Chapter Text
The first time Finney debated joining his ghost boys six feet down into the earth was about a week after he became a murderer. It was a weird, feeling the piercing gut clench of desiring death despite the freezing fear of that same death still fresh in his mind. In his opinion, horror movies, no matter how hard they try, can never capture the desperation for life when you’re faced with the end of it, how you’d do anything to survive.
But then, they also can’t capture the desperation to cease existence once you realise what you’ve done. All in all, they’re not very good at human desperation... it’s never desperate enough.
Slowly but surely, his very own desperation for the end grew. And every night Finney went to bed, in his sweatpants instead of his space pyjamas (he was a murderer, why would he be acting like a child?), and he stared up at the glow in the dark stars and he felt it. This swirling black hole in his stomach, this visceral need for escape, it tore at bits and pieces of him as he tried to wish upon stars— as he tried to focus on chasing his love of outer space instead of missing the love of his boys.
And they were his boys. Through their phone calls and the misery in their voices and his agonising need for something, he loved them more than he’d loved anyone ever in his life. He loved them more than he loved Gwen. That realisation was hard, and then it swirled away with the rest of everything the black hole sucked up.
Besides, even when the stars started to blur and sleep wrapped around him, it was still bad. The nightmares hit like the punches he used to be so conditioned to, and he woke up from them drenched in sweat, blood and tears and a phone stuffed with dirt flashing behind his eyelids.
He had no reprieve with his eyes open, even less with his eyes closed. He wanted his boys. He wanted Robin. He wanted to go home.
It was hard to translate this over to anyone else, partly because they would never even come close to understanding and partly because he didn’t want to. His love felt like a secret, something he could have to himself when the worst days of his life were on blast to everyone around him. People try to give their condolences; he can give them mercy for the effort— but he sees the scared look and the way they walk a little faster than normal to get away from him.
Donna’s the only one who isn’t scared of him. She hugs him whenever he’s upset and she kisses him on the cheek when she says goodbye and she holds his hand in the hallways despite the looks and yet— Finney can’t make himself feel it. He latched onto her immediately, the only one who didn’t treat him like he was a bomb about to go off, but he couldn’t make himself feel it. Even after their kiss behind the school and the way she defended him to all her friends, he could only feel a pull at his heart when he saw a flash her dark brown hair or saw the bandana sticking out of her back pocket. He guessed that made him a bad boyfriend, but just like he couldn’t find it in himself to feel any certain way towards her, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Gwen was the only one who came close to comforting him, but after his realisation that he loved a couple dead boys (some he’d never spoken to until the basement) more than he’d ever loved her, he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. So, she wasn’t ever in his line of sight for long enough to make him feel any better.
With all this bullshit weighing him down, he could only last so long.
He turns away from his stars, from his lifeline, to look at his alarm clock.
1:38am.
It was about a week ago that Finney wondered where his dad kept his gun. He knew that his dad owned a gun, because his dad used to go hunting every fall before his mom died. (Funnily enough, they got hit way less back then. Finney wonders if it was connected to his dad’s opportunity to take the anger out on animals, or the fact that his mom was still alive. He stopped dwelling on it a while ago, after he realised it wouldn’t change anything.) That thought was scary too, because although he knew he wanted to die, he hadn’t seriously considered it yet. Then, he shoved it into the black hole and tried to move along.
Then, it came back up (which is a recurring theme with the black hole, it isn’t doing its job very well) yesterday, when Gwen was at Susie’s and his dad was at work. He had succumbed a little easier this time around, and he went down into the garage just to see it propped up on the wall— in full display, like a trophy.
Stupid, stupid thoughts almost made him pick it up.
He wants his boys. He wants Robin. He wants to go home.
And he’s got this resolve burning in his chest, the kind of resolve that you have to build up before murder. He’s killed someone before. He can do it again.
He gets up out of bed, bracing himself on the wall until the stability returns to his feet. He pulls his sweater sleeves over his hands, it’s so cold in this house, and slips through his half-open bedroom door. The light filtering through from the bathroom is the only thing illuminating the dark hallway.
Finney’s experience with an abusive father comes in handy more times than not— he tip-toes through the house without breaking a sweat, hopping over the creaks in the floor and getting to the garage quick enough to eliminate the opportunity to give it a second thought. He locks the door from the outside and walks over to the gun.
It’s perfectly polished, the only imperfections being the dust lining the top from its lack of use. Finney lets out the breath he’s been holding in since he woke up in the basement. He didn’t even feel this relieved after he got out of that hellhole. But he can feel it now.
And God, does it feel good.
Pushed forward by the euphoria, he reaches up and takes the gun off the wall, holding it as gingerly as someone would hold a newborn. He tries not to smile, to go against the whole “sadist” rumour that’s been circling about him lately, but he wants to. He can’t stress the warmth running through his body right now.
He clicks the safety off. No more nightmares, no more episodes, no more black hole, no more missing love.
He holds the gun up to his head. His boys. His Robin. His home.
For a fleeting moment, he thinks of Gwen— how scared she must’ve been of his death while he was in the basement, how scared for him she must be after everything that he’s been through, how bad it’ll be if she’s the one who finds his body.
It’s too late, anyways.
The first thing Finney notices is a small ringing. At first, he turns over, shivering under the thin blanket, ignoring it— but it just gets louder and louder and louder until he can’t bear it anymore.
Nails digging into the fabric of the comforter, he wonders if he’s in Hell. He never believed in all that stuff Gwen did, but it’s always possible. The ringing really is unbearable, so it must be his punishment for being a murderer or maybe even just for being different. Whatever it is, he must not be in one of the really bad circles. Just... one that’ll be hard to spend eternity in.
(He doesn’t consider that he’s ended up in Heaven. There’s no way, it’s not where he belongs, he accepted that a long time ago.)
