(no subject)
Angsty plotless Finn ficlet. Enjoy. *g*
It’s not much.
He knows that, somewhere, in the back of his mind. The days are very slow here, and he cannot, however much he tries, hold onto the nights. This is not where he is supposed to be. Finnegan knows that, and knows that if things had gone at all the way they ought, he would be feeling nothing at all right now, and his friends, those that were left, would mourn him when they were not fleeing for their own lives.
He knows that.
Instead he’s here. Here, and Alden knows all of these things too, and maybe that’s why he holds Finn so tightly, why their sex is sometimes nearly fighting; it is assurance, truer than any words, that he’s alive. That they’re both alive. And maybe that’s why sometimes the kisses turn slower, nearly a caress, and the whole world falls away. Because there’s a reason he’s alive, and this is it.
He isn’t supposed to be here, but now that he is he’ll do what he can. They’re neither of them welcome here, and through the handhelds, their only connection, Finn is still trying not to lose the few friends remaining. Lose them to whatever shadow it is they’re fighting; lose them to their own despair; lose them to his own inability to set things right and say what needs to be said. He is a diplomat but none of his words come out right anymore. Not when it counts.
Some things are too private to explain; some wounds too deep to heal. His scars are invisible now; Alden healed the flesh with a thought and a touch and his own deep need for Finn’s wellbeing. Now they are working, without saying it aloud, to heal the damage to his soul.
Finn can’t tell this to Juilliard. He thinks the damage there is mostly his own doing, and it will fade with time-because Juilliard is very strong; they all have to be; and the Frenchman will find other pretty faces to distract him, and other matters to give his attention to. Finn would like them to be friends; there is something comforting in Juilliard’s flippancy, in his… Frenchness. Finn chuckles softly into the darkness. There are so many words to describe Juilliard that he can find none at all.
Anyway, that, at least, will fix itself if he is careful. The others he will try to keep safe with advice and offers for help, if his knowledge or experience can provide it, or if he and Alden can go to their aid.
He rolls over, in the loose circle of the other man’s arms, so he can rest his head against Alden’s chest; hear the other man’s heartbeat. He knows, somewhere at the back of his mind, that he cannot go anywhere now without Alden, and knows just as well that he will have to if their duty requires it. That is a bridge they will have to cross.
When he thinks this, he wishes that he were allowed to say to Alden that he loves him. It is true, and they both know it; he has almost said it once or twice before. But that will have to wait, too, because Alden still can’t really believe that he has Finn at all, and Finn knows with wrenching certainty that he could still lose the man through his own mistakes. So he’ll have to not make them. He’ll have to wait a while longer, until he can convince Alden that love is not an empty word for flighty children in passing relationships. Love is what happens, he wants to say, when you put someone's life ahead of your own.
But he can't say that, because then there isn't any escaping the conclusion that Alden's in love with him, too, and Alden won't let himself think that yet.
He only hopes they won’t wait too long to say it.
It’s not much.
He knows that, somewhere, in the back of his mind. The days are very slow here, and he cannot, however much he tries, hold onto the nights. This is not where he is supposed to be. Finnegan knows that, and knows that if things had gone at all the way they ought, he would be feeling nothing at all right now, and his friends, those that were left, would mourn him when they were not fleeing for their own lives.
He knows that.
Instead he’s here. Here, and Alden knows all of these things too, and maybe that’s why he holds Finn so tightly, why their sex is sometimes nearly fighting; it is assurance, truer than any words, that he’s alive. That they’re both alive. And maybe that’s why sometimes the kisses turn slower, nearly a caress, and the whole world falls away. Because there’s a reason he’s alive, and this is it.
He isn’t supposed to be here, but now that he is he’ll do what he can. They’re neither of them welcome here, and through the handhelds, their only connection, Finn is still trying not to lose the few friends remaining. Lose them to whatever shadow it is they’re fighting; lose them to their own despair; lose them to his own inability to set things right and say what needs to be said. He is a diplomat but none of his words come out right anymore. Not when it counts.
Some things are too private to explain; some wounds too deep to heal. His scars are invisible now; Alden healed the flesh with a thought and a touch and his own deep need for Finn’s wellbeing. Now they are working, without saying it aloud, to heal the damage to his soul.
Finn can’t tell this to Juilliard. He thinks the damage there is mostly his own doing, and it will fade with time-because Juilliard is very strong; they all have to be; and the Frenchman will find other pretty faces to distract him, and other matters to give his attention to. Finn would like them to be friends; there is something comforting in Juilliard’s flippancy, in his… Frenchness. Finn chuckles softly into the darkness. There are so many words to describe Juilliard that he can find none at all.
Anyway, that, at least, will fix itself if he is careful. The others he will try to keep safe with advice and offers for help, if his knowledge or experience can provide it, or if he and Alden can go to their aid.
He rolls over, in the loose circle of the other man’s arms, so he can rest his head against Alden’s chest; hear the other man’s heartbeat. He knows, somewhere at the back of his mind, that he cannot go anywhere now without Alden, and knows just as well that he will have to if their duty requires it. That is a bridge they will have to cross.
When he thinks this, he wishes that he were allowed to say to Alden that he loves him. It is true, and they both know it; he has almost said it once or twice before. But that will have to wait, too, because Alden still can’t really believe that he has Finn at all, and Finn knows with wrenching certainty that he could still lose the man through his own mistakes. So he’ll have to not make them. He’ll have to wait a while longer, until he can convince Alden that love is not an empty word for flighty children in passing relationships. Love is what happens, he wants to say, when you put someone's life ahead of your own.
But he can't say that, because then there isn't any escaping the conclusion that Alden's in love with him, too, and Alden won't let himself think that yet.
He only hopes they won’t wait too long to say it.