Archive of Our Own

I.

“Finn.”

“No.”

“...Finney.”

“No, Robin.”

“C’mon, I said I was sorry.”

He did. In the privacy of his bathroom, Robin had meekly muttered an apology when Finney leveled him with a scathing look. He did not try to speak to him again after that.

It was for the better, Finney thinks as he feels Robin’s eyes burning holes into his back. He’s been very careful to keep his gaze fixed steadily on his hands, diligent as ever as they carefully put away the cleaning supplies, and not on his best friend who was awkwardly shuffling his feet behind him.

“You could at least help put some of this stuff away instead of hovering like a restless goose,” he grumbles, mostly for the sake of giving Robin hell. Finney’s not surprised when he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not hovering, I’m being helpful by staying put.” There’s a sound behind him, like a weight being shifted. Finney pointedly does not acknowledge it. “Besides, I’m injured. Surely you wouldn’t force a wounded person to do manual labour, would you?”

The smell of disinfectant is strong and heady in the small space of Robin’s bathroom. It makes Finney’s nose burn. He tries to focus on that instead of how Robin’s voice turned low and gravelly at the end of his sentence, like sin personified.

God, Finney is not getting paid enough for this.

“Shut up,” he stutters out weakly. He can practically feel Robin’s smirk growing as he racks his brain for a suitable retort. “It’s your fault in the first place for picking a fight with someone twice your size, again.”

“He was making fun of you.”

“So does every other person, Robin.”

“This one was a right dick.”

“So is every other person, Robin.”

“He called you a fag, Finney.”

Finney’s hand pauses where it was gathering bloodied tissues to eventually dispose of. He knows Robin’s noticed. He always does. Apart from the bit where Finney has apparently been in love with his best friend for the better part of their friendship, Robin knows him better than anyone.

Anyone than Gwen, that is, who also happens to be the only person who knows of the stupidly massive crush Finney has been harbouring in secret for years.

“I wasn’t upset.”

He’s rewarded with a scoff for his incredible deflecting skills. Whatever. Finney wouldn’t have believed himself either if he were in Robin’s shoes.

“Yeah, sure. And my middle name is Alexander.”

“It’s actually Julián.”

“Not the point, Finn.”

There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Finney doesn’t try to fight it down. It never works with Robin anyway.

He can see a similar expression on Robin’s face, watching him through the reflection in the mirror. He looks lovely, even with the beginnings of a bruise blooming on his cheek and a busted lip.

His hair is all messed up from the scuffle earlier and his clothes are torn in some places, and Finney is sure he has never seen anyone more beautiful than Robin fucking Arellano, one shoulder leaning against the old door frame, ragged and bathed in the dim fluorescent lights of his home.

Even so, Finney has a semblance of dignity to keep up.

“I can fight my own battles.”

His attempts at sounding couth only appear to amuse Robin. Good. Robin should always be smiling. Preferably without all the injuries, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?

Behind him, the object of his affections raises his eyebrows in a look that would melt Finney’s insides had he been a weaker man. He’s not. He’s man enough to admit he’s absolutely gone for his best friend, but that doesn’t mean he has to act like it.

“I know you can, Finn.” He can hear the edges of exasperation creeping into Robin's tone. “The problem is that you never do. Those dipshits aren’t going to leave you alone if all they get for their crap is a big, fat nothing.”

That makes Finney bristle. He knows Robin doesn't think he's a coward, but the thought alone makes him want to claw at something.

“So what? I just don’t like fighting.” He hates how his voice comes out all high and defensive, but this is a conversation they’ve had far too many times already, and frankly, he’s growing tired of repeating the same points like a broken record. "You may be willing to throw your fists around like an agitated kangaroo, but some of us detest seeing our friends hurt."

The silence that fills the room is thick with tension.

He startles when two arms grab onto the edge of the sink on either side of his body, effectively pinning him in place. The smell of sweat and something oddly, pleasantly musky assaults his senses, and Finney finds himself unable to breathe for much different reasons than the sudden proximity.

Oh, okay. That’s new.

He should probably turn around and ask Robin what the fuck he’s doing before he does anything embarrassing like have an aneurysm in his crush’s bathroom, but—

“I’m sorry.” Oh, right, that; that was definitely Robin’s voice. Whispering. In his ear. Seductively?

What the fuck.

“You said that already.” Through some miracle, his voice comes out steadier than he feels. He hopes to God Robin doesn't notice the blush creeping from the tips of his ears all the way down to the collar of his shirt where it disappears under the fabric.

“Yeah, and I’m going to keep on saying it until you forgive me and stop pouting. It’s only cute when you’re not actually mad at me.”

Finney’s indignant reply is cut short when Robin shifts behind him. That alone would not be a problem, but the movement causes his arms to flex and Finney is very suddenly reminded against his will that Robin has been working out a lot lately.

The muscles beneath the golden skin of his makeshift cage visibly strain with tension as his wannabe captor tightens his grip on the stained porcelain.

Rude.

Finney has to gulp audibly to dislodge the lump in his throat. He’s pretty sure Robin’s noticed if the way he presses just an inch closer is any indication.

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re not mad anymore...?”

“You’re so annoying—”

“And you love me anyway.”

“I am seriously reconsidering that ever being true right now.”

“C’mon, Finney,” Robin presses his face into Finney’s shoulder without a single regard for his mental state or the full-body shiver it causes. “If I promise to stand by and watch the next time Matt and his dumb goons insult you, so you can pretend to be unaffected just to satisfy your humongous ego, will you finally finish putting away the gauze and come hang out with me?”

He has the audacity to sound tired. The nerve.

Finney should say no. He should be mad that Robin doesn’t seem to care about how much he gets hurt in these fights, but...

“Fine,” he sighs, already knowing it won’t be too long before he has to patch up Robin’s injuries again.

The pleased grin pressed into the curve of his neck makes it hard for him to feel any regret at all. Finney decides he’s fine with that.

II.

The next time Finney admits to his crush out loud, Gwen laughs in his face.

She’s awful, really. He loves his sister more than his own life and would readily go to Hell and back for her, but sometimes he wishes she would show at least a smidge of sympathy for his troubles.

No. What he gets instead is a look of pity in the face of his unearthly torment.

“You’ve got it so bad, Finney,” she says, like it’s a revelation. To Finney, it’s not. “It’s honestly embarrassing, big brother.”

“You’re not helping, Gwen.”

“I wasn’t trying to.” Her face stretches into a wide grin. Finney scowls from where his head is laid on the table, forehead firmly pressed against the cool wooden surface. The heatwaves have been near unbearable this summer, and combined with the power Robin Arellano seems to hold over him, Finney is honestly surprised he hasn’t suffered a heatstroke yet.

“I still don’t see why you can’t just tell him. It’s not like he’d turn around and call you the same slur that he beats other people up for.” She hums thoughtfully. “He actually strikes me as the kinda guy to take it as a compliment.”

That, he can agree with. There is no doubt in Finney’s mind that Robin would take his infatuation as flattery. He had always been far too loyal and compassionate to let something like a small, unrequited crush ruin their friendship.

The biggest concern Finney would probably have to be worried about is that his best friend-turned-personal-tormentor would never let him live it down.

“At this point I might confess to him just to get it over with," he keens with a level of despair that's only half faked. "I’m tired of noticing every single thing about him, Gwenny. Like the way his hair curls when it’s damp or his lips, and don't even get me started on those arms—”

“Oooookay, I’ll stop you right there, no need to go into details. Robin is my friend too and hearing you gush over him like that is just...weird.” Her voiced disgust is briskly accompanied by a grimace.

Without giving Finney a chance to defend himself, she gets up from her seat with an air of finality. “Well, good talk, big brother. Sorry to cut this conversation short, but I gotta go to Susie's later and I promised to pick up some stuff for her.”

Finney only hums in acknowledgement. He isn’t even sure if he expected any advice from Gwen or if he just really needed to sing praises about Robin’s hands to someone decidedly not in his head, but the position he’s in is comfortable enough to convince him that not moving for a couple of hours isn’t such a bad idea.

His sister on the other hand isn’t done being a malicious little gremlin. Not even stopping on her way to her room, she calls over her shoulder with too much casualness to be truly genuine. “Why don’t you use the time alone to do something productive instead of pining helplessly?”

Finney’s head snaps up so fast he fears for a second it will somehow magically detach itself from his body.

“I am not pining!”

Finney Montgomery Blake is, in fact, pining.

He’s made aware of this when he rounds the corner of their school and comes face to face with an unexpected sight.

There’s a small crowd gathered near the entrance, with Robin stood tall in the center. It’s not hard to pick him out from the flock of children surrounding him, what with the way he towers over them.

He and Robin were supposed to meet up after classes to go to the drive-in and watch a new horror movie that just came out, but with this turn of events, Finney doubts they’ll be able to even leave the premises.

“—and is it true that you punched him so hard he swallowed his own tongue?!” comes a chirp from one of the kids.

Finney recalls his name being Oliver. He’s still in preschool, but that doesn’t stop him from acting older than his age. The boy has picked Robin as his role-model and followed him around like a duckling ever since he’s established his reputation as the toughest kid in town.

It’s cute. They have a lot in common: what they lack in size, they make up for with attitude.

“Sod off Ollie, that’s not possible,” counters a voice that’s so high pitched it could only be described as squeaky. “He’d have to bite it off first, but Louis said he didn’t have any teeth left when Robbie hit him.”

“Are you calling me a liar, Noah!?”

“No, I’m calling you stupid.”

From his spot, Finney can see Robin bite back a smile. It’s small, but so unbearably fond it makes his stomach flip. He’s not sure whether he’s happy or disappointed that it’s not aimed at him.

Soon, there are other voices joining the conversation, the discussion quickly growing more heated. He can still make out Robin’s low baritone over the relentless chatter of the younger children, indulgently going along with their theories and imaginative proclamations.

For a brief moment, Finney’s heart swells. Robin’s always had a soft spot for kids, seeing as he was an only child. Finney has seen him around his cousins, and he’s seen him with Gwen. The warmth and gentleness he takes care to exude whilst interacting with them makes Finney's chest ache in a way that goes beyond superficial crushes.

He’s pulled away from his thoughts when he catches slight movement from the corner of his eye. Still unnoticed by the mini-assembly, Finney turns towards it to see—

—a lump?

It appears to be a lump. Or rather, a lump shaped, distinctly child-sized creature. It's crouched behind the bushes lining the school building, seemingly hiding.

Before he can think better of it, he's already lowering himself to the ground near the suspicious bundle of cloth, hand reaching towards it gingerly.

"Hey, are you—"

Finney doesn't get a chance to finish. The lump shrieks in fright and falls on its butt, causing him to do the same.

For a minute they simply sit on the ground, panting. Finney forces both his heart rate and his breathing to slow down. There's no shame in dying young, he thinks, but he doesn't want the lines on his headstone to read 'Finney Blake, a loving son, brother and friend. Died the way he lived: scared and screaming'.

He slowly lifts his head up and meets a pair of wide, brown coloured eyes staring straight into his soul.

“....Uh, are you... Alright?”

The boy in front of him reminds Finney of cornered prey, his shoulders hunched up to his ears and posture ready to take off at any moment. He can’t be older than the kids mobbing Robin. Blond, curly hair falls over his forehead in messy waves and for a split second, Finney feels like he’s looking at a younger version of himself.

He blinks and the vision disappears. Now that he thinks about it, he has no recollection of seeing this kid around. He must have moved here recently.

He’s also not responding. Finney tries a different tactic.

“My name is Finney—Finney Blake,” he says. “Are you new here?”

Again, no reaction. Although no longer bewildered, the child still looks unusually guarded. Finney takes that as a yes.

“Were you, uh. Were you watching them?” He inclines his head to the group not too far away from the two, still chatting noisily.

The boy studies him warily for a moment longer before tipping his chin in a subtle nod. Finney bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.

“You see the guy over there, in the middle?” he points to Robin’s back. He’s currently attempting to lift two little girls hanging off his arms. Their squeals of delight are carried by the wind all the way to the pair, the sound crisp and cheery. “He’s Robin Arellano, my best friend. He’s pretty badass. Have you heard of him?”

Another nod, this time more solid. Finney is pleased to notice a sparkle in the boy’s eyes. It seems they have some interests in common, after all.

How curious.

“Yeah, he’s uh. He’s pretty amazing. There was this one time a girl in our class teased me for having long hair, and you know what he did?” The kid shakes his head. Finney doesn’t stop the smirk from forming on his lips as he retells the rest of the story. “Without hesitation, he picked her up, carried her out of the school, and threw her right into a dumpster.”

