Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The phone doesn't ring anymore but Finney hears it anyway.

It's 4:47 a.m. and he's awake because sleep is a place where the basement still has him. Robin's arm is dead weight across his chest, their legs tangled in Finney's twin bed that's too small for two seventeen-year-old boys who grew into their shoulders and knuckles. The room smells like sweat and the joint they killed around midnight, roach still sitting in the ashtray on the nightstand beside Robin's switchblade.

Finney stares at the ceiling. The water stain in the corner looks like a hand reaching.

Ring.

He counts his breaths. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Gwen taught him that after she found him hyperventilating in the bathtub last month, still dressed, water running cold over his jeans.

Ring.

Robin stirs. His fingers twitch against Finney's ribs like he's throwing punches in his sleep. Probably is. Robin fights in his dreams now—has since the basement, since the Grabber learned what happened when you put your hands on Robin Arellano's person. Since Robin learned what his hands could do when they had to.

The phone keeps ringing in Finney's head.

He slides out from under Robin's arm, careful, and pads barefoot across the carpet. October cold seeps through the walls. Down the hall, the kitchen light is on—Dad's probably awake too, nursing coffee at the table, pretending he sleeps anymore. Gwen's door is closed but Finney can hear her crying through it, small choked sounds she won't admit to in the morning.

She's been having the dreams again. Seeing things. Dead boys and black balloons and their mother's face.

Finney presses his forehead against the hallway wall and counts the rings. Seven. Eight. Nine.

"Finn."

Robin's voice cuts through it, rough with sleep. When Finney turns, Robin's sitting up in bed, bare-chested, hair fucked up on one side. The lamplight catches the scar on his shoulder—the one that matches the grip marks on Finney's throat, the ones that faded months ago but still tighten when he swallows wrong.

"Come back to bed."

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit." Robin swings his legs over the side of the mattress. "You're hearing it again."

It's not a question.

Finney doesn't answer. Robin knows. Robin always knows, has known since the first time Finney woke up screaming about phones and black balloons three weeks after they got out, when Robin climbed through his window at 2 a.m. and just stayed. Started staying. Never really left.

"Come here," Robin says, softer now, and Finney goes because he always does.

Robin pulls him back into bed, repositions them so Finney's between his legs, back to Robin's chest. His arms come around Finney's waist, hands flat on his stomach, solid and real and here. Robin's chin hooks over Finney's shoulder.

"Breathe with me," Robin says.

They breathe together. Robin's chest rises and falls against Finney's back, steady as a metronome, and slowly—so slowly—the ringing fades to static, then to nothing.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

Robin's thumb traces small circles on Finney's hip, just under the hem of his t-shirt. His lips brush Finney's ear. "Want me to stay awake with you?"

"No. Sleep."

"Can't sleep when you're not sleeping."

"That's codependent."

"No shit." Robin bites his earlobe, gentle. "Told you I'm not letting you disappear on me."

Finney turns his head enough to catch Robin's mouth. The kiss tastes like stale weed and something desperate underneath. Robin's hand slides up Finney's chest, settles over his heart like he's checking it still beats.

When they break apart, Robin says, "Your dad's gonna catch us one of these days."

"He knows you're here."

"Yeah, but he doesn't know we're—"

"He knows," Finney says. "He just doesn't say anything."

Robin's quiet for a moment. His fingers find Finney's, lace together. "Gwen's crying again."

"I know."

"You want me to—"

"No. She won't talk about it." Finney squeezes Robin's hand. "Not to me, anyway."

The house settles around them. Pipes creaking. Dad's chair scraping in the kitchen. Gwen's crying has stopped but Finney knows she's awake, staring at her own ceiling, seeing things no thirteen-year-old should see.

Robin's breath evens out against his neck. Not quite asleep but close.

Finney closes his eyes and tries not to hear the phones.

—

At 7:15, Dad knocks twice and opens the door. Robin's already sitting up, pulling on his shirt like he wasn't just wrapped around Finney like a second skin. Dad looks at them both—Finney still in bed, Robin finger-combing his hair—and his mouth does something complicated.

"Breakfast in ten," Dad says. "Robin, your mom called. Said to tell you she's making tamales tonight if you want to bring Finney."

"Yes, sir."

Dad nods. Lingers in the doorway. The bruises under his eyes match Finney's. "You boys sleep okay?"

"Fine," Finney lies.

Dad knows he's lying. Dad always knows. But he just nods again and closes the door.

Robin pulls on his jeans from yesterday, still stained with grass and something that might be blood from the fight he got into Thursday after school when some college kid called Finney a faggot outside the arcade. The kid's nose broke clean. Robin's knuckles are still purple.

"You gonna tell me what the phones are saying?" Robin asks.

Finney sits up, reaches for his own jeans. "Nothing."

"Finn—"

"They don't say anything. They just ring."

Robin crosses the room, tilts Finney's chin up with two fingers. Studies his face like he's looking for cracks. "You'd tell me if it got bad again. Right?"