He groans and turns back over, sitting up to see where the ringing is coming from—
His alarm clock. It’s not the phone, it’s his alarm clock that’s going off, vibrating and... making noise. He stares at it for a moment, so thrown off that he doesn’t think to stop it. When was the last time he had set his alarm clock?
Then, Finney notices the rest of the room.
He’s in his bedroom, but it’s not really his bedroom. There’s no Texas Chainsaw Massacre poster hanging between his desk and his closet. His baseball gear lays in a pile next to his laundry basket, with fresh dirt still caked onto the kneepads. There’s a half-finished rocket model sitting on top of a textbook all about the moon. He’s wearing space pyjamas, twilight blue ones with sparkling constellations and a repeated pattern of the full moon.
His eyes dart and dart around the room like they do when tracing the stars, like he’s never seen it before. It’s so familiar— a time capsule, if he dares to think anyone would take enough care to preserve this part of his life— but it’s eerily so, like a faded photograph.
Except it’s not a photograph. He’s living in it.
He thinks the living part of that might be debatable until he presses the heel of his hand to his heart and feels his quick, slightly erratic heartbeat.
He’s alive. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive—
Why is he not dead?
His eyes finally land on his little space calendar, hanging beside his slightly open window. It’s like they’ve been repelled away from it, like they’ve been trying to avoid something. Something that’s squeezing Finney’s airways into tubes as thin as straws, that’s making his head spin, that’s making his hand creep under his pillow for the knife he always keeps by his side.
There’s no knife under his pillow. The calendar says November 1977.
Finney is frozen in place, his hands turning to fists. His vision is going in and out like a shitty home video, turning his stomach acid to mush.
A knock at the door knocks the wind right out of him, and he collapses onto his bed. He brings his knees up to his chest, shivering feverishly, squeezing his eyes tight shut. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, this will just be a bad dream. Or Satan torturing him. Anything to make sure this isn’t actually real.
Another knock, this one harder. A particularly bad shiver runs up his spine, spreading convulsions to the rest of his body.
“Finney!”
Gwen’s voice is loud, clear, and sound. It’s laced with a bit of annoyance and a bit of her usual sass, but it tethers Finney to the ground. The shakes stop abruptly, but he keeps his lips pressed together, scared of what will spill out if they detach.
“Finney, I’m coming in, and you better not be asleep. Dad’ll fucking kill us if we’re late.” With that, the door creaks open swiftly.
Finney doesn’t want to get up. He keeps his eyes trained on one lightning bolt-shaped scratch in the wood of his desk. He’s being sucked into the soft of his mattress, the warmth of his blankets. His limbs feel locked in place. His initial anxiety is slowly being replaced by an exhaustion that burrows itself deep into his bones.
“Finney? Are you awake?”
“M-hm.” The vibrations pass mindlessly through his lips as he digs his nails into his knees, drawing pinpricks of warm blood.
Gwen’s voice switches to concern at the drop of a hat. “Finney? Are you alright?” When he doesn’t answer, she’s at his side in seconds. His view of worn-down wood is swiftly replaced by her face and her kind eyes. “Finney?” She pushes his curls out of his face, brow furrowed.
She was the only thing stopping him from pulling that trigger sooner. He probably would’ve strangled himself with the phone cord if it hadn’t been for her, waiting outside. Her unrelenting belief in his survival. Her unwavering love for him, her lack of fear even after she knew what he’d done. The way she protected him, against all forces of evil. The way he wished he could do the same for her. The way she forgave him, no matter what. The way she probably would’ve forgiven him after what happened in the garage, despite his insensitivity for her feelings.
He swallows the quickly rising bile. “I’m fine.” His voice is raspy and cracking at the edges. He clears his throat.
“Are you sure?” Her voice is soft, like floating on a cloud.
He nods, slowly unfurling himself and stretching out his legs. “Gwen, I’m fine.” He can’t believe the universe hates him so fucking much, to push him to the point of killing himself and then bring him back to life. He takes in a deep, slightly trembling breath. “ Do you know what day it is?”
“Monday.”
“No, the date.”
Gwen thinks for a moment. “Twenty-eighth.”
The walls are closing in on them. Soon enough they’ll come too close and crush them both to bits. Finney needs to make sure Gwen gets out. “Alright.”
“Are you sure you’re good? You look pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“Finney—”
“Gwen.” There’s a bit too much force in his tone, but the urgency pumping through his blood is beating kindness right now. “I’m fine.”
He sees the way her eyes dart from his shaking hands to his rapidly rising and falling chest to the goosebumps along his arms to the beads of sweat along his hairline. She takes a breath, and he counts each unconcealed anxious tap of her finger on the mattress. Her face is pulled tight around words she doesn’t say. Instead, she kisses him on his slick forehead and walks out of the room, door clicking behind her.
How could he have done what he did? How could he have shot himself in that garage, only sparing a couple seconds for her? She’s the best of him, and she was the only good left. How could he have thought there was nothing left, nothing to live for? She’s so good she could make up for all the bad in the world. It’s not just the religion, it’s that he can see her abundance of love spilling out from every crack in her soul. How could he have disregarded it so blatantly?
His hand clenches into a fist under his pillow, yearning for something sharp to slit his throat with. Will it just turn into a constant loop? If he kills himself in this world, will he just wake up again in another one? Another one, and another one, and another, until what? Until he saves someone? Until the suicidal thoughts stop?
He’s not built for this. He was barely built to kill The Grabber; he was barely built for survival.
He’s built for a lot less than other people’s lives in his hands.
He couldn’t do it again; he's much too familiar with the fear already coursing through him at the thought of stepping outside the house without The Grabber’s body six feet under.
He curls further in on himself.
God, did he really have to do it again?