Fic: To an Inevitable Dusk
It’s my first Kinn fic, guys, and I’m nervous yet simultaneously stoked. Hold me. (And let me know if you catch a mistake!)
Title: To an Inevitable Dusk
Author: xenachakram12
Rating: R (to be safe) for non-graphic sexual content
Spoilers: Set in 2.03 (Grilled Cheesus), but spoilers for all of S2.
Warnings: Zombies, excessive use of commas, semicolons, and emphasis
Notes: Based on AMC’s The Walking Dead and my subconscious’s spin on it
Summary: Finn didn’t think he would find anything to be grateful for in the apocalypse, but he does. Because without it, he wouldn't have this.
“Our brothers… are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk.” - Susan Scarf Merrell
They don’t talk about it, really. There isn’t much reason. Lima belongs to them now, so they didn’t have a choice. They left and there’s no going back.
Kurt whispered to him once, days after packing their things and leaving for good, that he wished the outbreak had happened while he had been at the hospital. Maybe he would have died, but at least he’d have been with his dad; at least he would have known. It was the not-knowing that was killing him.
Finn watched as his brother finally spoke to him. It was dark out, and cold, so they risked a fire. Kurt’s face was lit up by the flames and he was so, so bright.
They had talked about going for him; they had even planned it. Carole found everything in the house and the garage that resembled a weapon and told her boys to practice with them. Finn had chosen a baseball bat; Kurt the weed-whacker. Carole had smiled wanly; they weren’t very prepared for this sort of thing. No one had been.
They chose Kurt’s Navigator as transport. It wouldn’t be good when it came time to leave Lima because of the terrible gas mileage, but now it could be used for ramming and running over those things. When Finn suggested using another car-“Kurt, man, you love that thing! If we take it, it’s gonna get all messed up!”-Kurt just shrugged and turned away.
They didn’t get very far. The three got as close to the hospital’s side door as they could before exiting the vehicle, hoping to sneak in, but it was only feet before Carole tripped and they were on her. Finn wailed and tried to run after her, throwing himself into the swarm of the dead, but Kurt grabbed him by the hand before he got too far and dragged him back to the car.
Back inside the car, Finn panted in his exertion and shock. He was frozen still yet shaking, unconcerned with the reanimated mangled flesh banging itself against the windows and doors only inches from his body. Kurt was behind the wheel, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles bulged and were impossibly white, looking unblinkingly forward and deciding something. He turned to speak-Finn hadn’t heard his voice in days--looking Finn square in his eyes. “We have to go, Finn. They know we’re here now. If we want a better chance at this, we’ll have to come back after they clear out.”
Finn nodded shakily and managed not to say what he was thinking. Burt could be dead by then. He could be dead now.
In the end it became clear that they weren’t going back. Instead of wandering away from the city center, the crowds of the dead were getting thicker. The only plan that even suggested relief was to get farther out of town, not farther into it. Finn thought Kurt knew that, but one day he flipped out anyway.
“We can’t just leave him there, Finn!” Finn winced. Only Kurt could say his name like an admonition. “He would never leave us.”
Finn let Kurt rage, spitting ire in his face. Kurt called Finn words that Finn didn’t even know; he even broke things, things that he had meticulously placed in his room, things that he loved. When he was done and worn out, Kurt leaned against the wall, slid down it, and landed gracelessly on the floor, his long legs bent up in front of him. Kurt crossed his arms on top of his knees, tucked his head into himself, and sobbed. Finn sighed, sickly relieved, went over to him, and put his arm around his back. “I know, man. I know. I love him, too.”
It was the truth. Finn loved Burt and he wanted him with them; of course he did. Burt would know what to do. He would keep them together and safe; he would find help. Finn had never seen Burt use a gun, but it seemed to him like Burt was the type of guy to know how. If anyone could get through the apocalypse by will alone, it was Burt.
Finn held his brother and considered being the hero for a moment. He could tell Kurt that they would get Burt out of that hospital come hell or high-water (he’d learned that phrase from Burt) and that the three of them would find their way together. Kurt would look at him, lit up and renewed with hope. Finn didn’t say any of that, though; he couldn’t. He knew that there was no guarantee that Burt was alive, and if he were, what were the chances that he had awoken from his coma? No, it was too much of a risk. The truth was that Finn loved Burt, but he loved Kurt more, and he didn’t quite know what to do with that.
On their last day in Lima, Finn and Kurt had scavenged what they could and stolen a gas-efficient car. They had chosen a direction-South in hopes to avoid the coming winter-and set off together. Kurt was strung bow-tight and Finn felt like he’d lost all his bones, but they both had a will to live and it was enough.
Now here they are: an indeterminate number of weeks later, two brothers moving toward something, some future that they don’t know and maybe don’t want to know.
Things aren’t easy. Food is scarce and they ran out of gas days ago. They choose the woods over the highway; without a vehicle the roads leave them too exposed. Finn wishes he had thought of bug spray.
