Work Text:
Finney Blake is eighteen when he realizes this is a forever thing. It doesn’t come gently. Doesn’t really settle in like something small he could learn to live with. Nothing ever does with him. It hits him all at once when he’s on his knees on the bathroom floor with a burning throat and cheeks as pale as porcelain. He’s warm, and his legs don’t feel like they’re his, and the floor is warping beneath his feet. And it’s real. It’s all so, so real in a way that makes his chest feel tight. The first time he gags, nothing comes out. The second time, the door opens.
“I’m sorry ‘bout the eggs. I forgot he…” Terrence starts, but the rest of his words die in his throat. He’s been trying to be a better man. For real this time. He doesn’t drink anymore. Doesn’t come home smelling like vodka and beer and whatever else was in arm’s reach. Doesn’t slam doors hard enough to shake the house. He knows now. How to be a decent father. But standing there frozen in the doorway with a useless glass of water in his hand, he realizes he has no idea how to help with this. No idea how to reach something he can’t see, can’t touch, that he can’t fix. He doesn’t know if Finn wants to be touched or if stepping closer would make things worse, if his presence is comfort or just another thing pressing in too close.
“Stop. Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”
The anger. The fear. The emptiness that somehow also feels overly full. The inability to talk about it. It’s all forever. And no one will ever fucking understand. There’s too much inside him and none of it has anywhere to go. The words that won’t come, the ones that get stuck in his throat and rot there. The fingerprints beneath his skin.
“I’m going to throw up,” Finney says. His dad turns to leave because he knows better by now. Knows not to hover and crowd. Finn didn’t eat much. Still, his muscles lock up and whatever it was that he had left in his stomach comes out. It hurts more than it should, leaving his throat raw and his eyes watering as he chokes it down and out. He slumps forward with his eyes closed, leaning his head against the toilet seat to catch his breath. But it doesn’t help. Because he can feel it. The air of the basement. Stale, wrong and fucking suffocating. It’s on his tongue, crawling through his throat, settling deep in his chest like something alive, something that never really left and probably never really will. It’s in him. Forever in him. He coughs once, weak and dry before flushing the toilet, pressing his hands over his ears to drown out the sound, like that might stop the memory attached to it. He watches the dirt go down, swirling away and disappearing. He feels the dirt under his nails, real and persistent. If only he had dug faster that day. If only his hands had moved quicker, if only he hadn’t hesitated.
“Bruce told you to dig up. You didn’t listen. You weren’t fast enough. You had to kill him because you weren’t fast enough. He touched you because you weren’t fast enough,” Finney tells himself.
Finney doesn’t rinse when he’s done. Just stands up on legs that he swears are still bruised most days and looks at his reflection in the mirror. He looks wrong. “It’s under my skin,” he mutters. “His fingerprints are under my skin.” The words feel true in a terrifying way that nothing else does. It’s etched in him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to scrape it out. He moves straight to the corner shelf, where the hand sanitizer used to sit. He needs to burn it clean. But it’s gone. No bottle. No wipes. Not even a bar of soap. Just his father’s shaving cream that sputters out foam like a joke. Where is it. He opens the cabinet under the sink, searches through Gwen’s stuff with hands that shake so bad everything falls over. Nothing. No shampoo or cream or anything he can use to get rid of the fingerprints that are under his skin and won’t ever go away.
Finney doesn’t go back downstairs. His dad and Gwen are probably still there, eating eggs and talking and feeling fine like every normal person can. Finney doesn’t know why he’s stuck in this constant state of quiet. Trapped in this endless, suffocating silence where words feel impossible and thinking too loudly makes his head hurt. His lips feel sealed, like if he tried to speak something would split open.
He goes to bed with Albert Shaw’s fingerprints under his skin.
Time passes, but it doesn’t feel real. It slips, and stretches, and it folds in on itself until it’s impossible to tell where one moment ends and the next one begins. It could be hours, could be days. In the basement, time wasn’t real either. It dragged and twisted and looped back until every second felt like it lasted forever. Forever like the anger. Like the fear. Forever without an end. He’s still in that basement to this day. Locked up with the Grabber waiting behind every door.
The two knocks on the door means Gwen is on the other side. She comes in, because she knows she won’t get a Yes or No. The mattress dips in beside him. Finney stares at the wall for a long moment. And then Finney talks.
“Dad hid the sanitizer. And the soap.”
“Do you remember what happened the last time you had the sanitizer?”