Images of the event flood his brain. He sees a smaller, scrawnier version of himself, weakly trying to pry off malicious hands tugging at the unkempt curls he tried to tame himself after his mother had left. The younger version of his best friend is there too, naturally, and he looks furious.

Finney regards the memory fondly. So much time has passed and yet so little has changed. It doesn’t surprise him in the slightest that even now, Robin remains one of the only people who are capable of cheering others up with a mere act of violence—justified, of course.

His companion must agree, judging from the amused breath he lets out. It could almost count as a snicker, one so quiet Finney would have missed it had he not been paying attention.

“Got into a lot of trouble for it, too,” he continues. “As sweet as the gesture was, he really didn’t have to do it during class. The teacher was livid.”

“...Did you get scolded?” the boy asks. Finney does not gape, but it’s a close thing.

He sounds awfully young. Obviously, he’s a child, but there’s a layer of naive, youthful innocence coating his voice that’s only present in children who have not yet been touched by the world’s cruelty. Finney is glad to hear it.

“Yeah. A bit,” he admits, only a little embarrassed. “I cried through the whole detention. But I’ll tell you what,” he leans in, a mischievous grin on his face. “It’s not as bad when you’ve got someone watching your back.”

He watches a hesitant smile grow on the boy’s features, tentatively mirroring his own.

“You wanna maybe go over there and talk to the others..?”

“...Owen,” the kid—Owen—supplies, “but my mom calls me Owie.”

“Owie, then,” Finney repeats. “I know the bunch of them can look a bit scary, but I promise they’re good kids. They don’t bite.”

“Some of them do.”

The brand new voice makes Finney jump. He whips his head around to see who it belongs to, and is only slightly surprised to find Robin and his army of devoted followers standing a few feet away.

He hurriedly scrambles to his feet, somehow managing to not fall over in the process.

“Hey, kid. I’m Robin,” he lifts a hand up in greeting before shooting Finney a sly look. “But you’ve probably heard of me already.”

The children behind him snicker.

That ass.

“How long have you been standing there?” Finney asks, feeling his cheeks heat up. He ignores it in favour of arranging his features into a stern look, only partially succeeding.

“Oh, you know. Not too long,” Robin shrugs carelessly, smooth and easy. Finney doesn’t believe a single word coming out of his mouth. “It’s nice to hear a compliment from you once in a while. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity when it was right there.”

Finney rolls his eyes. “I reckon you’ve heard more than enough compliments for today,” he shakes his head in mock disappointment.”They’ve gotten to your head. Soon it’ll be as big as Vance’s hair.”

Robin only gives him a little amused smile. Not for the first time, Finney is struck with how handsome his best friend is, standing there, looking a little ragged, a little rough around the edges and all the more charming for it.

Belatedly, he registers that he and Robin haven’t looked away from each other for a solid minute. Coincidentally, he’s also not the only one who notices.

“Ewwwww,” Oliver protests, loudly. “You two are gross! Just kiss already instead of making eyes at each other!”

Both he and Robin snap their gazes to the little boy. He’s looking at them a little too exasperatedly, Finney thinks, his face on fire. He chances a quick glance at Robin and is only a bit pleased at finding his best friend in a similar state.

“Oliver, you can’t just—”

“Don’t be a wanker, Ollie,” Noah pipes up, cutting Robin’s attempt at admonishment short. “ Boys can’t kiss other boys. They’ll catch cooties.”

“That only happens when you kiss girls, dickwad!”

“How would you know? The only person you’ve ever kissed is Louis.”

“Noah!” Oliver looks at him, eyes wide in disbelief and voice wavering with betrayal. “You promised you wouldn’t tell!” he cries, grasping his friend by skinny shoulders and shaking him dramatically.

The rest of their friend group erupts in giggles as the two boys continue bickering. They’re good kids, if a little rowdy. Finney knows a couple of people like that, and in his humble opinion, they’re doing just fine. He’s not worried.

A gentle tug brings his attention down to his sleeve. There stands Owen, tiny fists clutching at the hem of Finney’s shirt.

He looks so small like this, hiding behind Finney’s much taller figure. His eyes flicker from the two still arguing kindergarten students before they ultimately settle on Finney himself.

It’s almost alarming how endearing Finney finds it. He lightly rests his hand on the younger boy’s head, ruffling his hair gently before turning to address the small crowd huddling at Robin’s feet.

“Hey, you lot,” he raises his voice slightly, hoping it will catch their attention. It does. “There’s someone who’d like to introduce themselves to you.”

At the mention, Owen buries his face further into Finney’s side, only one eye peeking out. He offers a timid wave. Finney has to physically restrain himself from cooing.

“Oh, I know you!” Oliver exclaims, always the first to chime in. “You’re the new kid! I saw you make flower crowns when we went to the park the other day!”

“Oh, that was him?” asks one of the girls that Robin had attempted to lift earlier.

“I didn’t know it was someone from our school.”

“I saw them lying on the bench, so I brought one home. My momma said it was real pretty!”

Owen shrinks into himself a bit at the onslaught of attention. Robin, always quick to pick up on other people’s moods, offers a friendly smile.

“How about you guys take our new friend here to the park, then? He could show you how he made the flower crowns and you could show him around.”

The suggestion is met with enthusiastic consent from Oliver, general agreement from others and a scrutinizing glance from Noah.

The little boy looks Owen up and down pensively. Finney holds his breath. He feels Owen tense up similarly under the intense inspection. Robin, too, is watching the interaction closely.

Finally, Noah inclines his head in silent approval. The group cheers, Finney himself not too far from letting out a deafening whoop like Oliver had. Instead, he settles for a relieved smile, mirrored by Owen’s slightly nervous one.

“Alright, you fiends. Off you go.” Robin makes shooing motions with his hands, grin firmly in place. “Me and Finn have our own plans for today and we’re already running late. Find someone else to babysit you.”

”You always do this, Robbie!”

“Why can’t you come with us?”

“Yeah, you ditch us for your boyfriend all the time!”

The last comment makes Robin splutter. Finney himself doesn’t fare any better.

"My what—”

“His what—”

"Ollie is right,” Noah grouses. “You do have a habit of abandoning us for the sake of shagging your mate, lover-boy."

"Puto Infierno—" Robin curses... probably. Finney would like to think that he's heard him swear enough times to discern it from his normal day-to-day use of Spanish. "The next bribón to insult my dignity like this will get their ass handed to them!"

He lunges for the children closest to him. Quick on the uptake, they immediately give chase, screaming at the top of their lungs and running away.

Finney watches the whole scene unfold from the safety of the sidelines. He glances down at Owen, nudging him with an elbow.

"Go on, buddy," he prompts. "You should catch up to them while you can. They probably won’t care if they’ve left anyone behind or not." The screaming only intensifies when Robin growls like a badly voiced dinosaur from a children’s movie. Terrific.

Finney is glad no one from their friend group is here to witness this—they’d have a field day with the image of their friend running in circles like the unhinged maniac that he is.

The young blond clinging to him stays silent. Finally, he squeezes Finney’s leg with all the strength a five year old can possess, and takes off after the others.

Finney is hit with a strange sense that he’s just adopted a child. Oh. Oh, well. Gwen will be glad to hear that he’s taking the next steps to adulthood.

Remembering their original plans, he spins around to locate his havoc wrecking companion, only to find Robin already looking at him. He’s regarding Finney with an unreadable look on his face, one he hasn’t seen before.

He snaps out of it when he notices Finney staring.

“You did good, Finn. The kid could really use some new pals if he just moved in,” he says, striding confidently to Finney’s side. “Actually, should I be worried for my title as your best friend? You two seemed to be hitting it off awfully well before we came.”

“What best friend?" Finney scoffs, crossing his arms flippantly. "I only see a guy who’s been insistent on following me around since sixth grade. Been real vocal about it, too.”

Said guy puts a palm over his heart, clutching it theatrically. “You wound me, tesorito.” He sniffs for good measure. “Maybe I should bring someone else to see Texas Chainsaw Massacre with me. Someone who actually appreciates me for who I am.”

“...You said we were watching a new movie that just came out?”

A beat passes. Robin very carefully doesn’t meet Finney’s eyes. “I... lied?”

Finney feels his eye twitch. No. No fucking way. “Robin—”

“Listen, I knew you wouldn’t wanna come with if I told you the truth!” he defends, futilely, but the attempt is commendable, Finney supposes.

“That’s because we’ve watched that movie more than fifty times already.”

“And it’s great every single time!”

“I wouldn’t know!” Finney throws his hands up in sheer despair. “I stopped paying attention after the first five times.”

Robin gasps so hard he practically wheezes. Good. Maybe all the oxygen he’s just forcefully inhaled will help stimulate his brain better.

“How could you say that? After I thought we had something special—”

“What we had was a mutual agreement that for the sake of my sanity we’d take a break from the endless Texas Chainsaw Massacre marathons.”

“But—” the dark haired boy has to stop to think before continuing, “don’t you want to see a bunch of people get physically and mentally tortured for the sake of entertainment?”

“No, not particularly.” Finney deadpans. He shoots Robin a inquisitive look. “Do you?”

His friend’s shoulders slump defeatedly. “Yeah, I do,” he mumbles, eyes on the ground, “but if you really don’t want to see it, then we can just go to my place, hang out and stuff. I could use some help with the math assignment Mr. Johnson gave us, if you’re up to it.”

Finney ponders the idea. He really is sick of watching people get torn to shreds and all the gore that comes with it, but then he takes in Robin’s crestfallen face, the disappointed downturn to his mouth and the way his fingers pick at the leather cuff Finney had given him on his 18^th birthday.

He speaks before he's even realized he'd made up his mind.

"You're gonna owe me for this."

Robin whips his head up, face tentatively hopeful. "Does that mean—"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll watch the stupid movie with you." Upon uttering his final words, Finney's immediately seized by the shoulders, body colliding with what would be best described as a sturdy wall of solid muscle.

He startles. "What the—!"

"There's no time to waste, Finn," his counterpart crows excitedly. "All the good spots are probably taken already, but we should still be able grab one with a decent view if you move your ass."

"Move my— You're the one who made us late in the first place!"

"You only say that because you're jealous you don't have a fan club."

"Oh, okay, that's it. Come here, you little—"

Predictably, the drive-in is completely full by the time they arrive. The pair decides to park the car a little ways further, and instead hike up a small hill where they settle down.

(Robin fusses a bit over finding the perfect spot, but eventually lets up when Finney shoots him an unimpressed look and pointedly plops down on the ground.)

Neither had the good sense to bring a blanket to sit on, but the grass is cool and soothing beneath Finney’s fingers and Robin smiles brightly when Finney tells him so. They sit side by side like two peas in a pod, patiently waiting for the opening credits to roll.

The movie is, as expected, horrid.

Finney may have seen it more times than any normal human being in their entire lives, but the blood and gore still get to him. He flinches when Pam gets skewered on a hook like a pig, the image not necessarily explicit but still gruesome, and tries to inconspicuously scoot closer to Robin.

Robin, to his credit, doesn’t call him out on it. His eyes are expertly trained on the giant screen in front of them, completely enraptured despite having been witness to it more times than even Finney has.

Like this, Finney can feel the heat of Robin’s body searing into his where their arms brush. It’s so distracting he nearly forgets the where’s, when’s, who’s and how’s of his current predicament.

Should he move? Is the proximity making Robin uncomfortable? Surely he'd have said something if it did; Robin's never been the type to shy away from touch, on the contrary—most of the time, he's the one initiating physical contact as a show of affection.

He tries to shuffle back a bit to at least create an illusion of distance between them, but quickly freezes when his back bumps into... something.

From the corner of his eye, he sees his friend yawn and— Is he stretching?

Oh, wait— yeah, that wasn’t a hallucination. Robin’s arm is sliding across his back to his shoulders, palm resting against his nape. Finney’s heart seizes.

Next thing he knows, his head is being pushed into the crook of Robin’s neck. Almost detachedly, he wonders if the screaming nearby is coming from him or yet another person going through a life-threatening situation in the film he is very evidently not watching anymore.

“You okay there, Finn?” Robin murmurs lowly. His breath is hot where it brushes against Finney's hair. The sensation is so startling he makes the mistake of inhaling sharply.

“...Robin.”

“Hm?”

“...I can’t breathe.”

“Oh!" The blond is at once released from the hold, cold air replacing what once was a warm body. "Shit, sorry," Robin hurries to apologize.

