt Noah tense, a tremor running all the way down to where Finn’s knuckles rested on his thigh. The air between them went thick, like a summer day before a thunderstorm. For a second, Finn just held him, thumb rubbing circles under the head, watching the way it twitched with every pass. It was weird, how much he liked it. A few months ago he would have laughed at the idea of sucking someone off, but now—now it was just another way to tell Noah he meant it. That he was here, all the way in.
Noah breathed out, a shaky “Finn?” that sounded like a question and a prayer at once.
Finn smiled, then bent forward and took the head into his mouth. The taste was sharp, a little bitter, a little like sweat and skin and nothing he could name. He let it sit there, tongue pressed flat, then slid down farther, letting the weight of it settle on his tongue. He could feel the pulse, the way every tiny shift in pressure made Noah’s hips twitch, his hands fist the sheets.
He sucked, slow, tongue swirling around the head, then up and down the shaft. He bobbed, shallow at first, then deeper, letting the tip slide back to the edge of his throat. He gagged, embarrassingly, but didn’t stop—just pulled off, coughed once, then grinned up at Noah, who was watching him with eyes wide as the moon. “Sorry,” Finn said, voice half wrecked. “Still figuring out the physics.”
Noah made a sound, a high, helpless squeak, and Finn laughed, then went back in, licking up the length, then swirling around the crown, then down again. He liked the way Noah’s hands found his hair, not pushing, just anchoring him. He let his own hands slide up Noah’s thighs, spreading them wider.
He sucked, gentle, then hard, then gentle again, finding a rhythm that seemed to make Noah’s whole body flex and relax, like a muscle in a time-lapse. He felt Noah tense, the thighs under his hands like stone, and heard the sound—a mewl, almost a whimper, and the second it happened, Finn sucked harder, tongue pressed flat, and Noah came.
The taste was as bad as Finn remembered, sharp and bitter, but he kept going, not stopping until Noah was shivering and gasping, his hands fisted so tight in the sheets they might tear. Finn let the cum pool in his mouth, didn’t swallow, not yet. He pulled up, grinning, and crawled up the bed, mouth full, until he was nose to nose with Noah.
Noah blinked, dazed, then realized what Finn was about to do and twisted his face away, laughing, “Get the fuck away from me, you freak,” but Finn just grinned, lips shiny, and then he swallowed, slow, like he was making a point. He licked the taste off his teeth, eyes glued to Noah’s face.
Noah gave a full-body shudder, face red, but he was smiling so wide Finn thought his own face might split.
He collapsed beside Noah, their shoulders touching, both of them staring at the ceiling. Finn could feel the heat radiating from Noah's skin, the slight tremor still running through him.
"Do you want me to…?" Noah said, turning his head.
Finn shook his head. "Not today," he said, voice thick.
Noah's laugh was low, almost a purr. "Wow. So…selfless. Who are you and what have you done with the real Finn Wolfhard?"
Finn snorted, not moving. "Don't push it." He felt Noah's shoulder shake against his, then heard a soft huff of breath.
"Best birthday ever," Noah said, the words floating in the small space between them.
He didn't know what to do with that—whether to laugh, or say something back, or just let it be true for as long as the world would allow.
He let his hand drift across the sheets, found Noah's fingers, and twined them together.
They lay there, side by side, staring up at the rotating constellations, hands locked together on the covers, and Finn thought: Maybe it really could be different. Maybe he could get there from here, after all.