Finney swallows. He does know. He swallowed half the bottle to get rid of the fingerprints under his skin. Convinced that if it burned enough, if it hurt enough, it would work. He remembers the sting of alcohol on his tongue, the way it burned going down, how he’d thought that maybe it would clean him from the inside out. Make him new. Make him clean. His dad found him on the bathroom floor, gasping like he was choking on air. He remembers the hospital lights. White and endless and forever. Forever, forever, forever.
“It worked,” Finney says. “It burned. It washed them away. He hid it. He hid the bottle.” He hid it because he thinks you’re crazy. The thought is immediate and cruel and loud. He took it and now you have no control. Albert Shaw is inside you and you can’t get him out. Not without something to burn him away.
“You’re not crazy, Finn.”
“You don’t understand. He’s inside of me. He is. He is inside of me and I can’t get him out because he took the only thing that works. he took the soap. Leave me alone, Gwen. I want to be alone.”
…
It’s three hours later when Finney wakes up. The smell of eggs is gone and there’s no one under his skin. The world is silent in the weird way it always is after the panic. The loud or the quiet, Finney’s not sure which is worse. Gwen is gone. Finn knows it’s because his words shoot to kill when things are bad. They leave behind nothing more than damage. He’s his father’s child, always has been. The tears are there. Burning as they stream over his eyelashes, across his cheeks and down his chin. They are forever, too. He presses his palms to his eyes, standing abruptly. He grabs his jacket from the floor without really seeing it, already moving, needing out. He’s downstairs in seconds.
His dad is on the couch with Gwen and Ernesto Arellano. Finn doesn’t like to see his face.
“I’m going out.”
“Where to?”
“Nowhere. Just need to clear my head.”
“I wish you’d clear your head here. Talk instead of run.”
“I don’t want to talk. I’m not ready.”
Outside, Finney goes right instead of left. He passes Griffin Stagg’s house. The blinds are always shut. Finney wonders if his parents ever leave the house at all. He never sees them out. He doesn’t even know what they look like.
On the other side of the road, a phone starts ringing. The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp and begging. Finn closes his eyes for a second, pulls himself together. He crosses the street and closes the glass door of the booth behind him. His hand hovers just above the receiver before he forces himself to lift it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words practiced and worn, “but I can’t help you.”
The line goes dead.
Finney smokes a cigarette on the doorstep of Albert Shaw’s house. The neighbors moved a long time ago. Packed up and left like the place was cursed, like the evil might spread if they stayed too close. Maybe they’re right. Finney wonders when the town is gonna listen to the people’s wishes to burn this house to the ground. No one wants to live here. Not on this graveyard.
The walls are covered in paint. Words layered over each other in anger and fear. Burn in Hell. Finney has no idea what the basement looks like now. Tries not to picture it too clearly. He knows the mattress is gone. Knows the blood is gone. Scrubbed clean like no one fucking died down there. Some teenagers go down there to smoke weed. More than that, Finney doesn’t know. He’s never made himself step through the kicked-in front door, never crossed that threshold again. Never gone further than this.
He doesn’t sit there because he likes it. No. There’s an ugly, rotten part in his head that keeps telling him he deserves this. To be here for hours on end, his back facing what once was and forever will be. It terrifies him to no end. So whenever he’s bad, whenever he swallows half a bottle of hand sanitizer, or yells at Gwen, or goes quiet on his dad, he sits here. He sits here and lets it crash all over him. The memories of Albert Shaw’s hands on his skin, 23317, the cracks in the ceiling he used to count just to stay awake, the way the air never moved, thick with sweat and rot and time.
And Robin.
Robin, who’s thirteen forever and six feet under. Frozen in a forever moment that never got to grow into anything more.
He sits and lets it hurt.
...
The next morning, Ernesto Arellano is at the door to pick Gwen up, leaning a little awkwardly against the frame like he’s pretending he belongs there. He offers Finney a ride, too, voice easy and careful not to push. but Finney only gives a shake of his head. He doesn’t explain, doesn’t wait for a response, just heads out alone, the door shutting a little harder than he means it to.
The classroom smells like floor cleaner. Mr. Parker is scribbling equations across the board, his voice flat and steady as he talks through each step like it all makes perfect sense. But it doesn’t. Not anymore. The numbers crawl and blur together on the board until they stop meaning anything at all. They’re just shapes and lines that refuse to click into place. Finney used to be good at this part of life. School, numbers, answers that always fit together. Things that have a right way to do them and a right answer waiting at the end. Now, there’s no space in his head for this. Everything is messy. People don’t talk to him anymore. When Finney got back to school for the first time after it happened, everyone wanted to be friends. He could see it in their eyes. The curiosity, the pity, the hunger for his story. So Finney made sure to stay far, far away from them.
