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“I really thought you guys were my friends,” Finney complains, stumbling toward the door to try to get out. He isn’t successful; Bruce is far too aware and has no problem getting him to sit back down on the bed.
Music pounds through the door, making Finney’s head hurt more than it already had for the last forty minutes. The weed he smoked had settled just fine, it always did, but the drinking was stupid; it’s rare for Finney to drink; he never does, except on a few rare occasions because he promised himself he’d never be like his dad.
Apparently seeing your childhood crush for the first time in a while making out with someone else is a trigger to break sacred promises to yourself.
“We are your friends,” Griffin insists, blocking the door to the hallway by leaning against it. “And real friends don’t let you kick your high school crush’s ass because you saw him making out with someone that’s not you.”
“He’s not just my high school crush, I liked him my whole childhood, too!” Finney shoots back, as if that’ll convince either of his friends to let him leave. “He just broke my heart, I deserve to take my anger out!”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “And you told him you liked him? Because if you never said anything, this is kind of on you.”
Finney lets out a pitiful whine, flopping back on the bed. He lands too close to one of the edges of the bed, so instead of falling back and hitting a comfortable mattress, he slams the back of his head into the wall. It makes him even more nauseous, stomach turning.
Bruce notices before Finney fully processes it himself. “Okay, time to find a bathroom,” he says, getting Finney to his feet and ordering Griffin to help. “Throw up on me and you’ll be the one getting your ass kicked.”
They struggle to move him since Finney has grown to be taller than both of them and likes to work out a lot. He’s far stronger and heavier than both Bruce and Griffin, who are lean and not used to having to drag a shitfaced idiot around someone’s house.
Finney can’t even hear Bruce’s comment; his mind is fuzzy, the back of his head is throbbing, and he needs a toilet, Advil, and a bed. Preferably his own and not just an empty one at this really confusing house that he’s been at for the last ten hours. In reality, it’s probably only been one or two hours, but Finney isn’t really feeling too eager to figure out the night’s timeline.
The most important thing on his mind is that he needs to call Robin a slut before he leaves. They haven’t talked or seen each other in a while, but he’s acting like one and should hear it. What kind of person makes out with someone when their childhood sort-of-friend has a massive crush on them? Sure, Finney never exactly mentioned it, but that doesn’t matter. He gave off enough of that hopeless crush vibe that Robin should’ve picked up on.
Anyways, only a slut makes out with people they’ve never met at a party. Except Bruce, but that’s only because he’s dating the person he met at a party and was caught making out with by Griffin. Finney thinks that’s more along the lines of a man whore than a slut. At least Griffin had the decency to meet his boyfriend on campus at a school club.
“Get out,” Griffin says, slamming the door to a bathroom open and seeing two people in there, making out and almost falling into the bathtub. “Unless you want to see him throwing up.”
Finney assumes he’s the person Griffin is referring to because he really does feel nauseous, but he’s more focused on the other two people in the room. Mainly because one of them is the reason he drank. He doesn’t have time to try to fight Robin like he’d been dead set on earlier; his stomach lurches again and he barely has time to hunch over the toilet before he’s puking his guts out.
It’s gross, acidic, and every time he looks in the toilet, he gags again. Finney has never been someone who throws up, not unless he drinks or is super dehydrated. He loathes throwing up. It’s definitely in his top three most hated experiences.
Finney is pretty sure people are talking around him, but his ears and head are pounding so hard that he can’t hear anything. Fuck, he needs that Advil. Did he verbally tell Bruce and Griffin he needed one when they were dragging him to the bathroom, or had it stayed in his head?
He figures he didn’t say it aloud; both of his friends are competent. If he’d said he needed an Advil, one of them would’ve found it and the other one would have accompanied him to the bathroom and witnessed his very embarrassing moment.
A hand touches the top of his head and migrates to his forehead, brushing some of his sweaty hair out of his face. It feels kind of nice, but Finney definitely would prefer it to be a cold washcloth or something. He opens his mouth to ask for one and ends up vomiting again.
Every force of the universe hates him.
Is this his punishment for coming out? Maybe whatever gods are out there actually hate gay people. If that’s the case, though, then why isn’t Robin the one throwing up? Finney wasn’t the one being a slut and making out with a random guy; he had been very responsible, drowning his sorrows in weed and alcohol instead of using sex as his vice.
No wonder he was the top of his class in high school; Finney knows he’s a very responsible genius.
“I think I’m done,” Finney slurs after what feels like hours but was likely only a couple of minutes.