"It's not bad."

"If it gets bad."

Finney kisses him instead of answering. Robin lets him, for a second, then pulls back.

"Finn."

"I'd tell you."

Another lie. Robin knows that too. But he drops it because downstairs Gwen's setting the table and Dad's burning eggs and this is the closest thing to normal they've got.

Robin slings an arm around Finney's shoulders as they head for the kitchen. His thumb rubs circles into Finney's collarbone, over and over, like a prayer or a leash.

Finney doesn't pull away.

He never does.

Chapter Text

Gwen's eating cereal straight from the box, perched on the counter with her knees pulled up. She's wearing one of Finney's old baseball shirts and her hair's a mess, flat on one side from sleep. Her eyes track Robin and Finney as they walk into the kitchen—Robin's hand still on Finney's shoulder.

She doesn't say anything. Just crunches her Cheerios and stares.

Dad's at the stove scraping scrambled eggs onto plates. They're too dry, flaking apart, but nobody says anything about it. He quit drinking two and a half years ago—right after the basement, after he saw what Finney looked like when the cops brought him home—and now he cooks breakfast every morning like it's penance.

"Sit," Dad says, not looking at them.

Robin pulls out Finney's chair first, then his own. Their knees knock together under the table. Dad sets plates down, then coffee for himself, milk for Gwen. He pours Robin coffee without asking—black, two sugars—and puts orange juice in front of Finney even though Finney hasn't been able to stomach it since the basement.

The basement where the Grabber gave him orange soda in a glass bottle and smiled while he drank it.

Finney pushes the glass away. Robin notices, slides it further down the table without comment.

"Gwen," Dad says. "Off the counter."

She slides down, grabs her bowl, sits across from Finney. Her eyes are red-rimmed. There's a scrape on her knee that wasn't there yesterday.

"You fall?" Finney asks.

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"School."

She's lying. Finney knows because her left eye twitches when she lies, always has. But Dad's watching them both with that careful expression he wears now, the one that says I'm trying and I don't know how to fix this in equal measure.

Robin shovels eggs into his mouth. He eats like he's still worried about someone taking his food, fast and focused. His free hand stays on Finney's thigh under the table, thumb pressed into the spot where Finney's jeans are worn thin.

"Your mom really making tamales?" Dad asks Robin.

"Yes, sir. Said you're welcome too, if you want." Robin pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. "Ernesto's helping. He asked if Gwen was coming."

Gwen's head snaps up so fast her cereal bowl nearly tips. Her cheeks flush pink. "Why would he ask that?"

Robin smirks. "Don't know, mija. Maybe 'cause you've been tutoring him in math every Tuesday?"

"That's—we're just studying."

"Uh-huh."

"Robin, shut up."

"He draws little hearts on his notebook when you're not looking."

"He does not!" Gwen's face is crimson now. She kicks Robin under the table hard enough that he grunts. "You're such an asshole."

"Language," Dad says automatically, but there's no heat in it.

Finney hides his smile behind his hand. Robin's still grinning, even as he rubs his shin. "I'm just saying, you could do worse than my baby brother. Kid's got manners. Not like these pendejos at your school."

Gwen stabs her cereal viciously. "I'm fifteen."

"So's he."

"I'm not—we're not—" She makes a strangled sound. "Finney, tell your boyfriend to stop."

"He's not gonna stop," Finney says. Dad’s face does something complicated at the word boyfriend. Not because he doesn’t accept—but because Finney’s yet to trust him enough to “come out.” 

"You're coming tonight though, right?" Robin asks, gentler now. "To dinner? My mom misses you. And Ernesto'll be disappointed if you don't show."

Gwen picks at her scrape. "Maybe."

"That's a yes," Robin tells Finney.

Dad nods. He won't go—hasn't been to the Arellanos' house since the funeral for Mrs. Yamada down the street last month, and even then he left after ten minutes. But he appreciates being asked.

Gwen kicks Finney under the table. When he looks up, she mouths: You okay?

He nods.

She narrows her eyes. Liar.

Robin's thumb presses harder into Finney's leg, like he can feel the conversation happening without words.

"I got practice after school," Gwen says to the table at large. "Softball. Amy's mom is driving me home."

"What time?" Dad asks.

"Five-thirty."

"Come to my place after," Robin says. "We'll eat around six."

Gwen pretends to consider it, but Finney sees the way her eyes soften. "Fine. But tell Ernesto to stop being weird."

"He's fourteen. Weird's all he's got."

"He's fifteen."

"See? You know his age. That's cute."

Gwen throws a Cheerio at Robin's face. He catches it in his mouth.

The kitchen goes quiet except for Robin chewing and the clock ticking over the sink. 7:43. School starts at 8:15 and it's a twenty-minute walk. Finney's not going. He hasn't been back since Monday when he had a panic attack in the bathroom during third period, locked himself in a stall for forty minutes until Robin kicked the door in.

Robin's not going either. He got suspended Tuesday for the thing with the college kid's nose.

