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It’s one Thursday night when Robin climbs through his window. Finney doesn’t mean to call him. Sleep has this befuddling side effect. And he just wants to hear him, listen to his voice until the world sounds alright again.
Robin picks up on the second ring, and before Finney can even mutter a word, he says he’ll be there in ten.
Because Finney never calls. Not at night, especially. And, perhaps, that gives Robin the wrong impression. But, perhaps, Finney really doesn’t care. Doesn’t want to.
The breath lodged somewhere in his chest finally finds its way out at the sight of Robin’s dark hair, and gets entirely knocked out of him once the boy smiles up at him.
“Hey, Fin,” says Robin, swinging his legs over the windowsill. “What’s happening?”
It’s his standard greeting—for Finney, anyway. He can’t recall Robin ever asking someone else how they are doing.
Finney’s smile strengthens with hesitance. His nerves feel on fire, feeling like he should tell the boy to go home while really not wanting him to.
In the end, he settles on the next best thing. “I’m sorry.”
Robin shakes his head and sighs. Pushing himself off the sill, he grabs Finney’s hand and leads them both to the bed. When Finney remains frozen, two hands gently position him on the bed.
All he can muster is a stare up at Robin. The brown of his eyes looks so gentle. Warm.
“No, thank you.”
Finney blinks. Then, “What?”
“For calling,” comes Robin’s explanation before he drops next to him onto the mattress. “For keeping your promise.”
Finney considers his words. “You mean… oh.”
Robin just hums, closing his eyes and looking unexpectedly peaceful. Finney wants to dig deeper but decides against it. Robin’s already doing him a favor. The least he can do is comply. Comply with whatever groundwork he’s setting and follow accordingly.
Every conversation’s just another play, and Finney wants to make sure he plays his role perfectly. Satisfyingly. Enough to make the boy stay. To prevent him from waking up one day and conclude he was never worth the hassle.
When he looks over at him, Robin seems to have dozen off, so Finney reluctantly turns off his lamp and shuffles closer—into a fetal position that almost has him rest his head against Robin’s shoulder… were he to just get close enough. He doesn’t try.
“Wanna talk about it?” Robin murmurs, a hand coming to grip his elbow. It’s gentle. Robin’s thumb keeps ticking, and Finney could almost mistake it for a caress. “Your nightmare?”
It makes him want to cry.
Robin makes him want to cry. His infinite care. His ‘just knowing.’ Finney doesn’t even have to tell him; Robin just knows.
“No, thanks.”
Finney keeps shifting under the blanket. The room's quiet, except for the occasional creak from the house or Robin’s slow breathing beside him.
"You sure you’re not tired?"
Robin doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are half-closed, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m fine. Estoy contigo.”
Finney furrows his brow. His Spanish’s nonexistent, but ‘contigo’ is a word his friend uses often. “With me?”
Robin nods, lazy. “Mmhm.”
Then softer, as if speaking to the ceiling instead, “¿Dónde más estaría?”
Finney blinks. “...What?”
It’s a question, but Robin just shrugs and turns his head to face him again. Their legs are almost touching. He reaches out again, barely brushing Finney’s wrist with the backs of his fingers.
“Mi sol,” he murmurs, barely audible.
“Your what?”
Robin just grins—that same infuriating grin that usually means he’s teasing. But this time, it’s tired, soft, maybe even a little sad.
Finney feels fuzzy inside. All he does is stare.
“Nothing. Sleep.”
“I wasn’t the one about to fall asleep talking nonsense,” Finney complains.
Robin hums again, but this time it’s different—lower, a little broken around the edges. “Quisiera quedarme así contigo por siempre.”
“Robin,” Finney sighs, “you’re doing it again.”
Robin finally looks at him directly.
“I know.”
He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t translate.
And Finney, well, he doesn’t ask again.
Robin doesn’t want him to.
˗ˏˋ ☆ ˎˊ˗
Finney loiters near the bike racks, scuffing his shoe against the concrete like it might stir up some answers. Or crush them. Or make him finally stop fretting over them. His backpack sags off one shoulder, dragged down by more hesitation than textbooks.
He should go home. He should not wait for Robin. And he definitely should not keep rehearsing for the millionth time how he might ask about that thing he said—the thing—like it hadn’t been whispered in a tone far too soft to be casual.
“You look like you’re about to break into a musical,” Bruce says suddenly, cutting through the silence and startling him.
Finney jumps. “Jesus, Bruce.”