He tries to sit down but ends up kind of falling on his back like a drunk armadillo. Well, like a drunk college student cosplaying an armadillo, because those things are pretty cute and Finney is quite confident that ‘cute’ is not a good descriptor for him right now. Blinking a few times, he looks up at three people watching him with varying degrees of concern on their face.
Robin is still there. It’s been a while since Finney’s seen him, and he’s kind of annoyed that Robin looks so good. Like, he was hot in high school, but he’s gotten even hotter over the years. It’s unfair. He hasn’t cut his hair, not that Finney ever expected him to, but he’s clearly done some upkeep because it frames his face differently than when they were younger. Maybe it’s the lack of the bandana he used to wear.
Whatever it is, Finney is still bothered and points at Robin. “Slut,” he says, letting his hand fall to his chest as soon as he says it.
There, he made his point.
“Did you happen to drive?” Bruce asks, and it’s obvious he’s directing the question to Robin. “Because we walked and I cannot handle dragging his ass to the dorms right now. He’ll bitch about the cold and he’s dead weight when he’s like this.”
Robin looks between Bruce and Griffin before returning his gaze to where Finney is flopped on the floor. “Does this happen a lot?”
“A certain event caused it,” Bruce deadpans, thankfully not giving Robin any additional details.
Even though he didn’t say anything revealing, Finney tries to flip him off. His arms are too heavy. Hopefully the energy of his annoyance is strong enough that Bruce can sense his intentions. It’s not his fault that his arms feel too heavy; Robin is the one that indirectly made him drink.
Kind of.
Maybe Finney should take some responsibility, especially since Griffin had recommended that he slow down when he was about three shots in.
“Yeah, my car’s down the street.” Robin is watching Finney like he’s concerned but also trying not to laugh. “Don’t puke in it.”
Finney groans. He has no intention of humiliating himself more. Even if he hates Robin for being a slut, he still has an annoying crush on him. “Just leave me here to die.”
“Fine with me,” Griffin deadpans, looking at his watch.
Finney cackles when he sees it and almost chokes on his spit. He’s never understood Griffin’s need for a watch when he has a phone that tells the time. It’s not even a fancy watch that hooks up to his phone; it’s one he got from one of those prize vending machines at an arcade during their first year of college.
“We’re not leaving him,” Bruce says, but he looks as annoyed as Griffin feels. “He’s usually the one getting us home, come on.”
“Yeah, but we’re not usually crossed and nowhere near as dramatic as he is when he gets this fucked up,” Griffin grumbles. He still reaches down to help Bruce, both of them struggling because they’re pretty lean.
Robin watches the whole thing before deciding to step in. “I can get him,” he says, tossing his keys to Bruce. “Just clear the way and unlock my car.”
“I don’t want your slut germs on me,” Finney whines.
He doesn’t do a good job of fighting back when Robin wraps an arm around his waist. It’s almost far too easy for Robin to partially carry him and direct his movements. Finney is annoyed by how much he likes it, by how much he still likes Robin even though he should have been over him by now.
“Finn, shut up,” Griffin scolds.
Finney gives him a miserable, pleading look. “Griffin, carry me.”
“Fuck no, you’re, like, eight hundred pounds.”
“You think I’m fat?”
“Yes, your workouts have done nothing.”
Bruce lightly smacks the back of Griffin’s head. “Don’t do this right now,” he begs.
Finney is always a little sappy and emotional when he’s high and right now it’s amplified because he’s also drunk. No part of Bruce wanted to deal with the meltdown potential of a crossed Finney Blake. It wouldn’t be the first time. Griffin egging him on is the last thing either of them need.
Thankfully, despite the few drinks he’s had, Griffin is still aware enough to pick up on that and gives up his attempts to play with Finney’s messy emotional state. He still looks pissed off that he was stopped.
Robin hasn’t seen Finney in a while.
They’ve known each other for years but none of their classes overlap because of their different disciplines. Occasionally they text, but they never had a close friendship back home; Finney tutored Robin for years and Robin stopped bullies from bothering Finney, but that was the extent of their bond.
There were plenty of times when Robin tried to get Finney to hang out longer, but Finney rarely did.
So, seeing him for the first time in a while and being called a slut definitely throws Robin for a loop. He doesn’t question it, though. Robin is far more concerned about why Finney chose to drink, since he knows that Finney has always hated the idea of drinking because his dad is, to Robin’s knowledge, still an alcoholic.