It could be a trick of the light, but in the dark cover of the dusk, Robin's cheeks seem to have taken on a pinkish hue. The glow from the screen illuminates his face, highlighting his striking profile.

Another scream reverberates through the air. Oh, looks like Franklin is gone; what a shame. Not that Finney cares, he’s much too occupied with trying to not look like he’s ogling his best friend... while he’s ogling his best friend.

He uses the next grisly death as an excuse to lean on Robin’s shoulder. So what? It’s a cold night and he hadn’t thought to bring a jacket with him. Plus, like this, they can both share some warmth.

They stay like that for the rest of the movie. Finney’s heart doesn’t stop hammering in his chest, and Robin’s cheeks are still tinted pink by the end of the credits.

The air has gotten unbearably cold.

They’re walking back to the car side by side, with Robin chattering on about the details of the movie and occasionally throwing Finney sideways glances to check if he’s still listening.

He's not. Usually, he'd feel bad about not paying attention to someone when they're clearly talking about something they're interested in, but right now, he's got more pressing things to worry over.

Like the fact that they haven't stopped holding hands ever since Finney stumbled on his way down the hill and Robin caught him.

Idly, he wipes the palm of his free hand on his jeans. Are his hands clammy? Fuck, they better not be. He doesn't want Robin to think he's nervous over a little hand holding between friends.

...Actually—

"Robin," Finney comes to a stop, Robin following close behind with their hands linked between them. He pauses mid-sentence, turning to Finney with a questioning look.

"What’s up, Finn?"

"Is this—" Finney coughs, nearly choking on the words. Ignoring his body's protests, he bites the bullet. "Was this a date?"

Oh, shit. He shouldn't have said that. He should not have said that. What was he thinking—! They go to see movies all the time, they've done other, one would argue, more affectionate things than holding hands, and it's never been an issue.

Logically, Finney knows that today shouldn't be a big deal. They've barely done anything out of the ordinary. But there's something deep inside him, telling him to not brush things off so easily. Urging him to look at Robin and see the way he's been acting as of late.

Finney's not dumb. Contrary to popular belief, he's also not blind. That, combined with the fact that he spends a truly unhealthy amount of his time staring at Robin from afar, it's been near impossible to not notice that lately, Robin has been staring back.

All in all, it makes both Finney's heart and brain work overtime, which is, to be honest, really, really not good for his health.

Robin still hasn't replied. His face is guarded, any possible surprise masked with an unreadable expression. It’s a bit unnerving to be the one on the receiving end of it.

"...Do you want it to be?"

They stare at each other, neither willing to back down first. It’s all too easy to get lost in Robin’s eyes, Finney thinks. They’re impossibly dark, drawing one in with promises of unholy debauchery, and yet sweet and saccharine at the same time, like molasses. He looks at Finney challengingly, almost like he expects him to say no.

“Yes,” Finney breathes after what feels like an eternity. “I’d really like that.”

He holds his breath and waits for Robin’s reaction. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long before there are strong arms wrapping around his waist, lifting him in the air and spinning him around wildly.

The sound of Robin’s laughter is pressed right against his ear, rich and deep and so very joyous Finney can’t help but laugh with him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that, estúpido!” he gasps, still cackling like a madman, twirling Finney around as if he weighted nothing.

In the middle of the empty street, clutching onto each other with cold air biting at their exposed skin, Finney feels warmer than ever.

III.

The unexpected admission of mutual admiration does surprisingly little to change their relationship. They still hang out, drive to school together and bicker like the way they used to, and it's all so normal Finney would have almost believed he had dreamed the whole incident up, had it not been for this:

They've decided to have an impromptu sleepover after one of their long, harrowing study sessions lasted well into the night, and seeing as they could barely hold themselves up on their feet, they swiftly took turns in the bathroom and promptly passed out on the single bed.

Which is where Finney's troubles begin.

The first thing he notices upon regaining his senses is that it's dark. The curtains were left open last night when they collapsed onto the mattress in a heap of limbs and halfheartedly murmured apologies. Moonlight spills from the exposed window, painting everything silver and blue.

It's obviously still early on in the morning. Finney rolls over, extracting himself from the warm presence firmly attached to his side. He closes his eyes and attempts to go to sleep again.

Not even a moment later, his eyes snap back open.

Internally, Finney feels torn between groaning in sheer despair and panicking; externally, he’s entirely frozen, breath caught in his lungs and, most importantly, hard.

That... that’s a problem. A very obvious, inescapable problem he can’t solve right now, certainly not with Robin sleeping right next to him—

—speak of the devil. Finney stills when he feels Robin stir, humming softly in his sleep.

‘Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up,’ he chants in his head, praying to all the gods he doesn’t believe in that Robin doesn’t rouse at one of the most inopportune moments of his life.

The gods must be feeling extra merciful today, because after what feels like a lifetime of holding his breath, he hears Robin settle down.

He lets out a low, relieved exhale. One crisis averted, another one to go.

Getting out of the sheets shouldn’t be as tricky as it turns out to be, but at some point during the night, he and Robin must have done some impressive gymnastics in their sleep; nothing else can explain why Finney has to claw himself out of the blankets like a newly hatched caterpillar.

His struggles come to an end when he feels another body wrap around his, trapping him under its considerable weight. Because of fucking course. Of course that of all the times to be acting like a clingy octopus, his captor would pick what’s arguably Finney’s lowest moment to humiliate him even further.

Finney bites his lip, chewing thoughtfully. If he moves very, very slowly, maybe he could still get up without waking Robin, run to the bathroom, relieve himself and come back? He has more than enough experience with sneaking around and making as little noise as possible, so surely, this ought to be a piece of cake.

With this newfound hope, he tries again.

"Finn,” a low, raspy voice grunts in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. Good Lord almighty. At this point, Finney just wants to know who he killed in his previous life to deserve this. “I was having a pretty damn good dream. Don't ruin it for me."

Robin doesn’t wait for a confirmation before nuzzling his nose into the back of Finney’s neck and stuffing a surprisingly solid thigh between his legs, making sure every inch of their bodies is touching.

Finney has never wanted to crawl into a hole and die more than now.

He supposes he should at least give it one last shot before he rolls over and accepts his fate as a sentient body-pillow. Inching his way closer to the edge of the bed, he tries to rearrange his limbs so he's not quite so egregiously riding Robin's thigh.

The arms around him tighten in warning.

“Finn.”

“—Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry,” he stammers, face on fire. “I’ve got a bit of a, uh, situation here.”

“What the fuck are you—”

His words are interrupted by a muffled gasp.

Finney immediately clamps his mouth shut. He feels Robin freeze similarly behind him, movements coming to an abrupt halt.

In his efforts to lift himself up on one elbow, he accidentally shifted the thigh slotted in between Finney’s legs, the motion causing it to brush against the blond’s painful erection.

A minute passes— neither says a word. Finney waits for whatever comes first; either the ground opens up and swallows him whole, or his morning wood finally disappears and he can pack his stuff and go throw himself off of a cliff.

"You, uh... wanna take care of it?"

What.

"What? No!" That's it. His best friend— boyfriend— whatever they are right now has officially lost his mind.

He lifts his hands from his face to land a solid punch on Robin's shoulder. The other doesn't as much as wince.

"Okay, okay. Just asking," he grouses. His voice is still thick with sleep, sounding like crushed gravel where it rumbles in his chest; the vibrations carry all the way to Finney's ribcage, rattling his heart fiercely. "I could have given you a hand, you know."

He's smirking. Finney can feel it where his lips are pressed against the skin of his exposed shoulder, smooth and hot and so goddamn distracting. He rolls his eyes.

"Fuck off, Robin."

Robin, of course, doesn't take the venom in his voice as a threat. Instead, he huffs out a laugh, pulling Finney closer until they're back to chest.

All in all, it's a bad time for modest boys trying to keep their virtues intact. A feat fit for Hercules, Finney thinks, what with Robin Arellano being the main source of corruption.

He's only further reaffirmed in his beliefs when he feels a hand rest on his belly.

Okay, well. They are cuddling, he supposes. Nothing wrong with that. He'll just have to tell Robin to knock it off, because if Finney's learned anything, it's to never trust Robin to make life easy for him—

The hand slips under his shirt, wide palm splaying itself over his bare stomach.

Oh. Fuck. Have Robin's hands always been this big? Finney would have remembered if they were, surely. Like this, his palm is covering almost if not all of Finney's abdomen, making him choke on his own saliva with white hot want.

God, this is torture. Finney wants so desperately to jerk off but he can't and he feels like he's going to die if he doesn't touch himself and—

A strangled whine cuts through the air like a metal spoon dipped into a jar of honey.

Robin digs his thumb into Finney's hip bone, silently hushing him. He continues to grind his thigh against Finney in a way that makes him wish they were face to face so that he could grab him and do it properly, but all Finney can do now is lie there and pant harshly into the pillow, oversensitive and all too aware of the hard line pressing insistently against his backside.

He presses back experimentally and feels a flicker of gratification when Robin's grip on him tightens, a hoarse groan stifled against his shoulder blade.

He's close— they're both still sleep warm and cozy and Finney feels safe and small in Robin's embrace, his broader form engulfing him protectively as if shielding him from the world. Right here, they're not Finney Blake or Robin Arellano; they're just Finn and Robin, two boys learning how to hold one another without the fear of being hurt or hurting.

One more thrust, one more kiss pressed into his skin and—

A loud crash startles the both of them, causing Finney to nearly fall out of the bed and drag Robin down with him.

There's some indistinct Spanish cursing in the hall, followed by a set of footsteps leading to the bathroom next-door.

Neither dares to move until they hear the muffled stomps disappear down the hallway. Finney's heart is beating in his chest like a startled rabbit, ready to burst out and run away into the night. Robin is in a similar state, judging from the deep breaths he's taking.

He moves his leg to a more comfortable position where it's not so obviously pressed against the bulge in Finney's pants, and leaves one last burning kiss on the nape of his neck.

"Let's go to sleep."

Finney can't find it in himself to argue. He's exhausted, turned on beyond belief and so, so very in love with his best friend his whole being burns.

He places one palm over Robin's, interlocking their fingers. When he falls asleep, it's to the sound of Robin's rhythmic breaths and the sensation of his thumb rubbing circles into Finney's hip.

IV.

"So... you and Robin, huh?"

There's a very nice brick wall where Finney's standing. He considers banging his head against it to alleviate some of the headache he feels already approaching at rapid speed.

He doesn't, but only because they're in a hallway and he can't risk a teacher seeing him and possibly sending him to the school counselor... again.

"Whatever should you mean, Bruce?" He shoves his textbooks into his locker, using every last ounce of his strength. Just like with his problems; if they're not spilling over and he can push the door shut by whatever force necessary, he can rest easy. Out of sight, out of mind.

The same cannot be said for the cause of Finney's migraine, leaning leisurely on the locker next to his one.

"Oh, nothing at all," Bruce croons — his eyes tell a different story.

He looks a bit too invested for Finney's comfort; he knows better by now than to assume nothing of his friend's seemingly pointless remarks. "Just wanted to congratulate you, is all."

Finney raises an eyebrow. "Why now, all of a sudden? You could have done that a week ago when Griffin announced to half the town that he caught us eating each other's faces," he punctuates the last statement with finger quotes. For drama, and because he knows it drives Bruce nuts.

True to his word, his friend's brow twitches in badly concealed annoyance. Knowing each other's pet peeves is one of their greatest weapons, he finds. Too bad they use them against each other more often than not.

"Figured you had more than enough spotlight for the time being." An understatement. "You didn't really look like you were enjoying the fame, Finney-boy."

He shrugs. "It couldn't be helped, I guess. At least Gwen got a solid kick out of it."

Also an understatement. Gwen had been beyond ecstatic upon hearing that Robin and Finney have finally “pulled your heads out of your asses, geez Finney, I thought you were going to die a bachelor”.

Bruce chuckles. "Speaking of kicking— do tell your boyfriend to reign in those protective urges of his. I don't think the principal will let him off easy the next time he punches someone's face in for looking at you a second too long."

"You say that like Vance doesn't have a possessive streak."

"He's never gotten into a fight because of it."

"He literally threatened to stab someone in the throat?"

"And he looked cute doing it."

Finney lets out a hearty guffaw at the admission, soon joined by Bruce's more discreet wheeze. There is both power and defeat in being the only ones in the world who know the highs and lows of dating Vance Hopper and Robin Arellano, Finney muses.

“I’ll let him know the next time I see him,” he promises easily. “Probably tonight. It’s Friday, so we’re going to have another movie marathon.”