Bruce grins, dropping onto the bench with all the casual confidence of someone who knows he’s annoying. “What, no solo? I was rooting for something dramatic. Rain, maybe. Thunder. An emotional crescendo.”
“I’m just waiting,” Finney mutters.
“Ohhh.” Bruce leans back, squinting at him with a sly smile. “For Robin?”
Finney doesn’t answer. Which is answer enough.
Bruce nods to himself like he’s just won a bet. “Let me guess—he called you something again. Something that sounded like the soft sigh of a Disney prince mid-serenade.”
Finney glances away, jaw tight. “He just says stuff. He’s like that.”
Bruce snorts. “Right. And I accidentally called a girl ‘my moon and all her stars’ last week. Happens to the best of us.”
Finney blinks at him.
Bruce opens a snack wrapper, voice just a little softer. “Look, man. If it’s nothing, why are you pacing around here like a heartbroken Romeo waiting for a second act?”
Finney gives him a look, but it doesn’t hold. It cracks at the edges.
Bruce stands, brushing off invisible dust from his jeans. “If you’re waiting for a sign? Here’s one: you’re literally at a standstill. And Robin’s gonna walk right by if you don’t say something.”
He starts walking, tossing the empty wrapper into the trash. “But, hey, ignore it. Let someone else fall in love with him. Worked great for Shakespeare.”
“Shut up, Bruce.”
Bruce throws him finger guns over his shoulder. “Feisty. That’s the spirit!”
˗ˏˋ ☆ ˎˊ˗
The sky’s already dark by the time they leave the school. Streetlights flicker on one by one, casting long shadows in front of their shoes.
Finney walks two steps behind, but his questions walk beside him. He has asked none of them yet. Not out loud. Not until Robin slows down. Or at least that’s this hour’s excuse.
“You always walk this fast?” Finney comments, trying to sound casual. He doesn’t. Obviously. What in the world does he expect?
You always walk first. Bravo, Fin. Truly.
Robin, to make matters worse, doesn’t answer right away. He seems a little lost, looking dazed as he numbly trudges forth.
Granted, Finney essentially ambushed him this afternoon. Storming to Robin’s class after the bell’s ring, with sweaty palms and a racing heart. He just needed to know. The answer to words he couldn’t even accurately recall. Just the feeling. The feeling they left him with.
When his friend had finally made it out, he looked slightly shocked. Asked what he was doing here, to which Finney could just throw the next best bullshit excuse crossing his mega mind. Something about being thirsty and Robin’s house being closer. When his friend, deservedly so, expressed he should just get some water from the school’s dispenser, Finney panicked and said he wanted the hard stuff.
…
“Orange juice,” Finney clarified. Dammit. Has he dropped his brain along his sprint here? “I mean, I’d die for some right now. Yeah.”
“For orange juice?”
Finney nodded.
“…right.”
…
As expected, that conversation went flawlessly.
Finney walked away with approximately 10% of his pride intact—and maybe even less of Robin’s respect.
But, hey, flawless, right?
At last, Robin graces him with a response. “Quit whining, su alteza. You’d outrun me any other day.”
Finney huffs. Something about the tone tells him Robin just made fun of him. Damn his bilingual enchantments. At least he doesn’t hide behind a foreign language.
“Only because you’re so damn short.”
Robin abruptly halts, resulting in Finney almost crashing into him. Finney blanches and throws his arms up in surrender.
“Taking it back. I take it back!”
Robin just huffs, muttering another Spanish phrase. “Piernas largas para nada.” And then, louder, he repeats, “Short? Más bien, perfectamente proporcionado.”
Robin carries on, throwing just a glance behind to make sure Finney’s following. It’s good the conversation’s back to something lighthearted, Finney knows that. And yet, his smile fades fast. His laughter bubbles down, and watching his friend walk away like this- well, Finney couldn’t help but think, one day, they might just leave it at that.
With Finney constantly not understanding, and Robin never explaining, what would they do about it? If one decides they grew tired of this, the other would have no means of bridging that. Finney would have no means of understanding. And that would leave his heart to what? Breaking? Shattering into all the pieces Robin has given him in the first place to recover one?
He hates being this dramatic, but if the drama even holds an ounce of truth, he isn’t gonna ignore it.
Finney pauses in his steps. It takes Robin just three more to realize he isn’t following anymore.
With a raised brow, Robin just throws him a questioning look.