Drinking isn’t normal for Finney and Robin wants to know why tonight of all nights is the time he chose to take part. Neither of Finney’s friends seem like they’re the type to peer pressure him and Finney has always been stubborn. Why he decided to drink surrounded by inebriated people (two things Finney has notoriously hated for most of his life) is extremely confusing to Robin.
It’s cold outside when they finally leave the house. The freezing air makes Finney try to remember if he brought a jacket but he’s far too out of it to even try to determine the answer. If he did, then it’s Bruce and Griffin’s responsibility to be good friends and find it.
“I’m cold,” Finney complains anyways, trying to burrow himself into Robin’s side and almost knocking both of them off balance. “Where’s my jacket?”
“You said it would ruin your outfit,” Bruce says from somewhere behind him. “I told you that you’d be cold.”
“Then you should’ve made me bring one!”
Robin laughs. “I have a blanket in my car, we’re almost there.”
“So you can fuck people in the backseat?” Finney asks, unable to hide the bitterness in his tone.
“Uh, no? It’s so I can take naps in between work and classes because I don’t usually have time to go back to my apartment.”
Finney blinks slowly, processing that information. He almost trips on an uneven spot in the sidewalk and complains that the ground is aggressive. Because it is. What kind of surface intentionally tries to attack someone who’s already unbalanced and has to deal with their childhood crush dragging them around? An aggressive one, obviously.
“Do you all live at the same place?” Robin asks.
Finney is in the passenger seat, wrapped up in the promised blanket. He likes how it smells, it’s similar to what Robin’s clothes smelled like growing up, but this has a sharper, more mature undertone. It has been way too long since they last talked.
“Yeah,” Bruce says. “We all live in the honors dorms. Griffin and I are roommates and Finn lives across the hall. Apparently he needed his own space.”
“I do need my own space,” Finney immediately says even though he’d kind of been zoning out of the conversation. “And there’s usually four people in your dorm because of your orgies.”
“Both of us having our boyfriends over is not an orgy.”
“Incorrect, it’s actually the textbook definition.”
“We should have left him in the bathroom, sorry for doubting you,” Bruce says to Griffin, his tone showing just how done he is with Finney.
Robin starts the car and turns up the heat because Finney is still shivering despite the blanket he has. He doesn’t add to the conversation that’s continuing between Bruce and Griffin, both of whom are irritated by Finney. Robin thinks about the last time he texted Finney. It was probably a few months ago, just to try to initiate conversation by asking about classes for the semester at the start of the year. The conversation hadn’t lasted because Finney is a dry texter.
They sometimes pass each other on campus and Robin usually sees him accompanied by the same two guys sitting in his backseat. He’s happy that Finney has friends, but Robin misses him and wishes they had formed a closer bond when they were younger. If they had, maybe it would’ve fed into their lives now.
Instead, Robin gets to drive his drunk childhood friend(ish) and his other two friends back to their dorm at nearly one in the morning. He pulls up to a curb and turns off the car, ignoring Bruce’s insistence that it’s fine if Robin just wants to drop them off.
“You couldn’t get him down the stairs,” Robin points out, opening the passenger door. “And this dorm is kind of known for having unreliable elevators.”
Finney huffs when Robin gets him out of the car and refuses to let go of the blanket. “You want me to get hypothermia.”
“I want to get you to your room or your friends will decide to leave you on the front lawn,” Robin says, reaching down to touch the grass and smacking some of the dew on Finney’s cheek. “You wanna sleep on that?”
Finney shrieks at the cold on his face, stumbling backward. He almost falls, but Robin catches him which is good because one look at Bruce and Griffin shows they have no interest in offering any kind of assistance. Both of them are shooting him disapproving looks, as if Finney hasn’t dragged them home when they were in a similar state.
Ungrateful, both of them.
The climb up the stairs is slow. Really slow, as in it takes Finney almost ten minutes to get from the first floor to the second floor. He’s sweating from the blanket but his arms still feel cold and he’s kind of nauseous again but also starving. There’s probably some kind of food in his dorm, he can’t remember if he went grocery shopping last week.
“You two can go,” Robin offers, since both Bruce and Griffin are exhausted and just watching as Robin tries to drag Finney up the stairwell. “Do you have the keys to his dorm?”
Finney panics for a second; he has no clue where his keys are. Before he can really start to freak out, Griffin reaches into his pocket and takes out Finney’s lanyard, handing it off to Robin.
“He’s in room 407,” Griffin says. “And we’re 410 if he needs something.”