Nobody mentions it.

Dad clears his throat. "Finney. You sleeping any better?"

"Some."

"He's fine," Robin says. "I'm making sure."

The way he says it—flat, certain, like it's already decided—makes Dad's jaw tighten. He looks at Robin for a long moment. Robin stares back, unflinching.

"I know you are," Dad says finally. "But he's still my son."

"I know that too."

Gwen's eyes ping-pong between them. Finney feels like he's underwater, sounds muffled and strange. He can hear the phone ringing again, faint, from somewhere in the house. Maybe the living room. Maybe just his head.

"Finn," Gwen says quietly.

He blinks. They're all looking at him.

"Sorry. What?"

"I asked if you're seeing Dr. Patterson today," Dad says.

"Thursday."

"It's Thursday."

Finney looks at the calendar on the fridge. October 28th, 1982. Thursday. "Oh."

"I'll drive you," Dad says. "Appointment's at eleven."

Robin's hand slides higher on Finney's thigh. "I'll go with him."

"Robin—"

"I'll go with him," Robin says again, and there's something hard underneath it. Not angry. Desperate.

Dad exhales through his nose. "Fine. But you sit in the waiting room."

"That's the plan."

Gwen shoves cereal in her mouth and looks anywhere but at them. The scrape on her knee is bleeding a little, bright red against her pale skin. Finney wants to ask again but he knows she won't tell him.

She's been sleepwalking along with the dreams. He heard her two nights ago, stumbling down the hall, whispering to someone who wasn't there. When he followed her, she was standing in front of the phone in the kitchen—the one that doesn't work anymore, hasn't worked since Dad ripped it off the wall last year and tried putting it back on.

She was crying and holding the receiver.

Finney didn't tell Dad. Didn't tell Robin.

Some things you keep.

—

At 8:05, Gwen grabs her backpack and heads for the door. She pauses, looks back at Finney.

"You gonna be at Robin’s eating when I finish practice?"

"Yeah."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She hesitates, chewing her lip. "Tell Ernesto I said hi. If you see him before tonight."

Robin grins. "Will do."

She flips him off and leaves. The door clicks shut. Dad starts clearing plates.

"I'm gonna shower," he says. "You boys clean up."

When he's gone, Robin pulls Finney into his lap. Finney goes easy, straddling Robin's thighs, arms looped around his neck. Robin's hands settle on his waist, thumbs hooking under his shirt to touch bare skin.

"You're hearing them right now," Robin says. "The phones."

Finney closes his eyes. "Yeah."

"What do they sound like?"

"Just ringing."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

Robin kisses his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his throat. Not sexual. Grounding. "You wanna get out of here before your appointment? We could go to the store. Get those chips you like."

"The Funyuns?"

"Yeah. Those disgusting things." Robin's smile presses against Finney's pulse. "We can sit in the parking lot and smoke. Watch the tweakers."

Finney laughs, surprised by the sound. "Romantic."

"I'm very romantic. I'm like… what's his name. The Romeo guy."

"Romeo is his name."

"Yeah. That guy." Robin pulls back to look at him. His eyes are so dark they're almost black, and there's something ferocious in them that never quite goes away anymore. "I'd kill for you, you know."

"I know."

"I'd do it again."

Finney kisses him to shut him up. Robin did kill for him—nobody talks about what exactly happened in that basement after Robin broke out of the freezer. The cops don't ask. Dad doesn't ask.

Finney doesn't ask. But he remembers.

When they break apart, Robin rests his forehead against Finney's. "You gonna disappear on me today?"

"No."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Robin's hands tighten on his waist. "Okay. Okay, good."

Down the hall, the shower turns on. They have maybe ten minutes before Dad finishes up.

Robin uses eight of them kissing Finney slow and deep, hands sliding up his back, holding him close enough to feel his heartbeat. Finney kisses back and tries not to hear the phones.

Mostly, he succeeds.

Chapter Text

The 7-Eleven at the edge of town hummed a low electric prayer. At 9:47 a.m., its fluorescent halo bled into the bruised purple of a Denver October morning. Light caught the lingering smoke between them—a thin, blue veil in the close air of the Mustang. (Robin's Mustang is a piece of shit—1971, primer gray, passenger door doesn't open from the inside—but it runs and Robin bought it with money he earned framing houses under the table for his uncle).

Robin’s hand rested on Finney’s thigh, thumb tracing slow, invisible circles through the worn denim. The engine ticked as it cooled, a sleepy, metallic heartbeat.

“Give it here,” Robin murmured, his voice rough with smoke and sleep.

Finney passed the joint, its tip glowing like a lone ember in the dim car. He watched Robin’s lips wrap around it, the hollowing of his cheeks as he drew the hit deep.

He took a slow pull, the paper crackling softly. He held the smoke, his eyes closed, then turned. The vinyl seat creaked under his weight.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice already hazy.