Finney gnaws on his lip. He needs to do this. “About yesterday. You said, I mean, I don’t know what you said.”
Robin stiffens. He doesn’t mean to, Finney can tell by the way he holds himself, trying to forcefully relax—shove those shoulders back down. But it’s visible. To Finney. To himself, likely. But neither comments on it.
Eventually, Robin just nods. “What about it?”
“Can you explain?”
Robin stares. Not at him. It’s the ground he fixates on. Finney feels like he’s supposed to disappear.
So, instead, he does what he always does. Robin calls it ‘not standing up for himself.’ Finney thinks it’s just explanations born of desperation.
“I mean, not explain. Just translate. Or maybe you can write it down, and I’ll just look it up. It’s just- I can’t even accurately recall the sounds, so I’d probably type something else, and-”
“Fin,” said Robin in this unbearably soft tone.
He doesn’t follow it up with anything. It’s like a reflex. Finney panics, so Robin soothes. And the boy knows there’s nothing more soothing than his damn voice. Nothing more exhilarating than him calling his name. His nickname. The one he gave to him personally.
No one else calls him Fin.
“Sorry.”
Robin shakes his head. There’s a laugh. Just one. It comes out more like a huff.
“You need to stop doing that.”
Finney isn’t sure what he’s talking about. Whether he’s even supposed to still answer. He tries anyway, because Robin has stopped talking, and they were just standing on the sidewalk. Staring. Being awkward.
God, Finney can’t have them be awkward. Friends shouldn’t be.
“Doing what?”
“Apologizing.” Before Finney could, well, apologize again, Robin holds up a hand. “Even when you don’t say that stupid word, it sounds like you are. With every useless explanation.”
Finney bites his lip, suppressing all words. He looks down, hoping the pavement would be more receiving.
Robin looked almost angry with him. Or, worse, disappointed.
His stomach dropped.
Robin sighs. “Nunca mereciste tener que decir ‘lo siento’ tanto. Just- let’s just head inside. Go get your orange juice, Fin.”
“Oh, right.”
Finney hated the taste of oranges.
˗ˏˋ ☆ ˎˊ˗
Robin doesn’t wait for him at the doorstep, instead heading for his room right away. Finney considers just turning around and leave, but Robin would surely notice. And that would leave him to explain this whole shitshow.
Finney just wants to go home. With at least his heart intact.
Watching Robin run away like this, though, well, he doesn’t have high hopes.
With a sigh, he makes his way over to the kitchen, passing by the living room where Robin’s uncle is situated. He’s watching TV, with rapid Spanish phrases thrown around that leave Finney feeling a little sick.
If Robin were to even forgive him, maybe he could learn some day. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to apologize anymore for not understanding.
His stomach grumbles in irritation as he scans over the assortment of groceries in the Arellano household’s fridge. It’s always stocked, is the first thing he notes. It smells of home-cooked meals, is the second. Both realizations, albeit unsurprising, have him feeling even more unmoored. Like he’s supposed to leave already. Which he wants to do, obviously. But he first needs to down that gross orange concoction.
Sighing, he reaches for the offending bottle. There’re glasses stacked next to the sink, so he reaches for it and pours himself one. He takes a few seconds before he guides it to his lips, gulping it down to just get over with it. His grimace is immediate.
He hasn’t even just brushed his teeth, and still tastes gross and bitter.
Someone chuckles from somewhere behind him, so Finney whips around to find Ricky, Robin’s uncle, in the kitchen’s doorway. Figures, since it’s his house.
Finney lets out a startled sound anyway.
“Breathe, son. It’ll make that shit more bearable, too.”
Finney ducks his head, glancing up with the most apologetic look he could muster. “Sorry, sir.”
Ricky just lets out a low chuckle. “Some things just aren’t made for everyone, mijo.”
As he passes by, he gently takes the glass from Finney’s hand without a word and rinses it off at the sink.
Finney blinks, half-ready to protest, but the man’s already turned away—peeling an orange like he’s got all the time in the world.
“‘Course it tastes bad,” Ricky mutters, more to the fruit than anyone else. “That store crap’s never been real juice. Folks just pretend it is.”
He doesn’t get where the man’s going with this. Well, that is until he pulls the glass once more and squeezes out all the orange’s juice. He repeats this with a second one—until the glass is once more full. At the end, he adds a pinch of salt, as well as some crushed ice, stirs, and hands the glass back to him.