“Wait, we can’t just leave,” Bruce interrupts, snatching the lanyard back. “What if he pukes again? Do you know how common it is to die by drowning in your own vomit?”
Finney flips him off. “My insides are empty, even my organs are gone. No more puking over here.”
The other three rudely ignore him.
“I can stay with him,” Robin offers. “I mean, it’s not like I’m some random person and, no offense, I’m actually worried you two will kill him if you have to spend ten more minutes with him.”
Griffin shrugs. “Sounds fair, have a good night.”
Bruce grabs Griffin’s arm before he can dash up the stairs. “We don’t know you.”
“I’ll send text and photo updates,” Robin says, holding out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
“I don’t want anyone in my room,” Finney complains. “It’s dirty.”
Griffin gives him a dry look that goes right over Finney’s head. “I’m sure that singular sock on your floor has destroyed the whole aesthetic,” he says, handing over his phone as well so Robin can put in his number. “Can we go now?”
Bruce looks between Robin and Finney uncertainly. “Fine. Do anything weird and I’m sending my boyfriend after you.”
“I mean, Finney’s the one who wants to kick his ass, pretty sure he can handle it,” Griffin says, earning himself an elbow to the side from Bruce. “What?! It’s true!”
Robin opens his mouth to ask why Finney wants to go after him, but he’s distracted by Finney almost missing a step and nearly faceplanting into a stair. As he catches Finney, Bruce and Griffin disappear up the stairs.
“They’re the worst,” Finney whispers, readjusting the blanket over his shoulders. “I don’t like you, either, though.”
“Don’t be a mean drunk, Finn,” Robin says despite his smile.
“I’m just high, not drunk.”
Robin doesn’t argue with him. He’s confident that Finney definitely drank; not only did his friends say it, but Robin can smell it on him. It’s unnatural; they’d smoked in groups together toward the end of high school, but whenever beer was brought out, Finney was more inclined to leave. The smell of weed on Finney isn’t strange, but the alcohol causes something bitter to settle inside of Robin.
It takes nearly thirty minutes to finally reach the dorm room. Finney stumbles through the door and flops on his couch. He lands halfway on it and doesn’t balance himself, resulting in him crashing to the floor. He rolls onto his back and stares at his ceiling.
“I’m hungry,” Finney says, but makes no effort to move. “And my head hurts.”
“You should probably get into pajamas,” Robin suggests. He sits on the couch next to where Finney is lying on the floor, tapping his leg with his foot. “And sleep.”
Finney sits up, dazed. “Why are you even here? Where’s the person you were making out with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he your boyfriend?”
“No, just someone I met.”
Finney points at him accusingly for the second time that night. “Slut.”
“I didn’t sleep with him,” Robin says, rolling his eyes.
Usually he’d take offense, but Finney is way too drunk right now and obviously doesn’t know what he’s saying. They aren’t really friends, but Robin is pretty confident he’s never heard Finney call anyone a slut. Finney probably advocates for prostitute rights and fair pay in his free time.
“Would you have if I didn’t come into the bathroom?” Finney asks, laying his head on Robin’s thigh. “Because I didn’t want you to sleep with him.”
Robin has no clue why Finney is interrogating him, but if there’s one thing he knows about drunk people, it’s to try to keep them calm so they aren’t argumentative. Finney is the type to argue and be stubborn while sober, so he definitely seems like he’d be worse when drunk. Robin doesn’t think he can handle that right now.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” Robin says, which is the truth.
The other guy was cute, but he was far more into it than Robin was. The alcohol in Robin’s system had worn off at that point, but he was tired. Had he been more alert, he probably wouldn’t have been interested. Sleeping with random people isn’t his style.
“Good, because I don’t want to have a crush on a slut,” Finney says.
Robin’s heart beats a little faster. “You have a crush on me?”
“Duh, I made it so obvious for, like, my entire life.” Finney sighs, standing up and managing to stay on his feet long enough to get to his closet. “But obviously I couldn’t tell you, that would be embarrassing because you’re hot and I’m not so I didn’t really feel like getting rejected.”
“You’ve liked me your entire life and never told me?” Robin asks, completely baffled. “You didn’t even come out until, like, sophomore year of high school!”
Finney laughs at him; he’s too out of it to process the genuine distress that is emanating from Robin. Well, and he’s also too out of it to recognize that he’s spilling his guts to his crush and not meaning to. This was a problem for him to deal with tomorrow.