The phone call comes that evening. Terrence is halfway through making dinner. The onions are already burning, sticking to the pan. He wipes his hands clean on a paper towel, turns off the burner and picks the phone up with a sigh.
“Terrence Blake,” he says.
“Mr. Blake? This is Ms. Carter, I’m Finney’s guidance counselor at school.” Her voice is polite and careful. Like she’s afraid to say the wrong thing. Like she’s stepping around something fragile. “I’m calling because I wanted to check in about him. We’ve noticed he’s been having a bit of a hard time lately. He’s been missing deadlines, he doesn’t pay attention in class…”
“Yeah,” Terrence says, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s, uh, been through a lot. It’s still hard for him sometimes.”
“Of course. We understand.” A brief pause, like she’s choosing her next words carefully. “It’s just that we’ve all been a little concerned. He used to be one of our best students. He’s just always a little lost in his own world. I thought maybe you could talk to him?”
“Yeah,” he repeats, because it’s easier than admitting he doesn’t know how. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Good,” she says. Another short pause. “He’s a bright kid. He’s already redoing this year. We don’t want him to slip through the cracks.”
Terrence hums an acknowledgment, but the words sit heavy in his head, louder than they should be. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he hangs up, the silence in the kitchen rushing back in to fill the space. He goes back to the stove, where the onions are still turning brown around the edges. He should throw them out, should start over. He doesn’t. He just stirs them absently, like maybe they can still be saved. Like maybe things can still be fixed if he doesn’t look too closely. Doesn’t hover. He just wants his kid to be okay.
Finney walks in the moment Terrence finishes the pasta. He pauses in the doorway like he’s not sure he belongs there.
“Hey,” his dad says, trying to sound casual. Trying to make this normal.
“Hey.”
“School okay?”
A shrug. Barely there. Finney sits down at the table, eyes flicking to Gwen’s empty spot before dropping again.
“Ms. Carter called,” his dad says after a moment. He keeps his eyes on the pan, scraping at the onions that have gone black. “Said you’ve been having some trouble keeping up.”
“I’m fine.”
“She said you’re falling behind.”
“And I said I’m fine.”
Terrence nods. Like that settles it. It doesn’t, he knows. But pushing feels dangerous, like it might snap something that’s barely holding together as it is. Talking isn’t Finney’s strong suit, and it also isn’t his. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. The only sound is the quiet clatter of a spoon against the pot. Terrence gives up halfway through. He grabs two plates, scoops up the parts that look edible, and puts one down in front of Finn.
“You know,” he starts, voice low. “You can talk to me. Or… someone.”
Finney takes a bite. “Yeah. I know.”
“Good. That’s good.” The words feel empty the second they leave his mouth.
“Where’s Gwen?”
“The boyfriend.”
Finney rolls his eyes.
“I don’t like him.”
Because he looks so much like Robin. The same nose, same eyes. Close enough that it hits something deep and painful every time Finney looks at him, like seeing a ghost that isn’t supposed to be there. It’s almost scary. Finn doesn’t admit it. He plays with his food instead. The clock on the wall is the only sound in the room. Terrence watches him quietly from the seat across from him. The tight shoulders, the faraway look. It’s something both him and Gwen have gotten used to over the years.
“I think he’s a nice kid. Tries hard to be liked by you.”
Finn’s hand stills around his fork. It’s small. But it’s there.
“I don’t care,” he says quietly. He starts pushing the food around on his plate again.
Terrence watches him for a second, like he’s trying to decide whether to leave it there. He doesn’t. Not this time. “You don’t have to like him. Just… don’t make it harder on your sister.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. A little.”
Finney exhales hard through his nose, dropping his fork onto the plate with a clatter. “I said I’m not.”
Silence.
“What is it, then?”
“Nothing.”
“Finney.”
“It’s nothing.” But his voice doesn’t match the words. Because it is something. It’s a big something that keeps pushing down on Finney’s chest whenever he sees that kid. Terrence notices. For the first time, he sees a way in.
“Then why does it bother you so much?”
Finney shakes his head. Looks anywhere but at his father. The wall. The table. Gwen’s empty chair.