When Finney just stares, he motions with his chin. Finney splutters before rushing to take a sip. His stupidity earns him another chuckle from the man.
“Better?”
Finney blinks and takes another sip. It is good. He frantically nods his head as he gulps more and more down. It’s sweet. No bitterness. It’s good.
“At least one of ‘em got taste.” Ricky snorts. “Robin, este chamaco raro, always asks for honey. What is this? Tea?”
Finney laughs, the grip around his glass loosening.
Ricky shoots him an endeared look before turning around and rummaging through the fridge. When he speaks up next, he doesn’t turn around to address him. “Cut him some slack, chamaco. Robin just plays tough. His mamá and I… I don’t think we ever taught him how not to be scared. Of losing, I mean.”
The room falls silent fast, and Finney has no idea what to do about it. If he’s even supposed to. He just stands there—as still as possible—hoping it’s the right course of action.
Ricky is a good man. One who cares deeply about his nephew. And Finney cares about Robin. Their goals should be aligned, and yet Finney knows he’ll be the stranger should things go awry.
He doesn’t know why he immediately jumps to thinking they will.
“Don’t fight, is all I’m saying.” Ricky nods. At himself, or the fridge, really. “El camino sigue siendo pedregoso, pero una mano que sostiene la tuya da equilibrio—is what my mamá once said.
“You look happier together.”
Finney feels a little dazed, so he tries shaking himself out of it. He wants to ask. About this family’s penchant for weaving Spanish into English. Again. But, instead, he finds himself just nodding along.
You look happier together.
He has a feeling he got the gist of it.
“Viejo,” Robin startles them both. “What are you doing here with Fin?”
Ricky straightens up and motions at his nephew with his can of beer. “Being a better host than you, malcriado.” He leaves the kitchen then, though not before turning to Finney one last time. “Don’t listen to him, kid. Make yourself at home.”
Robin balls his hands warningly, to which his uncle just raises a brow. They both smirk, and that’s it. Ricky’s gone, leaving Finney alone with Robin.
Neither of them speaks, so Robin eventually steps closer and gestures at his drink. “Got the good stuff, huh?”
Finney glances down at his half-emptied glass. “Oh, yeah.”
Robin stares a little longer, eyes searching his face. Finney holds his breath when takes yet another step closer. What he doesn’t expect is Robin stealing the glass from him and emptying it in one big gulp. His grin is immediate, while Finney just stares at him in shock, which quickly turns into horror.
“You’re so done,” is all the warning he gets before Finney thrusts himself forward and tackles them both to the ground.
Robin wheezes, laughing so hard it has Finney feeling dizzy. They grab at each other’s hands, rolling around on the cold kitchen floor. Robin has the audacity to employ kicks, so Finney turns even meaner.
He tickles Robin.
His friend gasps for air as tears start pricking at both their eyes.
“¡Ya, pa-para, mi... mi cieli—no puedo, me… me muero de ri-ri-risa!”
Finney grins and doubles down. “Lo siento, me not understand.”
Robin curses, trying to throw him off, but Finney can be stubborn, so he throws his entire weight onto him, knocking both their breaths right out their heaving chests. They just collapse like that, with Finney sprawled on top of Robin, both trying to catch their breath. It’s heaven. It’s peace. And Finney finds his heart racing. Still, he snuggles closer, already grieving Robin’s warmth for when he knows he’ll miss it.
Robin tangles his fingers in his locks, gently pulling. Mostly toying.
“Corazón.” Robin’s voice is hardly there. It’s a whisper, strangely close to a prayer.
Finney just hums, growing drowsy. His eyes droop, so he lets them fall shut.
Maybe it’s intentional. His body shutting down at the faintest grasp of luck. Of peace. He thought he’d be leaving with that strange distance between them, so now that he’s close to Robin again, his body offers an excuse to prolong the moment.
It’s good. It’s what the clings to. It’s-
“Quisiera quedarme así contigo por siempre.”
Finney stirs.
The words.
He’s heard them before.
Eyes opening slowly, he lifts his head off Robin’s chest. Robin’s fingers still in his hair. Still toying. But his face—his face is frozen.
“Say it again,” Finney murmurs.
Robin blinks. “What?”
“That. What you just said.”
Robin hesitates. “Fin…”
Finney sits up, pushing Robin’s hand away—not harshly, but enough to sit back and look at him. “You’ve said it before. In Spanish. You keep doing that. Saying things I don’t understand. But that one?” His voice gets quieter. “Your uncle said it meant something. That it matters.”