The other boy nods, humming in approval. Finney’s ready to say goodbye and leave when he speaks again. "You two are good, then?"

"What?” The question takes him by surprise. “Yeah, of course.” He hesitates. “Should we not be?”

“No, no,” Bruce hurries to reassure him. “Of course not. It’s nothing in particular, I just had this feeling...” he trails off uncertainly. “Well, maybe it’s nothing. Sorry for worrying you, buddy, we’re all really happy for you guys.”

Giving him a small pat on the shoulder, he turns and offers Finney one last wave.

“I’ve gotta go now. See you later—”

“—Wait!” He’s not entirely sure what possesses him to do it, but before Bruce can run off, Finney grabs him by his shirt and proceeds to drag him into an empty classroom.

Shutting the door behind him whilst checking to make sure no one followed them, he swirls around to face his hostage.

“There might be something.”

“I knew it!” Bruce crows. He looks seconds away from fist bumping the air, practically vibrating in his spot. “So? Tell me all the details. What did he do. What didn’t he do? Oh my God, is it something you wish he had done—”

“Bruce, if you don’t shut up and let me speak I’m going to tell Billy you were the one who used his newspapers to cut out words and use them in a love-letter you wrote for Vance.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

Bruce pales, mouth snapping shut. Finney breathes a sigh of relief.

“Have you and Vance...” he stops, thinking of the best way to phrase his words. “You guys... hold hands and stuff, right?”

“Yeah?”

“And you hug each other.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you’ve kissed.”

“Obviously,” Bruce smirks. Finney decides not to comment on it and carries on.

“Have you...” Finney pauses. “Have you done anything... besides that?”

Bruce blinks at him. “We’ve tried couples yoga once. It didn’t go well.”

That... is not what he had in mind at all.

“—And other than that?” he demands, voice only a touch urgent. The change of tone makes Bruce’s face fall, expression tinged with concern.

“Finney, what are you asking, exactly?”

Great, now he’s made Bruce worried. Properly subdued, Finney hangs his head, fingers picking anxiously at the straps of his bag.

"Me and Robin... did something."

Bruce furrows his eyebrows in concentration. "Did you use protection?"

"What? God, no, it didn't— we didn't get that far."

"Oh, okay." A pause. "Did he make you feel uncomfortable?"

"No!" Finney feels heat crawl into his cheeks. "I, uh, wasn't uncomfortable at all."

"Then what—"

"Nothing happened because we were interrupted." Not entirely a lie. In retrospect, this is probably the most honest Finney has been in his entire life. The two did fumble around a bit, yes, but mostly, they just slept through the night.

"Judging by the dejected tone of your voice, that's not a good thing."

Finney groans, running a hand down his face. "I told you it's stupid. It's not even an issue, not really, I just... we didn't really... finish, back then, and now I don't know how to start something and—" he turns to Bruce, eyes pleading. "I need you to tell me how to seduce my boyfriend, Bruce."

"How the hell would I know? You're dating him, I reckon that would make it a lot easier."

"But it doesn't!"

"Well, that's on you!"

This isn't going anywhere. Perhaps Finney shouldn't have said anything in the first place. He'll just move to England, vow a lifetime of celibacy and become a priest while he's at it.

Sensing his inner turmoil, Bruce clasps him by his arms, lowering his head to catch Finney's gaze.

"Finney, hey," he shakes him a little to get his attention. "It's fine, you don't have to do anything... special, if that's what you were implying. Robin likes you just the way you are, I promise. Just be yourself." He smiles wolfishly. "I guarantee you he'll appreciate that a lot more than some elaborate wooing ritual."

Finney snorts. "Do you think I'm being dramatic?"

"No. But I do think you're head over heels for your man." There's mischief in Bruce's eyes when he continues. "Honestly, I can't blame you. He has been looking real good, lately."

"Don't let Vance hear you said that."

Bruce shrugs. "He'd agree with me."

Laughing, Finney shakes his head. Bruce gives him one last fond look before he excuses himself. "Well, I really do need to get going now. Vance is probably waiting for me, don't want him to turn the school upside down in search for my ass. You don't worry too much, 'kay? I'm sure it'll all work out naturally."

Finney nods, not even putting up that much of a fight when Bruce reaches over to ruffle his hair. With one foot out the door, he turns to address Finney one more time.

"Oh, and Finney?"

"Yeah, Bruce?"

His friend flashes him a cheeky smile, accompanied by a thumbs up. "Go get him!" With that, he disappears into the endless maze of hallways, leaving Finney behind in a vacant classroom.

Well. That went well.

Almost as an afterthought, he wonders how Bruce managed to convince Vance to do couples yoga.

Last week, if Finney recalls correctly, it was Robin’s turn to pick a movie. As fearful as that had made him, they luckily didn’t end up watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre again, instead opting for a romcom Robin’s mother had claimed to love.

When asked about it, his partner would say he chose it for that reason and no other, but privately, Finney suspected their newfound relationship might have softened his tough persona just a bit; it would certainly explain the tears at the end of the movie, complete with a thorough, heartfelt analysis of each plot point.

When Finney goes home the next day, he arrives as a changed man. At least his sister thinks so, especially after he rather passionately recounts all of the knowledge on Grease he had accumulated in the span of a single night.

This Friday, however, it’s Finney’s turn, and he has no intentions of missing his one chance. They haven’t been able to spend as much time hanging out with just the two of them these past few days. He’s determined to make the most of it, teenage libido be damned.

That’s how the two end up sprawled on Robin’s couch, watching a very engaging documentary on space.

“—Ursa Minor is actually associated with two different Greek myths. In one, the constellation represents Ida, the nymph who took care of Zeus when he was small. What happened was that Rhea—his mother—hid him on the island of Crete to protect him from his father, Cronus. Now get this; Cronus, because he was terrified of an old prophecy that said one of his children would overthrow him, swallowed five of his offspring after they were born,” Finney gestures animatedly, unabashedly enthusiastic in his running commentary. “Isn’t that crazy?”

“Yup, so crazy," Robin's voice drawls. "Like, who does that.”

“Right?” he nods, satisfied. “So when Zeus was born, his mom tricked Cronus into swallowing a stone instead, and Zeus eventually fulfilled the prophecy. He freed his brothers, Poseidon and Hades, and sisters, Hera, Hestia and Demeter, and became the supreme god of Olympus!”

He ends his rant with a flourish, eyes flicking over to check on Robin's reaction—

—only to find his eyes already fixed on him. Or rather, Finney muses as he follows the trajectory of Robin's gaze, on his lips.

"Robin?"

"Yes, Finn?"

Finney raises an eyebrow. "Do you mind?"

"No, actually," Robin throws the blond a smirk that he'd find infuriating under any other circumstances. Right now, he just finds it hot. "I don't."

"Maybe we could change the subject if you don't find this topic interesting?"

"No, no. I do, I promise. I love hearing you talk about space and stuff."

"Really?" Finney licks his lips, observing with barely suppressed glee as Robin's eyes track the motion with laser sharp focus. "So you don't think there are other ways I could occupy my mouth."

"I didn't say that."

The words send shivers down his spine. Robin is looking him up and down with what could only be classified as a predatory look, something thrilling and downright dangerous nagging at Finney's senses— some primary instinct, perhaps, telling him to flee.

But there's nothing to run from. No, there's only Robin's hand, inching closer to Finney's face and gently guiding him in. He goes willingly.

Finney thinks in this scenario, he doesn't mind being the prey.

They're close enough now for their lips to touch. Before they can collide, Robin stops short, keeping them a breath's width apart.

"Can I—"

There it is. Finney knows what Robin's going to say before he even finishes the sentence.

The thing is, they have kissed before. Just small pecks, really; both of them still shy, still tentatively exploring the relatively new territory.

The first time he and Robin went anywhere near each other’s faces, Finney had felt so many butterflies in his stomach he thought he was going to puke from the sheer amount of nerves; but no.

What followed was the sensation of a nose nudging against his, calloused fingers carefully brushing the strands of Finney’s hair away from his face.

And then—

Can I kiss you?

The query; the one that preceded each stolen moment in between their classes, with Robin coming up to his desk and leaning down to shield the both of them from prying eyes, or whilst taking a refuge in the boy’s bathroom during a break, cornered against the sink in a surreal parody of the moment they shared what now feels like an eternity ago.

With eyes half-lidded and his overwhelming scent clogging Finney’s nose, Robin would always make sure to pause just before their lips met, and—

Please.

—Finney's breath would catch in his throat, heart skipping every second beat in an attempt to restart his basic human functions as Robin stole all of the air from his lungs greedily.

In his humble opinion, suffocating has never sounded like a better way to die.

He thinks that now as he surges forward, stealing the rest of Robin's inquiry from his mouth. Robin lets out a startled whoosh, quickly catching on and moving his lips against Finney's in a smooth, familiar glide.

It's a little clumsy, a little unpracticed, but once Finney tilts his head just a bit to the side—

Oh, it is so good.

Too soon, his neck begins to hurt from the uncomfortable angle. They're still sitting side by side, upper bodies turned towards each other like sunflowers in the dark, and frankly, it's not an optimal position for making out.

He quickly remedies that by swinging a leg over Robin's thighs, depositing himself in his lap.

His partner takes the new development in stride, placing his hands on Finney's waist and tugging him closer.

He's gentle, almost obnoxiously so, just like every other time they've kissed. Robin is always gentle with the people he cares about, the people he loves, and for some unknown, irrational reason, it makes Finney want to push his buttons just to see which one will drive him mad.

The documentary is still playing in the background, but Finney can hardly pay it any mind. He's too busy opening his mouth and swiping his tongue over Robin's lip, biting down on it delicately.

The blond feels a surge of pride when his lover gasps, hands tightening on Finney's waist like a vice. He pulls Finney impossibly closer until their bodies are pressed flush, every inch scalding hot and ablaze with fire.

He runs his tongue over Robin's, breathing haggardly when he reciprocates the gesture with a sharp nip, just on the right side of painful. Finney nibbles on his abused bottom lip in retaliation, and smirks when he hears his boyfriend groan.

He shouldn't have laughed so easily.

Robin is a competitive fucker—Finney's always known that. He manages to make a contest out of anything, be it who can race to the car first or get the best vegetables while grocery shopping.

That's why, Finney isn't entirely sure why he's so shocked when he feels a hand slide up his shirt and caress his bare back, the other moving dangerously close to where Finney's thigh meets his pelvis.

He'd choke on his own tongue if it wasn't in Robin's mouth—especially when Robin's hand settles high enough on his leg to be considered improper, and grips.

Finney is not proud of the whimper he lets out. It's not like he can help it, though. He was always distantly aware of the fact that Robin's strong. He has to be in order to beat up random assholes on a daily basis.

What he didn't realize, however, was the possibility of Robin using that strength on Finney.

He feels the telltale signs of a blush creeping on his cheeks, embarrassed by the way Robin can easily turn him putty in his arms with only a slight squeeze.

Robin on the other hand must not find it embarrassing, because he does it again, swallowing Finney's next moan hungrily like a parched man drinking from an oasis.

Finney can't resist moving his hands from Robin's shoulders to his hair, twisting strands of it around his fingers and grabbing fistfuls of ebony black, tugging just enough to rip a growl out of Robin's throat.

Uh-oh.

He's rewarded for his troubles with another warning nip before Robin claims his mouth once again.

Somewhere along the way, they both became hard, the fabric of their jeans tenting with obvious bulges. Finney would find it humiliating to be so turned on by a little heated make-out session, but then he rocks down experimentally on Robin's lap and his mind goes blissfully blank.

After that, it's all a blur of feverishly rutting against each other through their clothes, breaths mingling and sloppy kisses with tongues fighting for dominance.

It isn't a contest—Finney realizes that—but if it was, the rules would be simple and they'd both be winning and Robin is moaning into his mouth and oh God, finally, just a bit more and Finney is going to—

Robin lifts his hips to meet Finney halfway and immediately crumples.

"Fuck, shit—" he promptly tears himself away from Finney, face scrunched in pain. "Finn, baby, get off— you gotta—"

"Robin?" Finney wastes no time in scrambling off of his boyfriend's lap, watching in a confusing mix of bewilderment, alarm, and worry as he rolls off of the couch and collapses on the floor with a cry. "Robin, what—?"

Robin doesn't reply, instead curling up facing the opposite wall, occasionally letting out distressed sounds.

Finney stays on the sofa, unsure of how to help without essentially worsening the situation. He opts for murmuring to him gently, trying to keep his mind off the pain, hands hovering close just in case.