Kurt does his best to make what they gather into something edible, but even he can only do so much. They spend more time looking for potable water than food anyway. Sometimes they find water in ponds or puddles or lakes, but when they get closer, they see it’s tainted with blood or floating bodies. They can’t risk it, so they keep moving.
Kurt is quiet now. Finn asks him all the time if he’s ok, and Kurt always says that he is, non-committal and distant. Finn wants to believe him, but he doesn’t. A happy Kurt talks; a happy Kurt sings, and this Kurt doesn’t do much of either.
Sometimes Finn gets so mad at Kurt. He doesn’t fully understand why; he doesn’t blame Kurt for feeling… whatever he’s feeling right now. He just gets so frustrated at the wall of silence, so he yells things like, “My mom died, too, Kurt! Did you just forget about her?” He knows it’s a low blow, but when Kurt’s eyes crackle with anger, Finn feels better. It doesn’t make sense, but he does.
Kurt starts to come around though. He talks more, mostly to give Finn instructions, but at least it’s something. Sometimes Kurt will say something that is so sharp and witty and Kurt that Finn will laugh like the world hasn’t ended. If he’s really lucky, he’ll laugh long and hard enough that Kurt will laugh, too. On those days Kurt looks at Finn like maybe he doesn’t blame him for anything and Finn sleeps hard.
They make mistakes. Finn gets careless and is nearly bitten, or worse. Kurt has asked him to gather some flowers in the woods-“I know they’re pretty, Finn, but we are can eat them. I saw it on TV.”-and Finn is enjoying himself. It’s pretty warm for how late in the year it is and the sun is on his face. He sings something he learned in Glee whose title he can’t remember and lets his guard down. Before he knows it, a macerated hand is on his face and an open, bloody maw is at his shoulder. Finn startles, yelling, and takes off in a run. Finn is fast, but the thing doesn’t get tired, and eventually Finn trips over his own foot. He lands face-down, chest connecting with a sizeable rock; he loses all the air in his body and he suddenly knows he won’t survive. He knows that he can’t recover his breath in time to get away and he wishes he could tell Kurt that he’s sorry. Finn waits and waits, cheek and palms against the grass as he heaves and pants, but the thing never comes.
Finn hears a grisly smash. It’s the sound of destruction of flesh, a sound he wishes he couldn’t recognize. All of a sudden, he’s being flipped over, but the body is warm and solid and smells distinctly of life. Kurt is there, looking wildly at Finn; his hands are everywhere, like Finn’s guts might just decide to escape if Kurt weren’t there to catch them and hold them in.
As Kurt searches Finn for bites or other fatal injuries, Finn feels his chest swell hot and tight, a feeling that can only partially be blamed on the almost surely broken rib. The look on Kurt’s face is captivating. Kurt’s manner isn’t clinical, not now. He’s not just protecting his companion, he’s worried and terrified, and now Finn’s face is feeling hot, too. Finn carefully props himself up on his left elbow before reaching his right hand up and placing palm and fingers on Kurt’s face. The touch is so gentle and careful-much more careful than Kurt is being-that it makes Kurt look up. Their eyes meet and Finn must smile, because Kurt shudders in relief. Finn just keeps looking, afraid to let the moment end, and bleeds.
Kurt takes care of Finn and doesn’t let him forget how close the call was. If this had happened a year ago, he would have thought Kurt was mad at him, punishing him. Now he knows that each comment is Kurt’s way of saying he cares. Don’t let it happen again, Finn. I need you here. Okay? The thought makes Finn feel things he’d rather not examine.
If he had bothered to examine those feelings though, maybe he would have seen this coming. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have. Finn was never very good with feelings, especially ones he didn’t discuss with Kurt. Sometimes Finn remembers the “lady chats” Kurt used to insist upon, glasses of warm milk in hand. Finn wishes he had taken Kurt up on more of them.
It’s another life-or-death situation that does it. Surprisingly, it isn’t one of the walking dead that causes it; it’s due to a plain old lack of civilization and medical care. And, of course, it’s Finn’s life that is in danger… again. It’s times like these that makes Finn put himself down, speculating that Kurt would be better off without him. Then he remembers how Kurt looks at him sometimes and thinks that no, he wouldn’t be.
Finn’s energy starts to wane just a couple of days after the injury. The rock he had fallen on had been sharp and broken the skin; it turns out it was probably really dirty too, or he never would have gotten sick. Finn begins to lose his appetite-“Finn, the only time I’ve ever seen you skip a meal is when Rachel made you celebrate Yom Kippur with her, and even then you were sneaking snacks behind her back!”-which is what tips Kurt off that something is wrong. Kurt gets Finn to sit, touches his forehead, and reels back in concern.
“Finn, you’re burning up.”
“’M fine. I can keep going.”
Kurt sighs angrily. “Yeah, maybe for a little while! But soon you won’t have the strength. Let me see your ribs.”