Finney leaned in. Robin’s free hand came up to cup the back of his neck, callused thumb pressing into the knot of tension there. He didn’t kiss him. Not yet. He just brought his lips close to Finney’s, exhaling a soft, warm cloud of smoke into his mouth. It was a ritual. An exchange. Robin giving him something to steady the spinning in his head.

Finney breathed it in. It tasted like Robin—like cheap weed and mint gum and the faint, metallic hint of the switchblade he always carried.

When he pulled back, the smoke trailed from their mouths like a shared secret.

“There,” Robin whispered, their foreheads touching. “Better?”

The ringing was still there—a faint, high-pitched whine at the edge of his consciousness. But it was further away now, muffled by the warm haze and the solid press of Robin against him.

“A little,” Finney admitted.

Robin’s dark eyes searched his, seeing everything. “Liar.” He kissed Finney’s temple, then stubbed the joint out in the overflowing ashtray. “You want your nasty-ass Funyuns or not?”

The world outside the windshield was a grainy film. A man in a stained overcoat argued with the void near the dumpster. The neon sign cast a sickly, beautiful glow on everything.

“Yeah,” Finney said. “I want them.”

Robin’s hand stayed on his leg, steady and warm. “You sure you’re good to go in alone?”

Finney nodded, barely. His throat felt tight, but he forced the motion anyway. He needed to do this—to prove he still could.

“It’s just a store,” he said.

A store with a payphone by the bathroom.

A store that smelled like the nightmare he kept trying to wake from.

Robin didn’t answer right away. He just watched him, thumb tracing slow circles against the denim of Finney’s jeans—grounding him, anchoring him, saying everything words couldn’t.

“Okay,” Robin said at last, quiet, like he didn’t quite believe it. “Okay. But I’m right here.”

His thumb stilled. “You look wrong for one second, I’m coming in.”

Finney fished a crumpled five from his pocket and pushed the car door open. The cold air bit his skin, a sharp contrast to the warm, smoky cocoon. He didn’t look back, but he felt Robin’s gaze on him, a physical weight between his shoulder blades.

The automatic doors hissed open. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale coffee and fake cheese. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

And there it was. The payphone.

An old, beige model, its cord twisted, the receiver hanging limp. It looked dead.

Ring.

The sound wasn’t in the store. It was in the back of his skull, a silver needle of noise. It was louder here, somehow more insistent. He took a half-step toward it, his hand twitching at his side.

Pick up he’s waiting he needs to tell you—

The bell on the door chimed. Robin stood there, silhouetted against the morning light, one hand still on the doorframe. He didn’t come closer. He just waited, his presence a silent question.

Finney took a sharp breath. He turned his back on the phone, his heart hammering. He forced his feet toward the snack aisle, grabbing the yellow bag of Funyuns with trembling fingers. He snatched three spicy Slim Jims for Robin.

At the counter, the cashier—a kid with a mullet—scanned the items with dull-eyed boredom. Finney dropped the five on the counter. His change clattered into the tray.

He didn't look at the phone again. He walked out, the bag crinkling in his grip.

Robin held the door for him, falling into step just behind him. He didn't speak until they were back at the car.

“Looked like a seven,” Robin said quietly, his voice low so only Finney could hear. “Out of ten.”

“You always make me rate them,” Finney had once said, half-smiling. Months ago after a particularly bad day with the ringing.

“Yeah,” Robin replied. “Otherwise you’ll tell me you’re fine when you’re not.”

Now, Finney leaned against the warm hood of the Mustang, the metal solid beneath him. “Maybe an eight.”

Robin’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, into Finney’s space, and took his face in both hands. His palms were warm and slightly rough. He studied him, his gaze intense, searching.

“You’re here,” Robin said. It wasn’t a question.

Finney leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. “I’m here.”

Robin kissed him then, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of tobacco and devotion. A brand. A promise. When they broke apart, they were both breathing a little harder, their breath misting in the cold air between them.

“You gotta tell him,” Robin murmured, his forehead pressed to Finney’s. “You gotta tell Patterson. Today. Not maybe. Not next week.”

“I know.”

“Promise me.” The words were soft, but there was a desperation underneath, a frayed edge that Finney felt in his own bones.

“I promise.”

Robin kissed him once more, quick and hard, then pulled back. “Okay. Okay.”

The drive to Dr. Patterson’s was quiet. Robin drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Finney’s knee, a constant, warm weight. He didn’t turn on the radio.

At a red light, another payphone. This one stood outside a laundromat, stark and black.

Riiiiing.

It was clearer this time. A lonely, persistent sound. Finney’s breath hitched. His hand clenched on his thigh.

Robin’s grip on his knee tightened instantly. His eyes flicked from the road to Finney. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Don’t even give it a window. Look at me.”

Finney turned. He looked at Robin—the fierce line of his profile, the dark fall of his hair, the absolute certainty in his eyes. He looked until the light turned green and the sound was just memory.

At Dr. Patterson's office, Robin parks and kills the engine. They sit in silence for a moment.

"You want me to come in with you?" Robin asks.