After a minute, Robin's form finally stops shaking.

"Love?" Finney tries. "Are you... alright?" He nearly cringes at the question. So much for being good at comforting people, he thinks bitterly.

"...No," comes the glum response. No other elaboration: seems like he'll have to fish harder.

"Will you tell me what happened so I can maybe help you? If it's serious, we should call an ambulance, take you to the hospital—"

"The hospital won't help with this one." He can see Robin covering his face. The boy mumbles something incomprehensible into his hands; it sounds suspiciously a lot like Dios mío.

"Come again?"

More incoherent mutter. Finney puts a little more force into his next words.

"Could you repeat that a bit louder, please?"

"I got a cramp," Robin sighs.

Oh.

Wait. What.

"...I got a cramp in my right foot and it goddamn hurts."

Finney spares exactly one second to stare at his boyfriend's back, which somehow manages to seem gloomy all on its own, and at once bursts into vibrant laughter.

"You got a cramp in your foot while we were fucking?"

"Don't laugh, you dipshit! And technically, we weren't fucking... yet." Robin throws him a menacing glare over his shoulder that lacks any real heat behind it, only for it to swiftly melt into a sultry look. "We could change that, if you want."

"Are you kidding me?" Finney lets out another unflattering chortle. Strangely, it doesn't make Robin look any less fond. "I don't want to risk you getting even more hurt. I'll pass."

His partner groans and deflates like a balloon, letting his head fall back onto the wooden floor and stretching his limbs out like a starfish.

Finney gets up from the couch and comes to kneel beside him.

"Hey, it's alright." He runs his fingers through Robin's hair, scratching at his scalp gently the way he would do to a dejected dog. "We don't have to do anything tonight; we can just finish the movie and go to sleep afterwards. A pretty foolproof plan, don't you think?"

Robin's closed his eyes when Finney tangled his hands in his luscious locks, but they snap open when the blond mentions the documentary. There's a smirk tugging at Robin's lips, and Finney isn't sure if it's a bad omen or not.

"Or," he drawls, "I could show you exactly how much attention I paid to you when you were rambling on about space."

Finney has positively no idea what he means by that, but his stomach swoops at the thought anyway. He nods, already leaning backwards onto the plush carpet when Robin comes crawling over him.

A couple of hours later, the couple is dozing off peacefully in Robin's bed, nestled into each other like two perfectly fitting puzzle pieces.

There, barely visible under the collar of his borrowed shirt, right above Finney's collarbone and reaching all the way to his jaw, is his own, personal constellation in the shape of the Little Dipper, mapped carefully in various shades of red and purple.

Finney feels Robin's fingers stroke over the spots with something akin to worship. He allows himself to reach his own hand up to touch the single mark on his partner's throat, almost directly over his Adam's apple.

The skin there is reddened, bearing the barest of indents in the shape of teeth. With no small amount of pleasure, Finney silently hopes it's going to be an absolute bitch to cover up.

V.

In retrospect, it shouldn't be surprising that neither of them had the good grace to foresee this possibility.

The streets are empty. He and Robin are running, soaked hoodies held above their heads like makeshift umbrellas. It hardly does anything to keep them from getting wet, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Of course, running away from rain doesn't exactly pose itself as a smart idea; that's why, the two decide to go to the nearest shelter available.

"My place or yours?!" Finney has to yell over the the sound of the wind. He can barely hear himself, but he hopes Robin can understand the message nonetheless.

"Thought you'd never ask!"

Nevermind, he heard him just fine.

They wind up stumbling into Finney's house; it's closer, and most likely vacant with his father at work and Gwen having left on a week-long school trip.

Their shoes are discarded by the door, leaving a small puddle around them. Robin, bless his heart, tries to actually rinse his hair the way one would do with a rug, but winces when he only adds to the mess.

"I'll help you clean it up later."

Finney shakes his head ruefully. He's shivering like a newborn fawn and his fingers are going numb from the cold.

Are they turning purple or is he colour-blind?

"Leave it. It's gonna dry up eventually."

They hastily make their way to Finney's room. The blond tries to tip-toe at first, so as to not leave a trail of water in his wake, but then his totally mature and not at all childish boyfriend decides to shove him and all the fucking bets are off.

They nearly crash onto the floor multiple times in their quest to trip each other up. Thankfully, the house is small and they make it into Finney's little den in no time.

Unable to resist showing off his pitching skills, Finney throws the drenched hoodie into his laundry bin, Robin following suit.

He smirks when Robin misses, scowling as he goes to retrieve the damp item of clothing.

"Wanna go take a shower to warm up?"

"You go first," Robin calls over his shoulder, "you look like you're about to keel over from hypothermia at any second, niño."

"Oh, okay...” Finney pauses. “Do you need me to—?"

"Go, Finn." His concern is dismissed with an exasperated look, only softened by an amused smile. "I know where all your shit is. I'll figure something out."

Nodding, Finney mumbles something akin to an acknowledgement and bolts out.

In the privacy of his bathroom, he finally lets himself relax. The hot water is doing wonders for his frozen limbs, gradually helping him thaw with each passing second.

Because Finney’s always been nothing if not secretly a masochist, he tries not to think about how in just a few moments, Robin will be in the same position, and more importantly, the same state of undress...

He turns the water as cold as it can go and yelps at the shock it sends through his body. Whatever, he thinks, I deserve it.

Stepping out of the shower, he reaches for a towel to dry himself with. He sets out one for Robin as well; just because their family doesn't get many guests doesn't mean that Finney's going to be a bad host.

It dawns on him a second too late that he hadn't thought to bring any clothes for himself to change into.

He takes a deep breath.

It's fine; it's not the end of the world. He'll dig up some spare pajamas for Robin and send him on his way. He can get dressed while the other's in the bathroom, it's no big deal.

—Aside from the part where it is a big fucking deal, because what greets him when he reenters his room is the sight of Robin in nothing but his boxers, lounging on Finney's bed like he fucking owns the place.

He can physically feel it when his face goes bright red. Now's really the worst time for his body to be focusing on how much he finds Robin... aesthetically pleasing.

The other's busying himself with flipping through one of Finney's old comic books, none the wiser to his companion's emotional turmoil.

The peaceful stretch of silence doesn't last long. When Robin at last notices his presence in the room, his eyes snap to Finney's before traveling down, down, down, and they don't leave, not even when Finney forces his legs to move to his dresser, idly picking through his clothes.

"The bathroom's all yours." His voice doesn't come out as shaky as he feared it would. It's still a touch too breathy, a little faint to the ear, maybe, but he could easily blame that on asthma, or literally anything else but his overwhelming attraction to his best friend.

Robin hums. He doesn't make a move to get up.

"If it doesn't stop raining soon, you can just stay the night," Finney says, mostly to fill the silence that’s settled over them like a heavy blanket. "My dad won't mind, he probably won't even know you're here, if I’m honest."

And he is. He doesn't think his father would care even if he knew Finney had some company over. He's been taking on more and more night-shifts lately, spending almost all of his time at home sleeping away hangovers.

Frankly, Finney has a sneaking suspicion that Robin doesn’t care about his father’s whereabouts all that much.

The other doesn’t react outside of giving another non-committal hum.

That’s alright, Finney can relate.

He also really, really doesn’t want to think about his father right now— no, what he needs is to find some goddamn pants to put on, or at the very least, some underwear—

“Hey, Finn?”

“Hm?” He’s going to have to throw out so many clothes, it’s downright absurd. Maybe he shouldn’t have relied on the only two shirts he can still fit into to carry him through the rest of his growth spurt.

Finney jumps when he feels a cold finger poke his shoulder blade.

“Did you know you had freckles on your back?”

It takes Finney an embarrassing amount of time to process the subject of that sentence, simply because he’s too dumbstruck by the amount of pure, unfiltered wonder in Robin’s voice.

“What?” he says, dumbly.

“Right here.” The finger is joined by four more, sliding down his spine in a tantalizing caress that stops just shy of the towel protecting the last bits of his modesty.

Finney’s breath hitches. Robin’s hands are freezing, but they leave Finney’s skin alight everywhere he touches him.

“—And here.”

The blond almost chokes on a harsh swallow.

This... this is bad.

Realistically, he knows that he and Robin have fooled around already. Hell, he’d touched his bare back before, just like this, in a very similar context.

But it wasn’t quite like this, was it? They weren’t both half naked, smelling faintly of rain and sweat and soap, all combined into this cocktail of scents that has Finney salivating at the thought of licking it straight off of Robin’s skin.

He’s so, so tired of getting riled up for nothing. Maybe it’s time to take matters into his own hands.

Spinning around, he sneaks his arms around Robin’s neck, pulling him just a tad closer.

“Where else?”

The other boy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Clearly, whatever it was that he was expecting, he didn’t think that Finney would go with such a bold approach.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, he lets one of his hands settle on Finney’s bare waist, the other reaching up to his face. Finney finds himself leaning into the touch without even meaning to.

“Dunno,” comes the belated response. The way Robin’s voice goes hoarse at the end makes Finney itch with need. “You don’t really have any freckles on your face, but...” His eyes drop unsubtly down to Finney’s towel.

He hadn’t tied it on properly before exiting the bathroom, and now it’s slipped away to reveal just a bit more skin than strictly proper.

Robin doesn’t seem to mind. He’s drinking in the sight of Finney’s exposed skin like like he’d been malnourished his entire life and someone’s just come to serve him a tasty meal on a silver platter.

Finney himself certainly feels like he’s going to be devoured.

Robin's eyes glaze over, lost in some foreign fantasy Finney apparently isn’t privy to. Too busy ogling, his thumb strokes absentmindedly along Finney’s cheek, brushing against the corner of his lips.

Out of some unnamed instinct, Finney catches it with his mouth, lips automatically closing around the thick digit.

Look at me, he wants to say. Look at me, see me.

Almost as if he’d heard his thoughts, Robin does. His head snaps up, gaze instantly locking onto Finney’s mouth.

Finney basks in the attention. With other people, the feeling of being watched unnerves him at best and repulses him at worst, but with Robin?

He hums around the intrusion in his mouth, scraping his teeth along the first knuckle, tongue soothing the sting.

Robin rips his hand away like he's been burnt.

For a terrifying second Finney thinks he’s done something wrong, but then there’s a hot, demanding mouth on his, which, yeah. Finney is more than fine with that.

He voices his enthusiasm through a muffled moan that Robin kisses straight away from his lips.

There’s a hard body pressing to his, hands grappling at any flesh they can reach and Good Lord, that better not be a goddamn six-pack he can feel—

He takes a moment to revel in how much better this is with no clothes on. There's nothing, absolutely nothing separating them, and he can feel free to admire the strain in Robin’s muscles when he flexes as much as he wants.

Fucking show-off.

Finney kisses him harder for it, but all it does is spur Robin on. He’s about to tug on his hair just the way he knows Robin likes when the other pulls away.

“Why’d you stop?” Finney pants. His hands are tangled in thick, black locks and they're so soft and silky and damn it, he doesn’t think he can handle getting blue-balled again. “Please don’t tell me you got a cramp. I'll seriously leave you this time and jerk off on my own.”

He goes for joking, but winces when his voice falls short of desperate.

“No cramp,” at least Robin’s still got a good sense of humor, “just wanted to try something.”

That’s the only warning Finney gets before he’s grabbed like a doll and hoisted onto the dresser he had been previously rummaging through.

Oh.

“Oh.” He doesn’t think he can say anything to that besides a frantic “Fuck yeah.” Then he’s diving in, shoving his tongue into Robin’s mouth unceremoniously because no matter how many times they do this, he’ll never get enough of Robin's taste.

There's no backing out now. Robin's made himself at home between Finney's legs, palms enveloping his thighs in a possessive hold and wrapping them around his waist.

Finney finally gets to pull Robin's hair, just a touch more harshly than he had intended to. He gasps along with him when Robin grinds their members together in retaliation, movements erratic and slightly uncoordinated.

There's a blush high on Robin's cheeks when they pull back for air, and Finney can't resist running his hands along it lovingly.

He's beautiful, Finney thinks. He's beautiful, and for what.

The answer is: to ruin him.

There's no other explanation for why he presses his fingers into Finney's flesh so hard he's sure they'll leave bruises, or why he insists on sucking on that one spot behind Finney's ears that makes him moan like a whore.