Kurt holds his hands out to grip Finn’s shirt and pull it up, but Finn bats his hands away. Kurt is persistent and stubborn, though, and eventually Finn gets tired of resisting. Finn watches Kurt’s face and knows the exact second Kurt’s eyes land on the red, irritated flesh.
“Finn…” Kurt says his name long and slow, and it’s mostly air. His eyes are turning red and his bottom lip is trembling slightly. It’s like Finn is already dead.
“I’m okay, man. Really. I’m not going anywhere.” Finn pulls Kurt into him and squeezes him tight, ribs be damned. Kurt doesn’t squeeze back, but he rests his forehead on Finn’s collarbone and Finn can feel his puffs of breath. They stand there together until Finn starts to wobble and Kurt guides him to the ground.
Finn makes it through the infection. Kurt suggests going to raid a pharmacy or a hospital for antibiotics, but they’re too far into the woods and have no idea which way to go. Instead, they wait it out. Kurt forces Finn to eat until he doesn’t have to force him anymore and Finn sleeps more than he has since the outbreak. One foggy morning Finn wakes up clear-eyed and alert and Kurt smiles bright enough to set the trees on fire.
Finn thinks about God sometimes, especially now. He had thought about Him after Burt got sick-when he was putting all his faith in a freaking sandwich--but he thinks even more about Him now. If God exists, Finn reasons, he must not care at all, because he’s letting everyone suffer and die. If God is watching, Finn hopes he’s making Him angry.
When Finn is fully recovered from the infection, he and Kurt set out South again to cover ground. They haven’t found anything to suggest that there’s help anywhere and everyday their hope and connection to the human race dwindles. They keep pressing on, though, and never mention it.
Finn figures everything between him and Kurt is great. Finn is healthy again and Kurt is talking to him; the topics are relatively superficial, but what do people talk about during the apocalypse? Finn is shocked later that night to come back from gathering snails-“Quit whining, Finn. French people used to eat these even when they had a choice.”--to find Kurt with only half of camp set up, sitting in the dust, and sobbing.
Finn rushes to him, puts his hands on arms and torso, and searches for physical harm. He finds none. Kurt continues to sob as if he doesn’t notice Finn, so Finn forces Kurt’s face up to meet his gaze.
“I was so scared, Finn,” Kurt whispers. He’s telling Finn his secrets now. “So scared.”
“Of what, man?” Finn wishes he had something better to call Kurt… a term to sum up everything Kurt is to him. Does that word exist? “You can tell me.”
Kurt sets off to sobbing again, his frame shaking. Finn wraps his arms around him, kneeling on dirt and gravel and not caring about the ache in his knees.
Kurt sniffs. “I wasn’t sure… you were going to make it.” Kurt looks at Finn, then. “You were so weak, and we didn’t have anything to help you and I thought…”
Something inside Finn bursts and he nearly falls over with the force of it. It’s so new and different and he doesn’t understand it, but he is suddenly so full of feeling that his heart is racing. He pulls back to look Kurt in the eyes. Kurt looks guilty and shamed, like what he’s just said was a betrayal, but it wasn’t. It was a revelation.
Finn can’t decide if the past few weeks have been leading up to this, or if he is defying fate completely. Finn pulls back, running his palms in opposite directions along the fabric covering Kurt’s back as he withdraws. His left hand continues to slide, ending up on Kurt’s bicep and gripping it tight; his right hand leaves Kurt’s body to find it again lower down.
When the back of Finn’s fingers brush over Kurt’s fly, Kurt looks confused in way that Kurt almost never does. “C’mon, Kurt. I’ve got this. We can have this.”
Kurt’s mouth opens soundlessly, word stuck within him. It isn’t a no, so Finn uses both hands to undo the button and the zipper of Kurt’s fly. Kurt’s hands are on Finn’s shoulders gripping hard, harder than most people would think Kurt could grip. Finn knows better.
Finn slides his hand into Kurt’s briefs and takes him in hand. Kurt starts like something bites him.
“Shh, hey,” Finn soothes. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. Let me.”
Finn starts to move his hand. It’s light and easy at first, not meant to please, but to get Kurt used to the idea. Kurt’s eyes are big and bright, maybe even watery, but eventually his muscles relax. His body comes to terms with this, but somehow his face never quite does.
Finn decides Kurt isn’t going to run, so he tightens his grip and loosens his wrist. When Kurt gasps and hisses, he looks stricken and Finn can’t watch anymore. Finn squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead into Kurt’s temple. Somehow Kurt is still more together than Finn even when Finn is taking him apart.
Finn continues to work his arm, Kurt’s tiny, breathy sounds his only feedback. He only knows when to stop because Kurt puts his hand on him. Finn pulls his hand back and it’s wet. He considers using water from the jug to wash it away, but he doesn’t. Instead he wipes the fluid on the grass before standing up and stuffing his hands in his pockets. Kurt looks at him with a slight grimace before looking away. Finn knows that Kurt probably thinks it’s gross that he doesn’t properly wash his hands. If he asks, Finn will say he didn’t want to waste the water.