"You know you can't."

"That's not what I asked."

Finney does want him to. Wants Robin to sit next to him and hold his hand and tell Dr. Patterson about the phones because Finney doesn't think he can say it out loud without choking. But he knows if Robin comes in, he won't talk at all. He'll just let Robin speak for him, and that's not how this works.

"I'll be okay," Finney says.

Robin nods. Doesn't believe him but doesn't argue.

They get out. The building's squat and beige, windows like dead eyes. Dr. Patterson's office is on the second floor. Finney's been coming here since March—twice a week at first, now just Thursdays.

At the base of the stairs, Robin catches his hand, pulls him back, kisses him hard and fast. "I'll be right here when you're done."

"I know."

"Don't disappear on me in there."

"I won't."

Robin lets him go. Finney climbs the stairs, doesn't look back, pushes through the door into the waiting room that smells like old coffee and carpet cleaner. The receptionist—middle-aged woman with kind eyes—smiles at him.

"Hi, Finney. Dr. Patterson's running a few minutes late. You can have a seat."

He sits. Picks up a magazine—National Geographic, some article about constellations—and doesn't read it.

Through the window, he can see Robin in the parking lot, leaning against the Mustang, lighting another cigarette. Even from here, Finney can see the way Robin's leg bounces. The way he keeps looking up at the building like he's worried Finney might vanish if he looks away too long.

Finney presses his hand flat against the window.

Robin sees. Lifts his hand, presses it to the air like he's touching back.

The phone on the receptionist's desk rings. Finney's whole body goes rigid.

She answers it, cheerful: "Dr. Patterson's office, how can I help you?"

Just a phone. Just a normal phone doing normal phone things.

Finney counts his breaths.

The door to Dr. Patterson's office opens. A woman comes out, eyes red, tissue clutched in her hand. Dr. Patterson follows—tall, gray-haired, wearing the same beige cardigan he always wears.

"Finney," he says. "Come on back."

Finney stood. He took a breath. He could still feel the ghost of Robin’s hand on his leg, the warmth of his kiss, the weight of his promise.

He didn't look back at the window. He walked into the office, and for the first time, he thought he might actually be able to say the words.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut, sealing Finney into the soundproofed silence of Dr. Patterson’s office.

Outside, the world did not reset. For a moment, everything was silent. Then Robin’s breath left him in one sharp, unsteady rush. The air in the parking lot felt thin. He crushed his cigarette under his boot, the gesture too hard, too final. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He shoved them deep into his jacket pockets.

Inside, the silence was a different kind of heavy. Dr. Patterson’s office absorbed sound, leaving only the frantic, humming stillness of Finney’s own pulse in his ears.

“The ringing,” Finney started, his voice sounding rusted from disuse. He cleared his throat. “Feel like it’s getting worst.”

Dr. Patterson waited, a pool of quiet in his brown cardigan.

“It’s everywhere,” Finney whispered. The admission felt like pulling a splinter from deep under his skin. “Muffled. At home. In my dreams. Convenience store runs.” He looked at his own hands, clenched in his lap. “It’s them. I know it is.”

“The other boys.”

A nod. The thread on the armchair was unraveling under his fingernail. “They just… call. They keep calling.”

Down in the lot, a delivery truck rumbled to life. The sudden growl of the diesel engine was a physical blow. Robin jolted, his shoulder connecting hard with the Mustang’s door frame. A bright, familiar spike of panic lanced through him—the sound was too close, too much like the Grabber’s van idling outside that damn house. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against them until colors bloomed in the darkness.

You’re out. He’s dead. You killed him. Breathe.

The thoughts were flat, useless stones. His heart was a wild thing against his ribs.

The memory wasn't the fight. It was the after. The deafening quiet of the basement, broken only by Finney’s shallow, hitched breathing. The weight of the phone and cord in his hands. The feel of it. The look on Finney’s face—not relief, not yet. Just a vast, hollowed-out nothingness. Robin had killed a man, and all he could think was, I’m too late. I’m still too late.

“And Gwen?” Dr. Patterson’s voice was a quiet lifeline back to the beige room.

“She sees them,” Finney said, the words thick. “In her dreams. She knows I hear the phones.”

“Do you talk to her about it?”

A dry, brittle laugh escaped Finney. “No. We just… know.” He looked toward the window, though he couldn’t see out. “Dad’s trying so hard. He makes breakfast. He’s… sober. If he knew it wasn’t getting better…” His voice frayed into silence. He’d break. And it would be my fault.

Outside, Robin leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the driver’s side window. The chill was a small anchor. He could feel the ghost of Finney’s weight in his arms from that night, the terrifying limpness of him. The responsibility of it was a constant, crushing weight on his sternum. He had to be the strong one. He had to be the wall between Finney and the world. Even if the wall was cracked, even if it was shaking. Especially then.

He couldn’t fall apart. Finney needed him whole.