Mind fuzzy with want, Finney chants Robin's name like a prayer, mouth dripping with a certain kind of divinity that only comes from finding an object of devotion and surrendering to it. He's distantly aware that he's begging, but for what, he's not sure; for Robin to touch him, maybe, anything, more, more more more—

"You gonna come, cariño?" Robin purrs, grinding his hips in a torturously slow circle. "Gonna come just from me touching you?"

Finney pants, so turned on he's mindless with it. "Yes—" Ah, ah, ah, "Robin, please—!"

Robin doesn't keep him waiting. There's tears gathering along Finney's lashes and Robin wipes them away so tenderly he nearly cries.

"Tell me what you want, baby." He presses an achingly gentle kiss to Finney's burning cheek. "I'll give you anything," he whispers, lips now pressed to Finney's temple. "All you have to do is ask."

Finney feels like he's holding on for dear life. He must have given Robin an assortment of scratches all along his arms, back and shoulders in his pursuit of an anchor.

Knowing Robin, he'll wear them around with pride, like well earned trophies.

His moans reach an endless staccato, voice high and breathy and God, if this is how Finney dies, he thinks he'll have to kiss the almighty creator's feet when he gets to Heaven.

His last wish would probably be for Robin to fuck him senseless—

"As you wish."

Fuck.

He doesn't have time to feel embarrassed over having said that out loud; not with Robin's hand inching its way up his thigh, sliding smoothly under the towel and rucking it up, up, up, closer and closer to where Finney truly wants him—

The heat in his belly coils until it's fit to burst, and he yanks Robin's head down to moan directly in his ear, bursting with satisfaction when he feels an answering twitch in his boyfriend's boxers.

He snakes one hand down Robin's body, pausing at times to marvel at the hard work he's put into it, and hooks one finger on the elastic band of his briefs.

He doesn't miss the way Robin sucks in a harsh breath, the muscles in his abdomen jumping.

"Touch me."

He's not sure which one of them says it, but either way, they both rush to comply. Finney feels Robin palm at the inside of his thigh, thumb almost brushing against his hard cock, and he can't stop the whimper that's ripped out of his throat.

"Robin, Robin, Robin—" he keens, helpless and on the verge of tears. "Don't stop, please, I'm so close, please, ah, ah—!"

"Yeah, baby," Robin grinds their hips together harder, pace quickening with renewed urgency. "Me too, fuck—" he's interrupted by a grunt, punched straight out of the part of his chest that makes every noise sound like a growl. "Fuck, Finn—"

Finney's eyes are screwed shut, face pressed firmly into Robin's neck. He's aware he's covered in sweat, tears, and an alarming amount of precum, but he couldn't give less of a fuck if he tried.

He rolls his hips against Robin's fervently, relishing the groan that action inspires, and almost goes cross-eyed with pleasure when his partner bites into the meat of his shoulder.

Huh. The more you know.

Some primal part of him preens at being marked like this; at being claimed. The same part howls with joy when Finney tucks his nose further into Robin's neck, burning the smell of rain, sex and Robin into his memory.

The scent is so tangible it feels like he could taste it on his tongue. He licks a long stripe along the line of Robin’s throat, just to see if he can. It’s almost better; heady, seductive, like a particularly strong aphrodisiac.

Robin draws in a sharp breath. He dives in to mouth along Finney’s jaw, all the while keeping Finney exactly where he's been mentally and physically the last couple of days; on edge, precariously balancing on the fine line between pleasure and pain, begging and whining for a release.

Christ. If he doesn't come in the next five seconds, his dick is going to fall off, he's sure. This feels almost like torture.

His nerves are too frayed to continue this for much longer. He says so to Robin, hoping to speed things up a bit, but he should have known;

Robin is a cruel, cruel person.

He's reminded of that when the other boy chuckles at his distress and leans in to nose at his cheek, the action so tender in contrast with the way he's fucking Finney into the dresser, it makes the blond want to weep.

"Finn," Robin's pace remains unhurried, but it does gain a new kind of force behind it, "I'm gonna—"

"Yeah," there's heat pooling low in Finney's belly. He knows it won't be too long before he's tipping over the edge, dragging Robin along with him. "Me too—"

He clenches his thighs around Robin's hips, pulling their bodies flush. There's a gasp, a muttered apology for ruining Finney's furniture and then—

His vision goes white. Not surprising; Finney did expect the orgasm to hit him particularly hard after days of endless foreplay and no release.

What he didn't expect was the loud, booming sound of thunder striking right outside of his window, startling both him and Robin away from each other.

When the room finally goes dark again and his sight adjusts to the dim lights of his house, he takes note of his partner, now standing a few feet away.

They both stare at each other for a moment, eyes wide and chests heaving. There's a dark blush on Robin's cheeks, his hair a right mess and his shoulders are decorated with vivid lines from Finney’s nails.

He looks like he's been fucked six ways from Sunday. Finney has an inkling that his own appearance isn't much better.

Heart in his throat, he turns towards the source of the eardrum-crushing explosion.

Instantly, all the blood drains from his face.

"Is that fire?!"

Robin's head whips around, a terrible look of barely contained horror settling over his handsome features.

"Oh, fuck," he says, with feeling. Finney knows exactly what he means. "This isn’t what I meant when I thought things were going to get hot and steamy.”

“Robin!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he backtracks quickly, “fuck, Finn— we gotta get out, we gotta call the fire department—" he pauses, eyes raking over their stiff frames.

"Shit, I don't have any pants on."

"I don't have anything on, genius," Finney snaps, movements growing increasingly more frantic as he climbs down from the dresser and tosses random items of clothing in the direction of his mess of a boyfriend.

"Just hurry and put the clothes on. We gotta leave as soon as possible. I'm not staying in a house that's probably going to catch on fire any moment longer than I absolutely have to."

Huffing as he presumably changes into Finney’s clothes, Robin nods.

"Let's get out of here."

Approximately one hour later, they both wind up sitting in an ambulance car, wrapped in nothing but each other, the shock blanket they were handed and some old, ill-fitting clothes Finney dug up from the very bottom of his drawer.

All in all, it could have been worse.

...At least that's what he tells himself to resist the urge to scream. From the look on his face, Robin would probably gladly join him.

+1

Robin considers himself a patient person.

He wouldn't normally toot his own horn by randomly spouting praises about his own dazzling personality, but that one is his mamá's doing, and he'll be damned if he doesn't acknowledge how good of a job she's done raising him.

No, no. This time, he's not saying it for anyone's benefit but his own. A steady reminder of all that he is and has aimed to be, despite his ruthless fists and sharp tongue.

A very much needed reminder, it turns out, seeing as it is the only thing keeping him from ripping his hair out by the roots.

His scalp itches as if sensing the urge. He scratches at it idly before focusing back on his previous task, driving his screwdriver into the complex inner workings of his car.

It's been a couple of days since the incident at Finney's house. The fire thankfully didn't spread far and the tree that had been struck was quickly cut down so as to avoid future complications, but standing in the rain for the better half of an hour did take its toll on him.

Especially if he takes into account the events that have transpired between him and Finn just a few moments prior.

And listen. He doesn't think he's the type of guy who necessarily needs sex in a relationship. The idea of having a bond with someone based on nothing but carnal desires just rubs him the wrong way.

No, he's pretty confident in saying that the connection he and Finn have is... deeper than that.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't want to have sex with Finn. His attraction to his best friend is, frankly and quite embarrassingly, unquestionable. And it's becoming a problem.

You see, he would have been perfectly fine admiring Finn from afar and doing whatever the other boy was comfortable with, had it not been so obvious that he wanted him too.

And isn't that a wonderful conundrum?

This beautiful creature that has somehow deemed Robin worthy of its affections has not only decided to accept his feelings, but also return them?

Robin should be overjoyed. Ecstatic. On a fucking cloud nine— but no. Instead he gets a lapful of his breathtaking boyfriend and absolutely nothing to show for it.

And alright. He grew up with stories of evil spirits and bad fortune sticking to people who deserved it and those who didn’t, but he always wrote them off as what they sounded like; myths.

Now? He silently sends an apology to his nana for ever doubting her stories, because there is no way in Hell he's this bad at having sex with his boyfriend without actually being cursed.

He contemplates the pros and cons of getting some kind of a talisman to ward off the worst of the negative energy, but on second thought, carrying one around would arouse too many questions and not enough... arousal.

No, what he really needs is for the universe to stop cock-blocking him.

Seriously; all jokes aside, he doesn't trust himself to not jump Finney the next time he so much as looks at him.

And oh, has he been looking.

After the latest fiasco, it seemed as if all his boyfriend’s inhibitions disappeared into thin air;

They're in one of the few classes they share together? Finney will just spend the entire lesson staring at Robin's profile.

Getting poked fun at by the local kids? Finney will answer in the same fashion and turn back to discussing the best texture of bread with Owen, of all things. At the same time, his hand will slide up Robin’s thigh like there aren’t literal children around.

Sitting at lunch with all their friends? Who cares? Finney sure does not; he’ll all but sit in Robin's lap, laughing and stealing bites from his food like he doesn't have his own, all the while throwing Robin these... these looks, like he wants to start something.

Or maybe Robin's projecting. Maybe he's finally lost it— he's gone nuts, literally. There is every chance that all the blood in his body has travelled down into his dick and now he's left with a useless brain that won't stop thinking about all the ways he wants to make Finney cry... in a sexy way, of course.

To say that the image of his boyfriend, undone and pleading for him haunts him would be an understatement. It's there when he wakes up, when he goes to sleep, and unfortunately for everyone, it's also there when Finney looks at him, all gentle and knowing, like he's perfectly aware of the debauchery causing havoc in Robin's mind.

He digresses. The point is: he and Finney both want to fuck. Badly. And the world seems all too keen on not letting that happen.

Now, if only he could—

“Ow! What the fuck?"

A startled yelp escapes him when he’s almost knocked over by a heavy kick to his shin.

“Just making sure you didn’t fall asleep down there, niño,” a gruff voice rumbles above him. “You got real quiet all of a sudden.”

From what little he can see, he makes out another set of heavy boots joining his own. They step close enough to knock against his, worn leather against newer one.

“Something on your mind?”

Robin huffs. “Nothing you need to be concerned about, Tío.” He motions for his uncle to trade his screwdriver for a wench. “Just thinking.”

“Your mother will be glad to hear that. Maybe she’ll stop nagging me for ruining your academic career with my "bad influence" if you show her you can use that noggin of yours, once in a while.”

The last bit is said with sarcasm, the blow of it softened by the ever-present underlying warmth in his uncle’s tone. Reclined on his back under the old car, Robin can’t exactly see the other man’s face, but he doesn’t need to. He returns the smile.

“How has she been, anyway?”

“Mamá is the same as always. Tired, but good,” he grimaces when a drop of car oil falls on his face. Ugh. “Her knees are getting better. She said the doctor we found out of town really helped her.”

His uncle hums, the sound reverberating through the air like an old engine. The familiarity of it makes Robin relax.

“When’s she due for her next appointment?”

“Tonight, actually.” Tweaking another pipe into place, he slides out from underneath the car with practiced ease. That should do it. If it dies in the middle of the road again, he might just scrap the whole thing and make some money off of it.

His uncle will probably not appreciate that, but it’s not like he owns the car anymore, is it?

He wipes his face with the least filthy rag he can find. The cloth comes off stained, bearing signs of grease and other distasteful fluids he doesn't dare name. He winces at the thought of having to scrub all of that off in the shower.

“How about that boy of yours?”

Robin, very elegantly, chokes on his saliva.

“Wha—” he hits his chest a few times, coughing violently. “Which one—”

The older Arellano rolls his eyes, messy man-bun bouncing around as he shakes his head. He mutters something that sounds far too much like Dios mío, followed by a much clearer fucking hell.

“Which one, he says. Like you haven't been busting your knuckles open for that boy every other day since you were twelve," he grouses. "Don’t play dumb with me, niño. I’ve only met one friend of yours since we moved here.”

Robin’s eyes dart away. He can feel his cheeks reddening. Surely he hasn’t been this obvious?

“Well? The Blake kid. How is he?”

“He’s... fine.”

“Just fine?” His uncle smirks, one hand coming up to smooth down his no more than a week-old stubble. Robin absentmindedly scratches at his. Maybe he should shave; he doesn’t want to end up with a beard like the old man, after all.

“Thought you’d finally grown some balls and asked him out. You know I taught you better than this.”

The jab is only half-effective; not that Robin will tell him, but the tricks his uncle has taught him did prove to be successful... to a certain degree.

"You took me to see movies and pointed out all the things the main character did to get the girl...?"