Finn isn’t sure what one is supposed to feel after something like this, but he’s pretty sure his feelings are wrong. He’s hard in his jeans, but he hardly notices. He makes the excuse that he has to pee and strides away quickly. He thinks that Kurt will probably figure he’s going to jerk off, but Kurt doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t call him a pervert, doesn’t call him back to him, so Finn keeps walking. He’s wired and emotional and half-crazed, and he can’t help but wish he’d kissed Kurt. He doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks that maybe that was the first time anyone had touched Kurt like that and Finn wishes he had made it good. He’s not sure Kurt will ever give him another chance to make it up to him.
It’s another thing they don’t talk about, another event by which to mark time. The next morning, they neither pretend like it never happened nor do they address it. Finn thinks maybe they’ve both made peace with it. He shamefully wishes that there wasn’t so much peace between them now, lamenting that of all the things in their life, this is the thing that is easy.
Enough time passes that Finn starts to doubt it ever happened in the first place. He thinks that maybe he dreamt it, that maybe his fever came back one night, causing him to want things that he has no right to want and imagine things that could never possibly happen. He tries to think of Kurt the way he used to before the outbreak, but he notices him in ways now that he can’t ignore. They work together for a life, hunting and fighting and resting, and Finn watches Kurt always. Kurt is still pale, but on his shoulders and the bridge of his nose, he’s lightly tanned and freckled because he no longer has the luxury of avoiding the sun. When the muscles in his arms flex, Finn feels it in his gut. Finn is grateful for the time they spend apart, each doing separate tasks. Finn uses the time to clear his head and sometimes to bring himself off, which both helps and hurts. Kurt gives him a little smile each time they come back together, pleased to see him safe, so Finn pretends he’s doing nothing wrong.
Kurt starts having nightmares. He doesn’t tell Finn at first. Finn hears Kurt wake whining and panting more than once before Kurt ever says anything. When Kurt finally does mention the dreams, he makes light, claiming he doesn’t remember them once he wakes up. After a particularly bad week of watching Kurt with dark circles under his eyes, Finn decides he isn’t going to let it go anymore. Finn is working to restore a busted radio-what if someone is calling out to them and they never hear?-and takes his turn on night watch, letting Kurt sleep. Finn is startled when Kurt jolts awake, stock straight and crying out. Finn drops the radio instantly and crawls over to Kurt, taking his hand and guiding him back down to the ground. He pulls Kurt close, tucking him under his arm and trying to be as solid and comforting as possible. That night Kurt whispers to him his nightmares. Most are about his dad, but some are about Finn. In almost all they are walkers, Kurt’s new term for the risen dead. Sometimes they come for Kurt and devour him; in others they blame Kurt for their fates. Kurt hates the latter more.
It becomes a habit that Finn comforts Kurt after his dreams. Kurt startles awake, realizes where he is, and finds Finn in the dark. Finn doesn’t want Kurt to have the nightmares; he would never wish that on him. He can’t help but wish though that Kurt would come to him to sleep every night, just because. Finn won’t ask for it though. Instead he settles for his role and never mentions that he wants touch Kurt when he’s feeling good and not just when he’s terrified.
It turns out Finn doesn’t have to ask. It’s not long before Kurt starts coming to him each day as the sun falls. “Are you sure it’s ok, Finn? It’s just… I sleep better when I do.” Finn just nods his acquiescence, not looking at Kurt directly, ignoring the rush of blood he hears in his ears on top of all other sounds.
Finn wakes up one night, a night that started out with Kurt pressed lengthy and chaste along his side, to warm moisture on his jaw. He briefly panics; have walkers found them? Kurt was supposed to stay awake to guard; had they gotten him first? His panic quickly subsides when a warm, broad, welcome hand slides diagonally upward from his right hip to under his left arm, under his left shoulder, and gripping firm. The moisture on his jaw moves, expands, and Finn feels soft flesh behind it, stroking with intention. Finn jaw twitches, indicating he’s awake, and Kurt stills his mouth to look into Finn’s eyes. Finn knows that he cannot always read Kurt, not correctly anyway, but in this moment Kurt is an open book and Finn knows the words like he wrote them. Kurt is unsure, nervous that he’s read this wrong, that Finn won’t want this. Finn moves instantly, meeting Kurt’s shocked-open mouth with his own, taking this person who cannot be explained with a word into his hands and his arms and his mouth and assures without words, “Yes, I want this. Yes.”
They continue. They keep moving to find again what used to be civilization, raiding pharmacies and markets and convenience stores, taking what they need and can carry. They guard over each other as they sleep and care for each other when they get hurt or sick. They touch when they don’t have to, just because they can, and smile both sly and smug when they are blissful and loose. These moments don’t last long-danger is everywhere and there is always more work to do-but it’s enough. They have a will to live, they have each other, and it’s enough.