The session ended. The door upstairs opened. Robin pushed himself upright, swiping a hand roughly across his face. He schooled his features into something solid, something calm. The mask settled, familiar and tight.

Finney stumbled out, looking gutted. Pale. He moved like the air itself was resistance.

Robin was there in three long strides, catching him at the bottom of the stairs. His hands came up, gripping Finney’s arms, holding him steady. “Hey. Mírame. Look at me.”

Finney’s gaze was distant, hazy with whatever ghosts Dr. Patterson had stirred up.

“Finn. You’re here. It’s me. It’s Robin.” He gave him a small, gentle shake, his thumbs rubbing circles on the sleeves of his jacket. “Come back to me.”

A blink. A slow, shuddering inhale. Finney’s eyes focused, locking onto Robin’s. The connection snapped back into place, visceral and real. “I told him,” he breathed, the words barely audible.

“I know.” Robin’s voice was rough with a relief so profound it hurt. He pulled Finney into him, wrapping his arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head. He held him tight, feeling the frantic rabbit-beat of Finney’s heart against his own. “Te tengo. I’ve got you. You did so good, cariño. So good.”

He didn’t know who he was reassuring.

—

In the car, the quiet was different. Softer at the edges. Finney leaned his head against the window, his breath fogging the glass. Robin drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Finney’s knee. A point of contact. A tether.

After a few blocks, Finney spoke, his voice quiet and raw. “He asked if I felt responsible. For them.”

Robin’s grip on the wheel tightened. A familiar, cold anger sparked in his gut—not at Finney, never at Finney, but at the world that made him answer that question. At the ghost that still held so much power. He guided the car to the curb and put it in park. The engine ticked.

He turned in his seat, his expression fierce, desperate. “Look at me.” Finney turned his head. “You are not responsible. You hear me? That was his shit. Not yours. Not mine.“

“You killed him for me, Robin.” The words were not an accusation. They were a fact, heavy and awful and true.

The air left Robin’s lungs. The mask slipped. The crack in his foundation yawned wide open, and everything he’d been holding back—the fear, the guilt, the visceral, bloody memory of it—rushed to the surface. His eyes glistened, and he didn’t try to stop the tears this time. They just fell, slow and quiet.

“I did,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “And I would. I would do it again. A thousand times, Finn. I would.” He reached out, his hand shaking as he cupped Finney’s cheek. “So you don’t get to carry that. You don’t get to add my choices to the weight you’re already drowning in. That’s not yours to hold. Please. Please don’t take that from me.”

It was a surrender. A confession. He wasn’t the unbreakable protector in that moment. He was just a boy, seventeen years old, sitting in a beat-up car on the side of the road, weeping for the life he’d taken and the one he’d saved, begging the person he loved most not to share the burden of his violence.

Finney’s own eyes filled. He brought his hand up, his fingers gently tracing the tracks of Robin’s tears. The touch was feather-light, reverent. He didn’t see a killer. He just saw Robin. Scared. Devoted. His.

“Okay,” Finney whispered, his voice thick. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Robin’s. “Okay. It’s yours.”

They sat like that for a long time, engine cooling, the world passing by unnoticed. Two shattered things, holding each other together in the quiet, not by being strong, but by finally, finally, admitting they were broken in the exact same places.

Chapter Text

The Mustang rumbled to a stop not in front of Finney’s quiet, haunted house, but two blocks over, outside a small, well-kept bungalow painted a faded sunshine yellow. The Arellano home. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the scent of roasting chilies and cumin hung in the air, cutting through the last of the session’s clinical smell that clung to Finney’s clothes.

Robin killed the engine but didn’t move. He sat for a moment, his hands still on the wheel, watching the front door. The fierce, raw emotion from the car had been tucked carefully away again, the mask back in place, but it was a softer mask here. The lines around his eyes were less about defense and more about coming home.

The Arellano house was the antithesis of the beige office. It was all warmth and noise and life. It was the only place, besides the few square feet of space he shared with Robin, where the ringing didn't seem to dare follow him inside.

“Mijo! You’re late! The masa is getting cold!”

The screen door slammed open before they’d even reached the porch. Mrs. Arellano stood there, wiping her hands on a floral apron, her dark hair streaked with silver and pulled into a messy bun. Her smile was wide and immediate, but her eyes, the same dark, perceptive eyes as her son’s, did a quick, professional scan of both boys. She saw the residual redness around Finney’s eyes, the tight set of Robin’s jaw.

She didn’t mention it. She never did.

Instead, she pulled Finney into a hug that smelled of flour and perfume and unconditional love. “Ay, mi Finney, you’re too thin. Robin’s not feeding you. I knew it.” She kissed his cheek soundly, then turned to her son, grabbing his face and planting a kiss on his forehead. “And you. You look tired. Fighting again?”

“No, Mama,” Robin said, but he leaned into her touch, his shoulders dropping an inch.

“Liar. But come in, come in. Your Tío is here. He brought beer, but you,” she pointed a finger at Finney, “you get horchata. And you,” the finger swiveled to Robin, “only one. Comprendes?”