“I liked you before that, though,” Finney tells him, taking out a pair of pajama pants with little stars on them. He can’t find the matching top and settles for a plain black t-shirt. “And I didn’t even hide it, so it’s your fault if you didn’t know.”
“We barely ever hung out!”
“I smiled at you a lot.”
“You used to smile at everyone.”
Finney brushes the comment off. “I mean, yeah, but those were fake.” He almost slips trying to take off his shirt and leans against the wall. “Should’ve used your eyeballs. Your brother’s the one with glasses, not you.”
“He uses contacts now,” Robin says, watching Finney in disbelief. “Do you still have a crush on me?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, for real? Not just because you’re crossed and probably won’t remember this in the morning?”
“I’ll remember this, I’m the smartest person alive!” Finney exclaims, only to trip when he tries to take a step forward. He doesn’t try to break his fall and crashes into the floor with a pained grunt. After the immediate pain fades, he rolls onto his back. “I think I’m drunk.”
Robin gets up to stand over him, giving him a sorrowful look. “You are.” He kneels down to help Finney sit up. “Do you need help with your pajamas?”
“I tell you I like you and you’re already making moves,” Finney says, poking the center of Robin’s forehead with his pointer finger. “Desperate.”
Robin scoffs, grabbing Finney’s wrist and gently moving his hand away. “You’re the one who’s been pining for twenty years, apparently.”
“I met you when I was eight,” Finney corrects. “So only twelve years.”
Only Finney Blake can be drunk and still call out a technicality and critique someone’s math skills. It’s almost cute, but Robin chooses to refocus on the task at hand: getting Finney into pajamas and into bed so he can hopefully also get some sleep on the couch. It sounds like an easy task, but Robin knows Finney well enough not to be that gullible.
“Okay, twelve years,” Robin agrees, taking the t-shirt from Finney’s hands. “Still makes you sound more desperate than me.”
A pout forms on Finney’s face. “So you don’t like me back?”
“I do now and I did back then,” Robin says, hoping that Finney remembers this tomorrow. “I just thought you didn’t want anything to do with me. You never wanted to hang out unless it was tutoring or sometimes when we were smoking in larger groups in high school. I’ve liked you since we were probably ten even if I didn’t know what those feelings were.”
Finney purses his lips, thinking. “Huh. I thought you asking to hang out was just a friend thing.”
“I mean, I wanted to be friends and not have it limited to tutoring so we could get closer, but you usually wouldn’t want to so I just thought you weren’t interested,” Robin says. “The whole not really knowing each other thing didn’t really help me to tell you that I liked you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Finney shrugs and grabs the bottom of his shirt, awkwardly trying to get it off. He starts to get caught in it, making Robin reach over to help him. It’s a slow, careful process to get him out of his clothes and redressed. Somehow it’s more exhausting than their trek up the stairs.
“I’m still hungry,” Finney says once he’s dressed again. He tries to throw his dirty clothes toward his hamper, but they end up on the floor about halfway across the room. “And I need something to make my head stop hurting or I’ll throw up again. Stupid wall.”
“Stupid…wall?”
“I hit my head on a wall.” Finney flops onto his bed, curling on his side. “It’s your fault. I wouldn’t even have drank if you weren’t making out with that guy. Slut.”
Robin watches him, almost amused by Finney’s legitimate annoyance even if Robin just told him he’d liked him for years now. “Again, you never told me you liked me.”
“If I had, would you be making out with me instead?”
“Probably.”
Finney’s face flushes and Robin catches it but is nice enough to not say anything. The flush could be from the admission, it probably was, but it could also be from the alcohol and weed still working their way through Finney’s system.
Robin starts to look through cabinets to find the pain pills and any snack that wouldn’t destroy Finney’s stomach and make him puke again. Advil is easy enough to find, but Finney definitely shouldn’t take it without some kind of snack. Not after puking and knowing how hard Advil could be on him. Robin starts to get increasingly frustrated when he can’t find any snack that isn’t spicy or candy.
Somehow he forgot that Finney has always had a weirdly high spice tolerance and also can’t cook. Of course the only options would be shit food.
“Do you have any snacks that aren't this bullshit?” Robin asks, referring to the snacks in the pantry. He doesn’t wait for an answer, opening the fridge and finding it empty except for a container of milk, a two litre bottle of Coke, and a stick of butter. “How are you not dead? What the fuck do you even eat?”
Finney is watching him from his bed, a dreamy expression on his face. “I eat instant ramen and my snacks. It’s not that bad for you if you work out.” He pauses, reflecting for a moment. “I think I’m out of ramen, though.”