Title: To an Inevitable Dusk
Author: xenachakram12
Rating: R (to be safe) for non-graphic sexual content
Spoilers: Set in 2.03 (Grilled Cheesus), but spoilers for all of S2.
Warnings: Zombies, excessive use of commas, semicolons, and emphasis
Notes: Based on AMC’s The Walking Dead and my subconscious’s spin on it
Summary: Finn didn’t think he would find anything to be grateful for in the apocalypse, but he does. Because without it, he wouldn't have this.
“Our brothers… are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk.” - Susan Scarf Merrell
They don’t talk about it, really. There isn’t much reason. Lima belongs to them now, so they didn’t have a choice. They left and there’s no going back.
Kurt whispered to him once, days after packing their things and leaving for good, that he wished the outbreak had happened while he had been at the hospital. Maybe he would have died, but at least he’d have been with his dad; at least he would have known. It was the not-knowing that was killing him.
Finn watched as his brother finally spoke to him. It was dark out, and cold, so they risked a fire. Kurt’s face was lit up by the flames and he was so, so bright.
They had talked about going for him; they had even planned it. Carole found everything in the house and the garage that resembled a weapon and told her boys to practice with them. Finn had chosen a baseball bat; Kurt the weed-whacker. Carole had smiled wanly; they weren’t very prepared for this sort of thing. No one had been.
They chose Kurt’s Navigator as transport. It wouldn’t be good when it came time to leave Lima because of the terrible gas mileage, but now it could be used for ramming and running over those things. When Finn suggested using another car-“Kurt, man, you love that thing! If we take it, it’s gonna get all messed up!”-Kurt just shrugged and turned away.
They didn’t get very far. The three got as close to the hospital’s side door as they could before exiting the vehicle, hoping to sneak in, but it was only feet before Carole tripped and they were on her. Finn wailed and tried to run after her, throwing himself into the swarm of the dead, but Kurt grabbed him by the hand before he got too far and dragged him back to the car.
Back inside the car, Finn panted in his exertion and shock. He was frozen still yet shaking, unconcerned with the reanimated mangled flesh banging itself against the windows and doors only inches from his body. Kurt was behind the wheel, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles bulged and were impossibly white, looking unblinkingly forward and deciding something. He turned to speak-Finn hadn’t heard his voice in days--looking Finn square in his eyes. “We have to go, Finn. They know we’re here now. If we want a better chance at this, we’ll have to come back after they clear out.”
Finn nodded shakily and managed not to say what he was thinking. Burt could be dead by then. He could be dead now.
In the end it became clear that they weren’t going back. Instead of wandering away from the city center, the crowds of the dead were getting thicker. The only plan that even suggested relief was to get farther out of town, not farther into it. Finn thought Kurt knew that, but one day he flipped out anyway.
“We can’t just leave him there, Finn!” Finn winced. Only Kurt could say his name like an admonition. “He would never leave us.”
Finn let Kurt rage, spitting ire in his face. Kurt called Finn words that Finn didn’t even know; he even broke things, things that he had meticulously placed in his room, things that he loved. When he was done and worn out, Kurt leaned against the wall, slid down it, and landed gracelessly on the floor, his long legs bent up in front of him. Kurt crossed his arms on top of his knees, tucked his head into himself, and sobbed. Finn sighed, sickly relieved, went over to him, and put his arm around his back. “I know, man. I know. I love him, too.”
It was the truth. Finn loved Burt and he wanted him with them; of course he did. Burt would know what to do. He would keep them together and safe; he would find help. Finn had never seen Burt use a gun, but it seemed to him like Burt was the type of guy to know how. If anyone could get through the apocalypse by will alone, it was Burt.
Finn held his brother and considered being the hero for a moment. He could tell Kurt that they would get Burt out of that hospital come hell or high-water (he’d learned that phrase from Burt) and that the three of them would find their way together. Kurt would look at him, lit up and renewed with hope. Finn didn’t say any of that, though; he couldn’t. He knew that there was no guarantee that Burt was alive, and if he were, what were the chances that he had awoken from his coma? No, it was too much of a risk. The truth was that Finn loved Burt, but he loved Kurt more, and he didn’t quite know what to do with that.
On their last day in Lima, Finn and Kurt had scavenged what they could and stolen a gas-efficient car. They had chosen a direction-South in hopes to avoid the coming winter-and set off together. Kurt was strung bow-tight and Finn felt like he’d lost all his bones, but they both had a will to live and it was enough.
Now here they are: an indeterminate number of weeks later, two brothers moving toward something, some future that they don’t know and maybe don’t want to know.
Things aren’t easy. Food is scarce and they ran out of gas days ago. They choose the woods over the highway; without a vehicle the roads leave them too exposed. Finn wishes he had thought of bug spray.