“And it worked! Remember when I told you the story of how I met your other uncle? Swept the man right off of his feet, I tell you!” He lets out a booming laugh. “Your mother was the same with your father, chiquito. It’s basically family tradition for us to make the first move!”

Ah. The perks and downsides of not updating your immediate family on your relationship status: they will try to hook you up with your boyfriend.

“Tío—”

“Don’t tío me, boy, I’ve seen the way you look at him,” the older male chides, not unkindly. “But more importantly, I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

The meaningful eyebrow raise the older man sends him shouldn’t be this powerful, not when Robin’s seen the other man get chased by his 5’5” tall mamá for stealing her favourite pair of heels to dress in drag.

It’s the beard, he decides. It makes everything he says sound unreasonably wise.

“¿Qué estás esperando, hijo?” His uncle gives him a concerned once-over. "Or do you think he would not want you?"

“I don’t know, Tío,”  Robin sighs, shoulders slumping. He rubs at his hands with the dirty rag, not doing much besides smearing the grime around. "No, wait. I do know. That's not the problem."

"Then why the frown, son?"

Why, indeed.

This whole talk has Robin reflecting on all those times he and Finn have been... intimate. Was he too forward? He did initiate more times than not. He's also pretty sure it's both their first time doing anything like this and—

His head spins.

Fuck, he nearly took Finn's virginity. On his dresser. For their first time. Actually, no. Scratch that— To put it crudely, he humped him like a dog in rut until they almost came.

And it was good. It was so, so good.

He has to catch himself when he nearly drops the towel in his hands.

This isn't right. Surely. Surely Finn deserves something more than... than a quick tumble in the sheets.

Robin inwardly groans at himself. God, they didn't even make it to the bed.

His uncle doesn't let him stew in his thoughts for long. A heavy, calloused hand settles on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

 "You're still young, chaparrito. You and that boy of yours have plenty of time to figure things out. There's no need to rush."

Robin hums.

"But if I may give you one piece of advice," he leans in, whispering conspiratorially, "it's all in the eyes, chiquito—it's all in the eyes. Remember that, and you will know when the time is right."

There's a heavy pause before Robin finally nods.

The older male slaps his upper arm, the sting giving way to the obvious satisfaction on his uncle's face.

What a weirdo, Robin thinks fondly.

"It's about time you go, hijo. The sun's setting."

"Oh, fuck. Already?" He hasn't even realized it was getting so late. "I have to pick up mamá, shit—"

"You are not picking up anyone, actually." The keys in his hands are swiped away, replaced with a different, much heavier set. "When I said you should go, I meant that you should go home."

"But mamá's appointment—"

"—will be fine. I'll drive her there," his uncle says, with no small amount of conviction. "You should get some rest, niño. You've been holed up in here all day, and frankly? You're starting to look older than me."

Robin doesn't even find it within himself to feel offended. Considering the most recent events in his life, it might actually be true.

"Men like us need to take care of themselves too, contrary to popular belief.

Robin snorts. "Speak for yourself, old man."

His uncle doesn't let the slander go unpunished. Robin ducks just in time to avoid one of the many dirty pieces of cloth lying around the place flying straight towards his face.

"Laugh all you want! You'll be thanking me later," his uncle declares, leaving no room for arguments. "Now scatter, me and your mother are going on a spontaneous siblings’ night out!"

Dipping into the driver's seat of his uncle's car, he offers a final, half-sarcastic, half-sincere salute before he backs out of the driveway.

He doesn't head home right away. No, before that, there is one stop he has to make first.

Not even an hour later, he's sitting at his kitchen table by himself, a lone tub of mint chocolate ice cream keeping him company. For some reason he feels like it's judging him, in that very strange, ruthless way only inanimate objects can.

Were these his original plans for the evening? No, of course not. He's not a loser.

Except for the part where he is.

That's how this whole ordeal started, he thinks. Driving just a couple of streets away from Finney's house, he was struck with a... revelation, if you will.

Seeing Finney now? A terrible idea. Awful, truly. Just, the worst.

Inviting Finney over? To his house? Whilst his mother is gone? Horrific in theory—absolutely dreadful in practice.

There is no way he could be a gentleman. Not when the memory of Finney's taste is still so fresh on his tongue.

He shoves another mouthful of ice cream down his throat to suppress whatever impure thoughts are trying to invade his mind. A welcome side effect? No one can hear him cry if he's choking.

Silly logic is still called logic for a reason, he muses. His poor mamá will find his decomposing body in a couple day's time, hopefully.

The house was empty when he dragged his ass through the front door. She left him with a note saying that her and his uncle will be hanging around the city for a while longer, and that should he need anything, he can always call either of them.

(As a signature, she included a dopey doodle of a smiley face and a heart, complete with a crudely drawn dick Robin recognized as the handwriting of his other family member.)

The thought of his mother crying over his still body lying face down in a pool of melted ice cream sobers him up quickly. He stands hastily and puts the tub in the back of the freezer, throwing his spoon in the sink to be dealt with later.

With nothing to do and an empty house for himself, the possibilities of how to kill time are for once endless. Robin loves his mother, he does, but the freedom that comes with not having to worry about waking anyone when he sneaks into the kitchen for a midnight snack or how much noise he's making when he's having his private time is a universally shared, liberating experience for any young adult.

He heads to the bathroom, fully intending on submerging himself in scalding hot water so he doesn’t have to think about where exactly his hands are wandering or whose name he breathes when the pressure in his belly becomes just a tad too much.

Finn.

Shame, he finds, is all too easy to wash away, easier still when the heat from the shower licks underneath his skin, down to the marrow of his bones where the memory of his other half's touch resides, at home in the temple of his body as if it were its own.

An image of pretty, parted lips resurfaces with a fervent kind of viciousness, demanding his attention. The same lips whisper guileless pleas into the steam filled space between Robin's self-control and his honor, both hanging by a thread that grows more precarious with each resounding echo of his labors of love.

He wants to touch. He wants to be touched. But his beloved is not here, so he goes for the next best thing.

...Or he would, if a persistent ringing sound didn't join the pounding reverberating through his skull.

Huh. Nevermind, that's a good sign to get out as any. He supposes this can be his first step to proving to any nosy entity out there that he's more than a snotty, horny teenager.

Carefully, he climbs out of the shower stall, frowning when the incessant noise doesn't stop. It becomes even clearer when he steps into the hallway, sweatpants thrown on haphazardly and a towel slung around his shoulders.

Has their doorbell always been this loud? He doesn't remember; no one's used it in a long time. Whoever it is, though, they better have a damn good reason for leaching on his free time at such a late hour.

Swinging the door open with enough force to rip it out of its hinges, he gets a front row seat to a pair of dark eyes, slowly widening in surprise as they traverse his exposed silhouette.

Oh, fuck.

"Finn! What are you doing here?" Robin, because he's a natural at deceiving the general public into thinking he's cool, assumes a relaxed stance at once. No need for anyone to know how flustered the sudden appearance of the object of his desires made him.

Said object takes a single, shuddery breath before speaking. "Your mom called me. She told me you'd be home alone for a while, so she asked me to check up on you."

Oh. Robin should feel insulted that his mamá didn't trust him to look after himself, but it's not like her skepticism is without reason.

"You didn't have to."

"I know. But I wanted to see you." Finney beams, just a touch bashful. It does things to Robin's head, seeing the mouth he fantasized about just minutes ago stretch into a lovely smile. "Can I come in? I know it's not Friday, but I've got Texas Chainsaw Massacre on DVD and some snacks. We can have a whole marathon of your favourite horror movies."

Robin's heart flutters. Being around Finney truly isn't good for his health—luckily for them, he's always had a habit of chasing after things that would later end up biting him in the ass.

"You know I can never say no to blood and gore."

"I do." Finney shoots him another blinding smile before sauntering into the house confidently. Don't look at his ass. Don't look at his ass. Do not look at his ass—

"I also happen to know you can't say no to me."

Robin is truly, utterly fucked.

He follows Finney into the living room, mind absently registering that this is his house and yet, Finney looks more at ease than he ever has in his own home. It's... good, to see him comfortable in Robin's space.

Silently, Robin pats himself on the shoulder. Good job, Arellano. You've done well.

Something warm settles in his chest when the sound of Finney moving around the kitchen fills the air. He's humming a slightly out-of-tune melody, unhurried and easy.

It's catchy. Robin hums a few notes back, deft fingers setting everything up in a familiar song-and-dance.

Moments later, he encounters his first dilemma of the evening.

He goes to settle down on the couch, putting more than enough space between them to fit a whole another person in, because goddammit, chivalry isn’t dead.

Finney, as it would appear, does not get the memo. He sets their drinks on the small coffee table in front of the TV and crawls calmly into Robin’s arms, warm breath fanning over his throat when he sighs contentedly.

That’s... fine—well, not really, but if there’s one thing Robin’s learned from years of their friendship, it’s that when a stray cat chooses you, the last thing you should ever do is push it away.

(Even when the whole thing's throwing a wench in your plans, as it turns out.)

Besides, cuddling with Finney could hardly be called a chore. His body temperature always runs a bit lower than Robin’s, making him the perfect cooling mechanism.

The only downside? Other cooling mechanisms don’t feel the impulse to insult his choice of dessert.

“I don’t understand how that’s your favourite ice cream flavour. There’s so many others and you go for that one?”

They gave up on paying attention to what's happening to the characters on screen a long time ago. Granted, the terrified screaming and crying of people getting slaughtered doesn’t really make for a romantic background music, but they could do worse, he reasons.

“I reckon my taste is as good as it can get.” Finney scrunches his nose in disagreement. It’s so cute Robin has to bump it with his own. “I picked you, didn’t I?”

Finney’s response to that is complete silence.

Uh oh. Probably shouldn’t have said that. Backtracking may not be an option, but sending his uncle the opposite of a fruit basket seems like a marvelous idea.

Serves the old geezer right for teaching him shit that only works in movies.

“I can’t believe you just compared me to mint chocolate ice cream.”

Nevermind, he takes everything back. Of course that’s what Finney got stuck on.

“Favourite ice cream, favourite person—potayto, potahto,” Robin counters. “See? It’s practically the same thing.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

"Well, then how does it work, Einstein?"

With much more somberness than the situation calls for, Finney utters a grim,

"There can only be one."

Robin suppresses the urge to laugh. It wouldn’t do well to aggravate his beau when he’s trying to make a serious point. He’s made that mistake once or twice already, enough times to learn his lesson.

"So I'm supposed to choose between you and my favourite ice cream?"

Finney hums in affirmation, brows furrowed.

"How do you propose I should do that?"

"You obviously need to try both.” Right. Obviously. Because that’s common knowledge. “Duh."

If someone had told Robin in the past that the reserved, quiet kid he befriended years ago would turn out to be one of the sassiest people he’s ever met, he’d probably laugh in their face and call them a loon.

The fact that the older him thinks the attitude is hot goes without saying.

"You're awfully mouthy for someone who wants to be picked."

"Who says I want to be picked?"

"Alright then," Robin slaps the side of his half-eaten bowl of ice cream, "I choose mint-chocolate."

“What?!”

This time, Robin does laugh at the sheer, unbridled outrage on Finney’s face. Riling him up is something only his closest friends an Gwen are allowed to do, and there’s no question about who takes full advantage of that privilege the most.

"No fair! You didn't even think about it!"

"Didn't need to. The answer was clear as day."

"Clear as day my ass." Finney reaches over to pick the spoon from Robin's grasp, licking the remnants of ice cream off of it. "You sure you don't want to at least try...?"

Robin gulps. There it is, the look again. Perhaps he should think nothing of it? Pretend to be dumb? Perhaps he should...

...perhaps he should look the fuck away from that tempting mouth, holy Christ on a stick—

"You're sending me some real mixed signals here, cariño."

"Really?" Finney feigns innocence. Just because Robin doesn't know how to act around him doesn't mean he can't tell when he's being a little shit. "And here I thought I was being clear as day."

As a cherry on top, he wraps his lips around the offending utensil.

People can die from heart attacks, can't they? Finney should be arrested for making so many attempts on Robin's life, honestly.

Robin thinks he'll die happy if he never has to see another spoon in his entire life.

He also thinks it could be replaced with something much, much better.

"Clear as day my ass," Robin all but growls, seizing Finney's jaw and smashing their lips together.

All of Robin’s inhibitions go out of the window as soon as the taste of mint-chocolate overlaps with another, majorly anticipated one. Kissing Finney will never not be an all-consuming experience, he fears, not with how natural it is to envelop the other in his arms, one hand cradling the back of his head.