“Sí, Mama,” Robin murmured, a real, easy smile finally touching his lips.

The house was a beautiful chaos. The television was on, tuned to a Spanish-language game show. A faded photograph of a young man in a Marine’s dress uniform—Robin’s father, his smile forever young—sat on the mantel next to a vibrant Virgin de Guadalupe candle. In the living room, Tío Carlos, a broader, older version of Robin with a magnificent mustache, was trying to teach a frowning Ernesto how to tie a proper knot with a length of rope.

“¡Oye, los hombrecitos!” Carlos boomed, throwing his arms open. “The moody one and the quiet one! Come, help your uncle. This one,” he jerked a thumb at Ernesto, “has hands like feet.”

Ernesto’s scowl deepened, but he shot a glance toward the kitchen doorway, where Gwen was supposed to be arriving later. He was trying to look older, competent. He saw Finney and his expression softened with a flicker of concern. “You okay, Finney?”

Before Finney could answer, a small, warm body slammed into his legs. “Finn! Robin!” It was Sofia, Robin’s youngest cousin, all of six years old. She wrapped her arms around Finney’s waist. “Did you bring me candy?”

“Sofía! Manners!” Mrs. Arellano called from the kitchen.

Robin fished in his pocket and came up with a slightly melted but intact Tootsie Roll. He handed it to her with a solemn expression. “The finest delicacy, princesa.”

Sofia took it with reverence and ran off.

The epicenter of the home was the kitchen. Mrs. Arellano had commandeered every surface. Bowls of corn masa, pots of simmering red sauce, and a huge platter of steaming, shredded pork covered the counters. She pushed a cold glass of horchata into Finney’s hands and a beer into Robin’s.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the small kitchen table. “You will assemble. Robin, you know how. Finney, you learn. It is good for the hands to do honest work.”

They sat. Robin’s knee pressed against Finney’s under the small table. A constant, silent check-in.

Finney watched Robin’s hands. The knuckles were still bruised from the fight, but they moved with a practiced, gentle efficiency as he spread the masa on the corn husks. These were the same hands that had held a switchblade, that had swung a phone, that could throw a punch that shattered bone. Now, they carefully spooned pork and placed a strip of roasted chili on each portion before folding the husk into a perfect little package.

It was the most peaceful thing Finney had seen in months.

He tried to mimic the motion, his own fingers clumsy.

“Así, mijo,” Mrs. Arellano said softly, coming over to adjust his grip on the husk. Her hand was warm and dry on his. “Like this. Gently. You are not fighting it. You are convincing it.”

Finney looked up at her. She wasn’t looking at his hands. She was looking at his face, her dark eyes seeing everything—the exhaustion, the fear, the ghosts that trailed him. She saw it all and she didn’t flinch. She just smiled, a little sadly, and patted his hand.

“There is no hurt that cannot be softened by good food and family, mi’jo,” she murmured, just for him. “You remember that.”

The back door opened and Gwen stepped in, still in her softball uniform, her cleats in her hand. Her eyes found Ernesto first, and a faint blush rose on her cheeks. Then she saw Finney and Robin at the table. Her worried-sister look appeared instantly.

Mrs. Arellano intercepted her with a hug and a tamale. “Mija! You are a star! Sit, eat. Ernesto, get her a drink.”

The afternoon melted away in the warm, steamy kitchen. The repetitive motion of assembling tamales became a meditation. The ringing in Finney’s head receded, replaced by the sound of Tío Carlos’s laughter, the sizzle from the stove, Robin’s quiet instructions, the soft Spanish Mrs. Arellano hummed under her breath.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t a cure. But for a few hours, surrounded by this family that had absorbed him and his sister without question, Finney felt the heavy, icy knot of guilt in his chest begin to thaw. He wasn’t a victim here. He wasn’t a problem to be solved. He was just Finney. Robin’s Finney. Their Finney.

Later, as the first batch steamed, they all crowded into the small living room. Robin pulled Finney down onto the couch next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Gwen was squished between Ernesto and Sofia on the floor, arguing about a movie to watch.

Finney leaned his head against Robin’s shoulder, letting his eyes close. He could feel the steady rise and fall of Robin’s breathing. He could smell the scent of Robin’s soap underneath the aroma of chilies and smoke.

Robin pressed his lips to Finney’s temple. “You still with me?” he whispered, his breath stirring Finney’s hair.

Finney nodded against his shoulder. For the first time that day, maybe for the first time that week, the answer was easy. It was simple.

“Yeah,” he murmured back. “I’m right here.”

Chapter Text

The quiet in the Blake house that night was a different animal than the one at the Arellanos’. It wasn’t a warm, companionable silence. It was a hollow, waiting silence. A phone-not-ringing silence.

Finney lay in his childhood bed, the same one he’d slept in since he was six. He knew every water stain on the ceiling, every faint crack in the plaster. He’d traced their paths a thousand times with his eyes, trying to outrun the sounds in his head. Tonight, the room felt less like a sanctuary and more like a museum of a boy who didn’t exist anymore.