“Working out doesn’t mean it’s not bad for you,” Robin says in exasperation. “How many years since you last ate a piece of fruit?”
“Does peach flavored candy count?”
Robin gives another stressed look and takes out his phone. He tries to find any place that’s open at two in the morning on a Sunday and will deliver to the dorms. The options are really limited, so Robin settles for a pizza place nearby. It’s not really ‘healthy’ and he’s sure the staff are going to be confused that he ordered cheesy garlic bread without cheese or garlic, but it’ll keep Finney from vomiting again.
Hopefully.
“Are you texting someone?” Finney asks in annoyance. “I thought you liked me.”
“I’m ordering you food so you don’t throw up when you take this,” Robin says, shaking the Advil bottle in front of him. “I do like you, Finn.”
Finney hums. “Promise?”
“I promise.” Robin sits down at the end of his bed. “I wonder how embarrassed you’ll be tomorrow after admitting all of this. You don’t really have a good track record of being open with people.”
“I’ve changed, I’m in college now. I only feel the confidence of a white man, not pathetic feelings like embarrassment or shame.”
“So that’s why you wanted to try to fight me when you saw me with someone else instead of just talking to me?” Robin teases.
Finney flips him off without much heat. “You like fighting, I was being considerate. I wasn’t going to try to actually hurt you.”
“Your friends seemed to think so.”
“Drama queens, both of them. I’m harmless.”
Robin raises an eyebrow. “So you didn’t fight anyone in your senior year of high school and break their nose?”
“He deserved it,” Finney justifies. “And you told me to stand up for myself. So, I’m harmless unless someone deserves violence.”
“Seems like you thought I deserved violence.”
“Playful violence, obviously,” Finney lies.
He’s not a good liar, he knows that, and it’s obvious even with his drunk haze that Robin doesn’t believe a single word that he’s saying. To be fair, Finney has never once claimed to be a good liar and he didn’t actually think he’d get away with it. Still, he’s annoyed that Robin won’t play along.
Finney’s head is still bothering him; he’s pretty sure there’s probably a bump at the back of his head. At least he has nothing to do tomorrow except wallow in his hangover self-pity. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, he remembers checking the weather, and that at least means the sun won’t attack him through the window and make his suffering worse.
“Food’s here,” Robin says as his phone chimes. He scoops up Finney’s lanyard and heads for the door. “I’ll be right back, don’t try to do anything stupid.”
“I’m the smartest person alive,” Finney mumbles, closing his eyes as if that’ll stop the pounding in his brain.
It didn’t hurt that much when he was talking to Robin. Maybe the adrenaline rush of talking to the one person he’s been obsessed with for years made the pain go away for a while. Or, maybe he’s dying. Finney has no clue, he hasn’t drank like this in a long time so there’s no reason he should be expected to know.
His apartment feels cold now that he’s alone with his thoughts. Instead of getting under the covers, he opens his eyes and leaves his bed to snatch up the blanket that he stole from Robin’s car. There’s no way he’s giving it back, not when it smells so good. He doesn’t really have the energy to walk the four feet back over to his bed, so he lays down on the floor like the mature, responsible college student that he is.
The door to his room opens while he stares at a poster he hung on the wall. It’s an old, kind of wrinkly NASA poster that was his prized possession when he was a kid. Even if it’s old, it still feels special to him.
“Please tell me you didn’t fall,” Robin says, sounding exhausted that Finney managed to move from his bed to the floor in the few minutes he was gone.
“I was cold and wanted my blanket,” Finney responds, sitting up and grabbing his stomach. “I feel so sick.”
Robin sits down on the floor beside him and opens the box of plain bread.
“Did you mean to order pizza with nothing on it?” Finney asks, taking a piece anyway.
“Yeah, figured garlic cheesy bread would make you puke again.”
“I could probably puke again if I wanted to without eating cheesy bread.”
“Don’t try.”
Finney takes a huge bite because he’s starving and he’s surprised that the bread tastes good, even without the toppings he usually would want. It’s the weed talking, he reasons, working his way through the first piece of bread. Maybe Griffin was right about him being fat because Finney feels like he could devour the whole box.
“Aren’t you gonna eat?” Finney asks, since Robin is watching him but hasn’t touched anything.
“No, I’m fine,” Robin says. He takes out his phone and takes a picture. “I’m sending this to your friends so they don’t think I’m trying to kill you or something.”