From the living room, a soft snort—Ricky, clearly listening. Clearly catching the lie. Finney feels his ear catch fire, but he must remain firm. This might be his only chance!
Robin glances toward the sound, then back at Finney, caught. No escape this time. He’s pinned without even needing Finney’s hands on him.
He whispers it, strangely clear this time, “Quisiera quedarme así contigo por siempre.”
Finney breathes out like he’s been punched. “Tell me what it means.”
Robin closes his eyes. And when he opens them again, it’s with no defense left.
“I said… I wish I could stay like this with you forever.”
Finney’s heart drops. He’s silent, lips parted. His throat works around a word that won’t come. It’s loud anyway. Loud in the way they look at each other. In the way they swallow it.
“Fin,” pleads Robin, “say something.”
But Finney doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know how to translate a feeling into words. Translate how badly he’s wished for someone to tell him. To feel about him that way. How badly he prayed that person could be Robin. That Robin wants to stay. With Finney.
Finney doesn’t even realize he’s leaning in—doesn’t mean to do anything, really. It’s a whisper of instinct. A breath. His lips barely touch the space between Robin’s eyebrows. Warm, soft skin.
Then he freezes.
Robin hasn’t moved.
Finney reels back, like he touched fire. “I- I didn’t mean—That wasn’t- I wasn’t-”
His voice cracks, and he scrambles to sit up, eyes wide with something between dread and disbelief. “God, I don’t. Robin, I didn’t mean anything. I don’t even know why- You just looked- And I-”
He runs a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just forget it, okay? It was weird, I’m being weird, you don’t- God, I don’t even know what I’m doing-”
“Finney.”
His name stops him like a hand to the chest. His given name. Robin has sat up too, eyes never leaving his. Something quiet, unreadable settles in his expression.
Finney doesn’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
Is that it? Robin never calls him by his birth name. It’s always Fin. Always a nickname, even in Spanish.
Then Robin reaches up—gently, always gently—and cups the back of Finney’s neck.
“You really think you’re the only one who’s scared?” he whispers. “You think I wasn’t dying just now? That that little kiss didn’t blow a fuse in my brain?”
Finney blinks.
And Robin leans in, slow and certain. “Let me make it worse, cariño.”
And then he kisses him. Kisses Finney.
For real this time.
Again and again.
And Finney gets lost in the sensation. Swayed in Robin’s guidance as she shifts their position, tilts their heads, until their lips and bodies and everything press infinitely closer. All while being so gentle. While feeling so light.
Finney wants to cry.
Robin pulls away first, eyes glinting. Shining. A soft smile rests on his lips. Lazy. Content. Finney wants to kiss it.
“Later, tesoro,” says Robin, and Finney blushes upon realizing he just said that out loud. “Let’s get up first. I swear my leg has been severed.”
Finney laughs and allows to be pulled up. Swaying slightly, Robin immediately steadies him with an arm around his waist.
They stay like that, just watching each other curiously. Finney thinks no one’s ever looked at him this gently. Warmly. Like their eyes mean to melt him. Finney thinks they can.
In a moment of bravery, he presses another kiss to Robin’s lips.
Robin smiles, resting his forehead against Finney’s. “Amorcito.”
“What’s that?”
“Mhm, guess.”
Finney wiggles his eyebrows. “Perfection?”
Robin just laughs.
“Close,” Robin murmurs, voice pressed into Finney’s shoulder. “It means ‘little love.’”
Finney doesn’t move. His breath stutters once, but his hands stay curled where they are—firm in Robin’s hoodie, like anchoring himself will keep the moment from passing.
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel fragile.
Robin shifts just enough to glance up. “Te quiero, Finney.”
There’s no rush. No weight behind it but the truth.
Finney’s voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t understand all the words.”
Robin smiles. “You don’t have to.”
They sit like that—quiet, close, unafraid.
Then, from the living room,
“Ay, por Dios,” Ricky mutters, like he’s been waiting for a scene to end. “You two done being a telenovela, or should I start writing a script?”
Robin groans without lifting his head. “Cállate, viejo.”
But Finney just laughs—and this time, it doesn’t feel borrowed.
Maybe the world doesn’t need to shift for something to change. Maybe this—this quiet, steady closeness—is enough.
And maybe now, finally, Finney believes it won’t leave. That might just be all the understanding he needs.
˗ˏˋ ☆ ˎˊ˗