“Because it just does.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Finney’s jaw tightens. And for a moment, it looks like he’s going to shut down completely. Back into that forever kind of quiet that he seems to be stuck in. But then he talks.
“He looks like him.”
Terrence swallows. Because well, shit, he doesn’t know what to say.
“Robin?”
Finney swallows. His throat feels tight again, like it always does when he gets this close. Dirt and fingerprints and stinging eyes. But he’s already said part of it.
“Robin,” he confirms. He stares down at his plate, his fingers curling against the edge of the table. “It’s—” He shakes his head once, frustrated, like the words aren’t lining up right. “It’s the same. The eyes. It’s just— I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to look at him.”
Terrence’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “That why you don’t like him?”
Finney shrugs, but it’s weak. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s just weird. Makes my chest feel tight.” That’s all he gives. But it’s more than he usually does. More than nothing. So it’s enough. And his dad doesn’t push it further. He just nods once, slow and understanding in a way he’s still learning how to be.
At some point, Terrence clears his throat. “You don’t have to like him,” he says again, but gentler this time. “Just… try not to shut people out completely.”
Finney doesn’t answer right away.
“I’m not good at that,” he admits finally.
Terrence nods. “I know.”
That’s it. No correction. No lecture. Just that.
Finney exhales through his nose, quieter than before. His shoulders are still tight, but not as high as they were at the start of dinner. Something in him feels slightly less stuck. Not gone. Just loosened at the edges.
When he finishes eating, he stands first.
“Night,” he says.
“Night, Finney,” Terrence replies.
Finney pauses at the bottom of the stairs. He stands in the hallway for a moment. The house is quiet again. Dinner is over. Gwen is gone. He talked to his dad. Sort of.
His dad is still in the kitchen, rinsing dishes under running water, not rushing, not calling after him. Just there.
Finney hesitates in the doorway.
Doesn’t know why he stops.
Doesn’t know why he turns back instead of going upstairs like he always does.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says suddenly.
Terrence looks up immediately, drying his hands on a towel. He doesn’t speak. Just waits. Scared that Finney will shut down before evening opening up fully.
Finney swallows. His throat feels tight, but not locked the way it usually is.
“Sometimes I feel his hands on me.”
The words land in the space between them, quiet but terrifyingly real.
“It’s like he’s always with me,” Finney continues, staring at the floor instead of his dad. “In my sleep. When I’m awake. I think it’s forever.”
Terrence doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t move closer. Just listens, like if he does anything too fast it might break the moment he’s been waiting for for months.
Finney exhales shakily.
“I don’t know how to make it stop,” he adds. “I feel him. In my skin. Like he’s trapped there and doesn’t want to come out.”
A pause.
“But I don’t want to keep it inside my head anymore.” Finney says, quieter now. “I can’t, dad. Not without, like… going fucking insane. I feel so fucking insane.”
The last part lands wrong in his own ears. Too honest. Too much. Like he’s stepped too far out of himself and there’s no way to go back in.
Silence.
The kitchen hums around it all. The running water still going, a plate shifting in the sink, the faint creak of the house settling into itself. Everything normal. Everything steady in a way that feels almost unreal compared to him standing there like this. He feels naked. And what scares him the most is that he doesn’t even want to run.
Terrence sets the towel down slowly. Carefully. Like the smallest sound might crack something open that can’t be put back together again. His hands hover for a second after, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them now that they’re empty.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” Because shit, this is important. His kid is finally talking to him and he can’t say the wrong thing. Not now.
Finney finally looks up. Checking if it really is okay. Checking if the ground is solid and if his dad is still there and if he should wait for the word to change shape. For it to turn into something ugly and sharp and dark. Something that proves what he’s been feeling all along. That this is too much, that this is crazy, and that this is forever.
But it doesn’t.
“I hear you,” his dad says after a moment. “I hear you, Finney.”
For a second, Finn doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Because he’s still waiting for it. Waiting for that thing he was certain would happen the moment the words left him. The snap. The fingerprints and the dirt.
But nothing happens. Albert Shaw isn't there and Finney's legs aren't bruised and the phone doesn't ring.
His dad is still there. Still looking at him. Not changed in the way Finney was bracing himself for. There's nothing in him that sounds like regret or alarm or fear. The kitchen just keeps moving the way it always does. Water running.
Finney swallows.
He reaches for it. For the panic, the surge, the familiar collapse inward that usually follows this point. He’s done it before without thinking. He knows the shape of it. Knows exactly how fast and how painful and how defenceless it should come.
But it doesn’t.