Finney hums, not really caring. “If you were going to kill me, what would your method be?”
“Finn.”
“Okay, fine, be boring,” Finney grumbles, finishing his third piece of bread and taking another. “I’d hit you with an axe.”
Robin stares at him for a few minutes. “You’re so weird.”
“So are you.”
“Name one weird thing I’ve said.”
Finney grins. “You said you like me and you also said I’m weird, so therefore liking weird things makes you weird, so there.”
“You just insulted yourself, like, three times.” Robin takes the half empty box of bread away.
“Hey, I’m still eating that!”
Robin shakes his head. “You’re not eating the whole box, Finn. You’ll throw up again.”
He puts the box on the counter, hoping Finney is drunk enough that he won’t be able to get up and get more without Robin stopping him. It seems his assumption is right, because Finney just pouts on the floor but stays curled up in the blanket and slowly finishes the bread in his hand. Robin pours him a glass of milk and hands it over with two Advil.
“I want Coke,” Finney says pleadingly.
Robin isn’t swayed. “Too bad. The last thing you need is caffeine.”
“Bruce says I have undiagnosed ADHD so it’ll actually make me tired.”
“Well, an unofficial diagnosis from one of your friends isn’t a good enough reason. Take your pills.”
Finney looks at them skeptically. “You’re trying to roofie me.”
Robin stares at him for a few seconds in exasperation. Apparently his tired expression is enough to convince Finney that Robin’s exhausted and has no interest in drugging him, making Finney pop the pills in his mouth and drink them down with the milk.
If it were anyone else, Robin would already be over this and eager to leave. His crush he’s had on Finney since they were young never really did die and he’s actually kind of amused by drunk-high Finney. It would be way more fun if he was just high and not drunk, too. It’s not normal for Finney to drink and Robin doesn’t like it, so hopefully he doesn’t have to deal with it again for a while.
“Alright, brush your teeth and then go to bed,” Robin says once Finney chugs down the glass.
Finney gets up without complaining, the exhaustion getting to him. He stumbles to the bathroom to brush his teeth, albeit not as thorough as he usually is. Once he’s done, he makes his way to his bed and curls up on the tiny frame, Robin’s blanket still draped over him. There’s no other blanket visible in the room, so Robin figures he’ll end up pathetically curled up on the couch trying to stay warm in his jeans.
The things he does for his stupid crush.
“You can use my clothes,” Finney mumbles, watching him from the bed. “If you’re staying.”
Robin thanks him and embraces the offer. It’ll at least be more comfortable than sleeping in his jeans and button down. He goes through Finney’s closet, finding a pair of sweatpants and a random long sleeve shirt since he’s probably not going to get a blanket. They’re about the same size, even though Finney’s a little taller.
Finney’s watching him the whole time even though he’s super tired and should definitely be trying to sleep. “Robin,” he murmurs when he sees him settling onto the couch.
“Yeah?”
“You should sleep with me.”
Finney thinks he probably wouldn’t offer that if he was more sober. He’s a lot of things, but forward isn’t one of them. Stubborn, nerdy, and paranoid might be better words. But, he’s super out of it and it’s unfair to make Robin sleep on the couch without a blanket, but there’s no way that Finney is giving up the one he stole.
“And you’re the one who’s been calling me a slut all night.”
Finney flips him off, taking a few seconds before he realizes that he accidentally used his ring finger and not his middle finger. “Not like that.”
“I know, Finn.”
“So come here, then,” Finney demands.
Robin seems to think about it for a couple of minutes before he climbs on the bed. He moves to lay between Finney and the wall so that Finney can get to the bathroom if he needs to throw up again.
Finney turns so he can face Robin. He doesn’t say anything, just admires him and occasionally reaches forward to touch his hair or his hands. They’re both soft, but Finney doesn’t really have anything to compare it to since he can’t remember if he ever touched Robin’s hands or hair in the past.
Maybe his hands, he vaguely recalls helping clean up Robin’s knuckles after a fight before tutoring him.
“Go to sleep, Finn,” Robin whispers, taking Finney’s hand in his own.
Finney eagerly squeezes Robin’s hand in his own, as if trying to confirm that it’s real and not going to disappear. He hasn’t had dreams exactly like this, but he’s had similar ones. Dreams where Robin wants him and is smiling at him in the same way he is right now. It feels too good to be true and Finney’s scared if he falls asleep that it’ll be over when he wakes up.
“You’re not going to leave?” Finney asks tentatively.