Robin was a solid, warm line against his back, one arm thrown over Finney’s waist, his breathing deep and even in sleep. He’d passed out almost the second his head hit the pillow, the emotional drain of the day and the weight of a full stomach pulling him under. Finney was glad. He needed to be still with this feeling alone for a minute.

It had started at dinner.

They’d brought a stack of steaming tamales back to his house. Dad had tried—really tried. He’d set the table. He’d made a box of mac and cheese to go with them, a sad, pale yellow mound beside Mrs. Arellano’s vibrant cooking. He’d asked about therapy in that careful, stumbling way of his.

“It was fine, Dad.”

“Good. That’s… good, son.”

And then nothing. The conversation had died there, smothered under the weight of too much trying. Gwen had pushed her food around her plate, quiet. Every so often, she glanced toward the window, like she was expecting headlights to sweep across the glass. Or maybe a shadow.

Finney had watched his father—the new, sober, careful version of him—and felt a pang that went too deep to name. Love, yes, and pride. But threaded through both was a helpless ache, the kind that sat just under the ribs and wouldn’t dissolve. He wanted to be happy for him. He was happy for him. But this house, this life—they felt rebuilt out of the same wood that used to burn.

His eyes drifted to the phone jack in the wall. It wasn’t ringing now—it didn’t have to. The damage had been done. The sound had carved itself into him, rewired the way he heard quiet. He still flinched at the click of pipes, still paused mid-sentence when the house settled. 

After dinner, the house settled into its silence. Gwen went to her room. His dad washed dishes with the TV on too loud. Finney had sat for a while at the kitchen table, tracing circles in a smear of tamale sauce that had cooled and gone dark. There was nothing wrong, exactly. But there wasn’t anything right, either.

The smell of the sauce brought back the afternoon. The Arellano kitchen, humid and loud, Robin’s laughter mixing with Tío Carlos’s booming voice. Mrs. Arellano’s hand guiding his—warm, steady—showing him how to fold the corn husk just so. “Like this, mi’jo. Gently. You are not fighting it. You are convincing it.” He’d thought about that all night. That kindness didn’t demand anything back. It just held you where you were and said: you’re safe. You’re fed. You’re seen.

And that was when the thought began—not as a sentence but as a feeling, something that started in his chest and spread like a slow ache through his limbs.

He’d felt it still growing later, lying in bed with Robin’s warmth pressed against his spine, the smell of detergent and faint smoke clinging to the sheets.

I want to go home.

The words came like an echo of something he hadn’t realized he’d said aloud. The absurdity of it should have made him laugh. He was home.

But he wasn’t.

This house wasn’t home anymore. It was a collection of echoes: his mother’s perfume, the sound of a door slamming, his father’s voice raised and breaking. It was a place that had witnessed too much and forgiven too little.

Home, he realized, wasn’t where you’d survived. It was where you could rest. And lately, rest had looked like the Arellanos’ kitchen—noise and heat and the smell of chili powder, Robin’s knee bumping his under the table. That small, unspoken rhythm of belonging.

The thought scared him at first. It felt like betrayal—to his father, to Gwen, even to the ghost of his mother who’d once chosen to leave. But beneath the fear was something else: a quiet certainty. A direction.

He must have finally drifted off, because the dream came on soft feet.

There was no basement. No black balloons. No ringing.

He was standing in a backyard. The grass was green and needed mowing. A huge, shaggy dog—a mutt with one flopped ear and kind eyes—lay snoozing in a patch of sunlight. The air smelled of salt and pine, not diesel and dust.

From the back porch of a small, painted house, Robin watched him. He was older. His hair was a little longer, his shoulders broader in a faded flannel shirt. He held two mugs of coffee. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were calm. Peaceful. He lifted one mug in a silent toast.

Then Finney looked down at his own hand. On his finger was a simple, silver band.

He woke with a gasp, the image seared onto the backs of his eyelids. The wanting was so sharp it hurt. The yard. The dog. The ring. The quiet, grown-up version of Robin, finally at rest.

It was a stupid dream. A fantasy. They were seventeen. They were broken. They lived in Denver.

Robin stirred behind him, his arm tightening around Finney’s waist. “’S’wrong?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “You hear it?”

“No,” Finney whispered, his throat tight. He rolled over to face Robin in the dark. He could barely make out his features, just the faint outline of his nose, the curve of his lip. “No ringing.”

Robin hummed, already drifting back under. He slid his hand up Finney’s back, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. “Good. Go back to sleep, cariño.”

Finney closed his eyes, trying to overwrite the heaviness of the room with the dream’s quiet hope. He wanted that backyard. That dog. That peace.

And now, for the first time, the wanting didn’t feel terrifying. It felt like a secret. A tiny, defiant flame in the dark.

He nestled closer to Robin, breathing him in—cigarettes, soap, home—and let the wanting place carry him back to sleep.