Kurt does his best to make what they gather into something edible, but even he can only do so much. They spend more time looking for potable water than food anyway. Sometimes they find water in ponds or puddles or lakes, but when they get closer, they see it’s tainted with blood or floating bodies. They can’t risk it, so they keep moving.
Kurt is quiet now. Finn asks him all the time if he’s ok, and Kurt always says that he is, non-committal and distant. Finn wants to believe him, but he doesn’t. A happy Kurt talks; a happy Kurt sings, and this Kurt doesn’t do much of either.
Sometimes Finn gets so mad at Kurt. He doesn’t fully understand why; he doesn’t blame Kurt for feeling… whatever he’s feeling right now. He just gets so frustrated at the wall of silence, so he yells things like, “My mom died, too, Kurt! Did you just forget about her?” He knows it’s a low blow, but when Kurt’s eyes crackle with anger, Finn feels better. It doesn’t make sense, but he does.
Kurt starts to come around though. He talks more, mostly to give Finn instructions, but at least it’s something. Sometimes Kurt will say something that is so sharp and witty and Kurt that Finn will laugh like the world hasn’t ended. If he’s really lucky, he’ll laugh long and hard enough that Kurt will laugh, too. On those days Kurt looks at Finn like maybe he doesn’t blame him for anything and Finn sleeps hard.
They make mistakes. Finn gets careless and is nearly bitten, or worse. Kurt has asked him to gather some flowers in the woods-“I know they’re pretty, Finn, but we are can eat them. I saw it on TV.”-and Finn is enjoying himself. It’s pretty warm for how late in the year it is and the sun is on his face. He sings something he learned in Glee whose title he can’t remember and lets his guard down. Before he knows it, a macerated hand is on his face and an open, bloody maw is at his shoulder. Finn startles, yelling, and takes off in a run. Finn is fast, but the thing doesn’t get tired, and eventually Finn trips over his own foot. He lands face-down, chest connecting with a sizeable rock; he loses all the air in his body and he suddenly knows he won’t survive. He knows that he can’t recover his breath in time to get away and he wishes he could tell Kurt that he’s sorry. Finn waits and waits, cheek and palms against the grass as he heaves and pants, but the thing never comes.
Finn hears a grisly smash. It’s the sound of destruction of flesh, a sound he wishes he couldn’t recognize. All of a sudden, he’s being flipped over, but the body is warm and solid and smells distinctly of life. Kurt is there, looking wildly at Finn; his hands are everywhere, like Finn’s guts might just decide to escape if Kurt weren’t there to catch them and hold them in.
As Kurt searches Finn for bites or other fatal injuries, Finn feels his chest swell hot and tight, a feeling that can only partially be blamed on the almost surely broken rib. The look on Kurt’s face is captivating. Kurt’s manner isn’t clinical, not now. He’s not just protecting his companion, he’s worried and terrified, and now Finn’s face is feeling hot, too. Finn carefully props himself up on his left elbow before reaching his right hand up and placing palm and fingers on Kurt’s face. The touch is so gentle and careful-much more careful than Kurt is being-that it makes Kurt look up. Their eyes meet and Finn must smile, because Kurt shudders in relief. Finn just keeps looking, afraid to let the moment end, and bleeds.
Kurt takes care of Finn and doesn’t let him forget how close the call was. If this had happened a year ago, he would have thought Kurt was mad at him, punishing him. Now he knows that each comment is Kurt’s way of saying he cares. Don’t let it happen again, Finn. I need you here. Okay? The thought makes Finn feel things he’d rather not examine.
If he had bothered to examine those feelings though, maybe he would have seen this coming. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have. Finn was never very good with feelings, especially ones he didn’t discuss with Kurt. Sometimes Finn remembers the “lady chats” Kurt used to insist upon, glasses of warm milk in hand. Finn wishes he had taken Kurt up on more of them.
It’s another life-or-death situation that does it. Surprisingly, it isn’t one of the walking dead that causes it; it’s due to a plain old lack of civilization and medical care. And, of course, it’s Finn’s life that is in danger… again. It’s times like these that makes Finn put himself down, speculating that Kurt would be better off without him. Then he remembers how Kurt looks at him sometimes and thinks that no, he wouldn’t be.
Finn’s energy starts to wane just a couple of days after the injury. The rock he had fallen on had been sharp and broken the skin; it turns out it was probably really dirty too, or he never would have gotten sick. Finn begins to lose his appetite-“Finn, the only time I’ve ever seen you skip a meal is when Rachel made you celebrate Yom Kippur with her, and even then you were sneaking snacks behind her back!”-which is what tips Kurt off that something is wrong. Kurt gets Finn to sit, touches his forehead, and reels back in concern.
“Finn, you’re burning up.”
“’M fine. I can keep going.”
Kurt sighs angrily. “Yeah, maybe for a little while! But soon you won’t have the strength. Let me see your ribs.”