“No, I’m not,” Robin promises.
That’s enough confirmation for Finney, and he stops fighting sleep.
~~~
A dull, thudding pain is coursing through his head when he wakes up. He knows it’s from drinking the night before, but there’s also pain from a bump at the back of his head that he doesn’t remember causing. On top of that he feels an annoying pain in his stomach, like shards of glass are stabbing him from the inside out.
Finney opens his eyes, letting out a weak, strangled sound. He tries to sit up and freezes when he feels an arm around his waist. As soon as he sees Robin, the entire night comes back in bits and pieces, but it’s enough to make him feel immediately humiliated. It’s not enough to make him vomit, but his stomach lurches a little bit.
He pushes Robin’s arm off of him and reaches for his phone. It’s still really early in the morning but he has a few missed texts from Griffin and Bruce checking on him. Finney types a quick text assuring that he’s okay and apologizes for the mess he was the night before. The responses come right away, all of them sarcastic and teasing.
Some friends they are.
Finney still loves them, anyway.
Maybe they’ll take him out for a sad hangover breakfast after Robin gets up and inevitably leaves. There’s no way he meant anything he said the night before. He has always been a sweet, kind person despite his reputation as a fighter. Robin definitely was only saying those things to make sure Finney could get some sleep and wasn’t lost in drunk misery.
“Are you going to throw up?” Robin asks, his eyes fluttering open. “Sitting there is scaring me, please go puke or lay down, the suspense is killing me.”
Finney gives him an exhausted side-eye. “I’m not gonna puke.”
“So what’s wrong with your face?”
“Nothing?”
“Thinking about all the shit you said last night?”
Finney scowls at him. “You don’t have to be a dick about it. I was drunk, okay?”
Robin seems surprised by his hostility. He sits up and moves so he and Finney can actually see each other, their knees brushing. “Did you mean it? You said you meant it and I asked if it was just because you were fucked up and you said it wasn’t.”
“So what?” Finney asks, humiliation and irritation coursing through him. “I appreciate you going along with it and taking care of me, but I’d kind of like to make this room into a depression cave, so you can leave.”
“Finn,” Robin says, sounding exasperated. “I meant it, too.”
Finney gapes at him. “You did?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Oh.”
Robin rolls his eyes, flicking the center of Finney’s forehead.
“Ow, fuck!” Finney exclaims, grabbing his forehead. “My head hurts, asshole!”
“That’s your fault,” Robin says, getting off the bed and getting Finney another glass of milk and more Advil. “Take these and get dressed. We’re going on a date.”
Finney stares at him, still kind of in shock. “We are?”
“I mean, you’ve been waiting twelve years, right? I should probably do it before you call me a slut and try to fight me again.” Robin gives him a cheesy grin, waiting for the remark he knows Finney will make.
“Well, don’t make out with random people,” Finney says bitterly.
“Just you?” Robin teases. “You wanna be the only one who kisses me, Finn?”
Finney’s tired of his annoying remarks. He slams his glass down and approaches Robin, pressing their lips together for a few seconds. It catches Robin off guard and almost throws him off his balance, but he manages to catch Finney by leaning back against the counter.
“Yeah, I do,” Finney murmurs. “Even if I’m still kind of gross from drinking last night.”
“I made you brush your teeth, so it could be worse.”
Finney smiles, still leaning into him when the door to his dorm opens. He groans in annoyance when he sees Bruce and Griffin on the other side and moves away from Robin. Why he gave them a spare key to his dorm, he doesn’t know.
“I told you not to do anything weird!” Bruce says accusingly, glaring at Robin.
“Good job, Finn,” Griffin comments at the same time with an impressed nod.
“He initiated it!” Robin exclaims, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m an innocent bystander.”
Finney rolls his eyes before focusing on his two friends. “Get out of my dorm, I’m going on a date.”
“Wow, congrats,” Griffin says, looking genuinely surprised. “So much for wanting to fight him last night.”
“I’ll beat both of your asses right now.”
“Try it, Billy and Vance would love a reason to fuck you up.”
Finney points toward the doorway. “Out.”
“Wow, that desperate for that date?” Robin asks once the other two have retreated, leaning against the counter with a smug look on his face. “You could’ve asked years ago.”
“I’ll still fight you,” Finney says. “Just wait until I get drunk again.”
Robin approaches him and presses their lips together again, brushing a few stray hairs out of Finney’s face when he pulls away. “I definitely prefer the kissing you when you’re sober.”