Kurt holds his hands out to grip Finn’s shirt and pull it up, but Finn bats his hands away. Kurt is persistent and stubborn, though, and eventually Finn gets tired of resisting. Finn watches Kurt’s face and knows the exact second Kurt’s eyes land on the red, irritated flesh.
“Finn…” Kurt says his name long and slow, and it’s mostly air. His eyes are turning red and his bottom lip is trembling slightly. It’s like Finn is already dead.
“I’m okay, man. Really. I’m not going anywhere.” Finn pulls Kurt into him and squeezes him tight, ribs be damned. Kurt doesn’t squeeze back, but he rests his forehead on Finn’s collarbone and Finn can feel his puffs of breath. They stand there together until Finn starts to wobble and Kurt guides him to the ground.
Finn makes it through the infection. Kurt suggests going to raid a pharmacy or a hospital for antibiotics, but they’re too far into the woods and have no idea which way to go. Instead, they wait it out. Kurt forces Finn to eat until he doesn’t have to force him anymore and Finn sleeps more than he has since the outbreak. One foggy morning Finn wakes up clear-eyed and alert and Kurt smiles bright enough to set the trees on fire.
Finn thinks about God sometimes, especially now. He had thought about Him after Burt got sick-when he was putting all his faith in a freaking sandwich--but he thinks even more about Him now. If God exists, Finn reasons, he must not care at all, because he’s letting everyone suffer and die. If God is watching, Finn hopes he’s making Him angry.
When Finn is fully recovered from the infection, he and Kurt set out South again to cover ground. They haven’t found anything to suggest that there’s help anywhere and everyday their hope and connection to the human race dwindles. They keep pressing on, though, and never mention it.
Finn figures everything between him and Kurt is great. Finn is healthy again and Kurt is talking to him; the topics are relatively superficial, but what do people talk about during the apocalypse? Finn is shocked later that night to come back from gathering snails-“Quit whining, Finn. French people used to eat these even when they had a choice.”--to find Kurt with only half of camp set up, sitting in the dust, and sobbing.
Finn rushes to him, puts his hands on arms and torso, and searches for physical harm. He finds none. Kurt continues to sob as if he doesn’t notice Finn, so Finn forces Kurt’s face up to meet his gaze.
“I was so scared, Finn,” Kurt whispers. He’s telling Finn his secrets now. “So scared.”
“Of what, man?” Finn wishes he had something better to call Kurt… a term to sum up everything Kurt is to him. Does that word exist? “You can tell me.”
Kurt sets off to sobbing again, his frame shaking. Finn wraps his arms around him, kneeling on dirt and gravel and not caring about the ache in his knees.
Kurt sniffs. “I wasn’t sure… you were going to make it.” Kurt looks at Finn, then. “You were so weak, and we didn’t have anything to help you and I thought…”
Something inside Finn bursts and he nearly falls over with the force of it. It’s so new and different and he doesn’t understand it, but he is suddenly so full of feeling that his heart is racing. He pulls back to look Kurt in the eyes. Kurt looks guilty and shamed, like what he’s just said was a betrayal, but it wasn’t. It was a revelation.
Finn can’t decide if the past few weeks have been leading up to this, or if he is defying fate completely. Finn pulls back, running his palms in opposite directions along the fabric covering Kurt’s back as he withdraws. His left hand continues to slide, ending up on Kurt’s bicep and gripping it tight; his right hand leaves Kurt’s body to find it again lower down.
When the back of Finn’s fingers brush over Kurt’s fly, Kurt looks confused in way that Kurt almost never does. “C’mon, Kurt. I’ve got this. We can have this.”
Kurt’s mouth opens soundlessly, word stuck within him. It isn’t a no, so Finn uses both hands to undo the button and the zipper of Kurt’s fly. Kurt’s hands are on Finn’s shoulders gripping hard, harder than most people would think Kurt could grip. Finn knows better.
Finn slides his hand into Kurt’s briefs and takes him in hand. Kurt starts like something bites him.
“Shh, hey,” Finn soothes. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. Let me.”
Finn starts to move his hand. It’s light and easy at first, not meant to please, but to get Kurt used to the idea. Kurt’s eyes are big and bright, maybe even watery, but eventually his muscles relax. His body comes to terms with this, but somehow his face never quite does.
Finn decides Kurt isn’t going to run, so he tightens his grip and loosens his wrist. When Kurt gasps and hisses, he looks stricken and Finn can’t watch anymore. Finn squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead into Kurt’s temple. Somehow Kurt is still more together than Finn even when Finn is taking him apart.
Finn continues to work his arm, Kurt’s tiny, breathy sounds his only feedback. He only knows when to stop because Kurt puts his hand on him. Finn pulls his hand back and it’s wet. He considers using water from the jug to wash it away, but he doesn’t. Instead he wipes the fluid on the grass before standing up and stuffing his hands in his pockets. Kurt looks at him with a slight grimace before looking away. Finn knows that Kurt probably thinks it’s gross that he doesn’t properly wash his hands. If he asks, Finn will say he didn’t want to waste the water.
Finn isn’t sure what one is supposed to feel after something like this, but he’s pretty sure his feelings are wrong. He’s hard in his jeans, but he hardly notices. He makes the excuse that he has to pee and strides away quickly. He thinks that Kurt will probably figure he’s going to jerk off, but Kurt doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t call him a pervert, doesn’t call him back to him, so Finn keeps walking. He’s wired and emotional and half-crazed, and he can’t help but wish he’d kissed Kurt. He doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks that maybe that was the first time anyone had touched Kurt like that and Finn wishes he had made it good. He’s not sure Kurt will ever give him another chance to make it up to him.
It’s another thing they don’t talk about, another event by which to mark time. The next morning, they neither pretend like it never happened nor do they address it. Finn thinks maybe they’ve both made peace with it. He shamefully wishes that there wasn’t so much peace between them now, lamenting that of all the things in their life, this is the thing that is easy.
Enough time passes that Finn starts to doubt it ever happened in the first place. He thinks that maybe he dreamt it, that maybe his fever came back one night, causing him to want things that he has no right to want and imagine things that could never possibly happen. He tries to think of Kurt the way he used to before the outbreak, but he notices him in ways now that he can’t ignore. They work together for a life, hunting and fighting and resting, and Finn watches Kurt always. Kurt is still pale, but on his shoulders and the bridge of his nose, he’s lightly tanned and freckled because he no longer has the luxury of avoiding the sun. When the muscles in his arms flex, Finn feels it in his gut. Finn is grateful for the time they spend apart, each doing separate tasks. Finn uses the time to clear his head and sometimes to bring himself off, which both helps and hurts. Kurt gives him a little smile each time they come back together, pleased to see him safe, so Finn pretends he’s doing nothing wrong.
Kurt starts having nightmares. He doesn’t tell Finn at first. Finn hears Kurt wake whining and panting more than once before Kurt ever says anything. When Kurt finally does mention the dreams, he makes light, claiming he doesn’t remember them once he wakes up. After a particularly bad week of watching Kurt with dark circles under his eyes, Finn decides he isn’t going to let it go anymore. Finn is working to restore a busted radio-what if someone is calling out to them and they never hear?-and takes his turn on night watch, letting Kurt sleep. Finn is startled when Kurt jolts awake, stock straight and crying out. Finn drops the radio instantly and crawls over to Kurt, taking his hand and guiding him back down to the ground. He pulls Kurt close, tucking him under his arm and trying to be as solid and comforting as possible. That night Kurt whispers to him his nightmares. Most are about his dad, but some are about Finn. In almost all they are walkers, Kurt’s new term for the risen dead. Sometimes they come for Kurt and devour him; in others they blame Kurt for their fates. Kurt hates the latter more.
It becomes a habit that Finn comforts Kurt after his dreams. Kurt startles awake, realizes where he is, and finds Finn in the dark. Finn doesn’t want Kurt to have the nightmares; he would never wish that on him. He can’t help but wish though that Kurt would come to him to sleep every night, just because. Finn won’t ask for it though. Instead he settles for his role and never mentions that he wants touch Kurt when he’s feeling good and not just when he’s terrified.
It turns out Finn doesn’t have to ask. It’s not long before Kurt starts coming to him each day as the sun falls. “Are you sure it’s ok, Finn? It’s just… I sleep better when I do.” Finn just nods his acquiescence, not looking at Kurt directly, ignoring the rush of blood he hears in his ears on top of all other sounds.
Finn wakes up one night, a night that started out with Kurt pressed lengthy and chaste along his side, to warm moisture on his jaw. He briefly panics; have walkers found them? Kurt was supposed to stay awake to guard; had they gotten him first? His panic quickly subsides when a warm, broad, welcome hand slides diagonally upward from his right hip to under his left arm, under his left shoulder, and gripping firm. The moisture on his jaw moves, expands, and Finn feels soft flesh behind it, stroking with intention. Finn jaw twitches, indicating he’s awake, and Kurt stills his mouth to look into Finn’s eyes. Finn knows that he cannot always read Kurt, not correctly anyway, but in this moment Kurt is an open book and Finn knows the words like he wrote them. Kurt is unsure, nervous that he’s read this wrong, that Finn won’t want this. Finn moves instantly, meeting Kurt’s shocked-open mouth with his own, taking this person who cannot be explained with a word into his hands and his arms and his mouth and assures without words, “Yes, I want this. Yes.”
They continue. They keep moving to find again what used to be civilization, raiding pharmacies and markets and convenience stores, taking what they need and can carry. They guard over each other as they sleep and care for each other when they get hurt or sick. They touch when they don’t have to, just because they can, and smile both sly and smug when they are blissful and loose. These moments don’t last long-danger is everywhere and there is always more work to do-but it’s enough. They have a will to live, they have each other, and it’s enough.