They’ve gotten good at this. It takes one try to get the angle just so, lips aligned flawlessly to move in perfect tandem, drawing enthusiastic sounds from both sides.

Practice truly does make perfect, he muses.

It comes off as no surprise when he inevitably lets his guard down, allowing Finney to climb into his lap in a mimicry of their other rendezvous on the very same couch. Eager hands cup his face to pull him closer, deeper, and he goes— he goes because Finney’s telling him to and Robin would gladly fall to his knees and worship the ground he walked on if that was what the other boy desired.

After an instant, the two break away from each other to gulp in lungfuls of air. Robin uses the moment as a chance to take in the sight of his boyfriend, spectacular in its ability to render his brain into useless, mushy substance.

Many changes have taken place over the relentless flow of seasons; his hair, for one thing. It’s grown longer, curlier, darker in shade. It fits his face well, better still after he’s lost the baby fat clinging to his pudgy, adolescent cheeks. There is some still, maintaining his boyish charm, but his features are sharper and more mature in visage, almost fae-like in their ethereal nature.

All things considered, it’s safe to say that these not-so-recent developments succeeded in causing Robin excruciating amounts of pain. His only advantage was that Finney, sweet, clueless Finney, was never aware of his own allure.

That little saving grace is very quickly swept under the rug when Finney bats his eyelashes coyly, breathing against Robin’s lips like some fucking male version of a femme fatale.

"Gonna take me to your bed this time?"

That minx.

To shut him up, Robin kisses him harder. He revels in the little yelp Finney lets out when he stands up with the other boy still in his lap, arms encircling a trim waist and shaking thighs.

Finney doesn't put up a fight. His face is hot where it's pressed against Robin's neck, and it warms considerably when he presses him into a wall in the hallway, stealing a kiss that turns into three before he remembers himself and their initial destination.

Their journey to Robin's room suffers only three more stops like this, each one growing more and more heated and longer in its duration. They laugh in between Finney urging him to hurry up and Robin telling him off, and it's—fun, in a way he didn't expect something like this to be.

Jovial spirits bubbling around them, Robin takes special care to deposit Finney on his bed as gently as possible. The other huffs at the excessive amount of caution in Robin’s movements, but doesn’t otherwise react.

Treating Finney with the utmost care had always come naturally to him, but the instinct is especially palpable now, given their position. It gives Finney no choice but to look up at him, long lashes casting dark shadows on his cheeks, face open and vulnerable and waiting.

In his younger years, Robin’s always been vaguely aware that his best friend was, for the lack of a better word, pretty. It was hard not to notice, what with the big, dark doe eyes and the fluffy mop of hair that just begged to be touched.

As they grew older, it only became harder to ignore the way Finney had morphed into a full-blown butterfly right before his eyes.

Height differences became more significant—not by much, mind you, Robin still has a couple of rather impressive inches to his name—and where Robin got bulkier in frame, Finney's retained his athletic slimness from doing sports activities.

Safe to say, half of Robin‘s puberty was spent hiding awkward boners and hoping to God Finney was oblivious enough to miss the immodest thoughts plaguing every waking moment of Robin’s existence.

Now? He’s more than keen on showing Finney every single fantasy he’s been the main star of, which is, needless to say, a big majority of them.

Finney on his part is clearly enjoying himself. He’s capturing Robin’s mouth with every chance he gets, when he’s not clumsily shuffling out of his pants and shirt or pawing at Robin’s belt.

It’s cute. Endearing, even, and most of all it gets Robin all kinds of hot and bothered when Finney snaps at him to take off his clothes before he decides they’re going to do it fully covered.

Huh. Who would have thought his space boy was the bossy type in bed. Robin’s certainly not complaining, though.

They make short work of undressing each other, giggling with each article of clothing thrown onto the floor. Lips glued to lips, it takes until they’re both shirtless for Robin to take a moment of respite and look.

Laid out beneath him, bare in all his glory, Finney looks like a dream. Miles of smooth, unblemished pale skin stretch in all directions, making Robin’s mouth water. He’s not an animal, goddammit, but the marks he left on Finney’s neck are still visible, if a bit pale in colour, and he’s itching to add more to them.

So that’s exactly what he does. He latches onto Finney’s throat, sucking gently and relishing the moan Finney releases. The sound is sweet, debauched and needy all at once, and it goes straight to Robin’s cock.

Finney pushes up against him, impatient hands tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. His hips lift up from the mattress, seeking friction that Robin’s body is all too eager to provide.

He’s panting hotly into Finney’s neck by the time the other reaches for his last remaining garments. The feeling of slender fingers tugging at his boxers snaps him out of his reverie.

He surges up, one hand grabbing at Finney’s wrist none too gently.

"Do you really want this?"

It’s important that he asks. It’s important that Finn tells him.

He loves Finn; has for a long time. He’d be a fool not to. He knows that this, theoretically, doesn’t have to be a big deal. They can continue where they’ve left off and finish what they started.

But Robin’s always prided himself in his unwavering resolution and ability to be honest, even at the cost of one’s ego. And right now, he knows that to him, this is going to be one of the biggest deals of his life for a long, long time.

So he grits his teeth as another wave of arousal hits him and stares firmly into Finney’s dilated pupils, hoping, praying that his brain won’t short-circuit before he gets a chance to hear the answer.

He also prays that Finney will forgive him for not wining-and-dining him first, or the distinct lack of rose petals on the bed and lit, scented candles all over the room, but from the look on his face, Finney doesn’t seem to mind.

He’s regarding Robin with a thoughtful look, gaze searching, no longer as heated but still intense.

"What about me looks like I don't want this, Robin?"

"Please," Robin pleads, voice cracking, "I just need to hear you say it."

Finney’s expression softens. He brings the hand that’s still in Robin's grasp to his face, cupping it gently, thumb stroking over his cheek. Robin turns his head so he can press a fleeting kiss to his palm, fingers traveling across his delicate wrist to envelop his hand in his own.

"I want this, Robin." He turns earnest, almost shy. "I want you to make love to me. Please?"

Robin kisses his bare shoulder. "Yes," he breathes, an unbeknown weight lifting from his chest.

After that, it’s all a blur of discarded garments, knobby knees and pointy elbows narrowly avoiding each other’s sensitive body parts. At some point, Robin gives Finney a stern order not to squirm around so much, to which Finney complies surprisingly easily.

Huh. Oh, well— Robin’s certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

From there, Robin lets his instincts take over. He makes his way down Finney’s body, indicating each landmark on his path with dark, purple bruises. Finney nudges him away when he tries to go for his neck again, but other places seem to be acceptable.

It’s a learning experience for both of them, Robin reminds himself. And learn he does; he finds out that kissing over Finney’s chest is fine, but his ribs are ticklish. His flat stomach will rumble when given attention, and Finney’s face will flush in embarrassment. In turn, biting his hipbone is an extremely effective way to distract him from the mortification.

Robin pauses when he reaches Finney’s crotch. They haven’t exactly discussed how they were going to do this, but he figured going with the flow was the main idea for tonight.

Still, he lifts his head up to meet Finney’s gaze, seeking permission. The other male is staring down at him, eyes half-lidded and already panting from exertion.

"Tell me if I do something you don't like."

"...Okay." Finney gives Robin a demure nod, head burrowing deeper into Robin’s pillows like he’s trying to hide.

That's all it takes for Robin's cock to twitch in interest. God, everything about him looks properly disheveled and they’ve only just started.

Robin trusts Finney to tell him if anything he did made him uncomfortable, but this is their first time. So he gracefully moves further down, resuming in his quest to find all the spots that make Finney’s voice go high and breathy.

A decision he applauds himself for, after Finney lets out the loudest moan he’s ever heard. His hand flies up to muffle the sound, but not before Robin catches it.

“Don’t,” he rasps, “I want to hear you.”

Chest heaving, Finney wordlessly lets his arm fall back onto the mattress, instead opting to fist the sheets in a white-knuckled grip. Robin presses a chaste kiss to the back of his knee in approval before diving back in.

It doesn’t take long before he has Finney gasping for air, half-formed pleas spilling from his lips in an endless stream of whimpers. His thighs are trembling with each mark Robin sucks into them, working his way up, up, until Finney’s legs are automatically closing around his head, kept open only by Robin’s strong grip on them.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. Robin wants to devour him.

“Come here,” Finney begs sweetly. “Wanna kiss you, please.”

And what other choice does Robin have, truly, than to gently dislodge Finney’s legs from his shoulders and climb up so he can lap at that perfectly curved cupid’s bow?

Finney’s grown tired of being a passive participant, apparently, because he hooks one leg over Robin’s waist, undulating his hips voraciously. Robin almost chokes on a whine, only intensified by Finney’s answering one.

His head’s gone all fuzzy, filled with cotton and the image of Finney’s blissed out expression. The feeling of their bodies moving together is all too suddenly overwhelming, and with rising terror, Robin recognizes his own signs of reaching the finish line.

Oh fuck no.

Shit, not now. Finney’s barely even touched him, how the fuck is he this close—!?

“C’mon,” very unhelpfully, Finney chooses this moment to speak up, “I’m not made of glass.”

He reaches for the hard line in Robin’s pants, making his heart jump in his throat.

Barely resisting Finney’s attempts at goading him into action, Robin pins his hips down so he can’t squirm away—or closer, the way he’s been trying to.

"Wait, wait—" he gasps, "Finn, stop."

"Wha— What's wrong?" Finney ceases struggling, brows furrowed in concern.

Fuck. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

They both sit up after Robin subsequently scrambles away from the other boy, his head in his hands.

"Robin, did I do something wrong?"

"No no, you did nothing wrong," he groans. "You were perfect."

"Then what—"

"Finn," Robin warns, "if you touch me right now, I'm going to burst."

"...Oh," Finney says, dumbly. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Yeah! Uh. Yeah. No worries. We can just... " he trails off uncertainly. "You can just take your time, yeah."

"Thanks."

Robin takes a second to try and gather himself. It's no use— his own dick has betrayed him and is now punishing him for his own stupidity. In retrospect, it's no wonder he was about to blow his load so quickly when he's been this pent up and had Finney moaning in his ear like a fucking pornstar.

Speaking of which— Finney's studying him with a contemplative look, far too piercing and clinical to be appropriate for the situation, Robin thinks. He leans back, legs falling open, one hand slithering its way down his belly.

"....What are you doing?"

Robin stares at him, eyes roaming over his body hungrily.

Finney catches his gaze and holds it, burning charcoal boring into fiery amber from beneath long lashes. He's not outright laughing at Robin—he knows Finney would never—but he does get the feeling that he's being taunted.

Somehow, it doesn't bother him as much as he thinks it should.

"You said not to touch you," the blond smirks, coy and provocative all at once. "You never said I couldn't touch myself."

He takes himself in hand and strokes experimentally, gasping at the pleasure it presumably sends up his spine. Head thrown back and toes curling, one hand clutching at the pillow cushioning his head, he sets an achingly slow pace, grip on the looser side.

Robin, perched on the edge of the bed, fights the urge to eat Finney alive. With each moan tumbling from his lips, he feels his resolution slowly slip away.

Finally, it snaps completely when Finney's eyelids flutter shut and—

"Robin," he whines out, for fuck's sake, breathless and oh so lovely it makes Robin burn.

It takes him exactly one second to climb over his partner, slotting himself in between his legs. Finney halts his movements and gives him an appraising look.

"Are you done getting your shit together?"

"Are you done being a brat?"

Finney pretends to think. "Hmm..." he hums. "No. No, I don't think I am."

"Good."

Robin seizes his wrists with one hand, ignoring the surprised gasp he lets out, and presses them into the mattress above his head. His other hand is already reaching down to grasp at the meat of Finney’s thigh—pale, slender legs automatically wrapping around his waist.

“Robin—”

“I’m going to fucking ruin you.” He emphasizes the words with a sharp thrust, the tight fabric of his jeans dragging along his trapped member and Finney’s exposed one, making them both groan.

The confines of his pants are uncomfortable, have been for a while, but the friction is so good Robin can’t bring himself to stop.

Especially not after Finney keens “Yes, please,” and lifts his hips to meet Robin’s thrusts. His rhythm stutters in favour of drinking in the sight of Finney Blake, eyes heavily lidded, lips kiss-swollen and golden hair spread out on Robin’s pillow like a halo.

He’s so beautiful it makes Robin’s chest swell with an emotion he’s too scared to say out loud, let alone confess in the confined space between their bodies.

Instead, he swallows Finney’s next whimper, tongue running over the roof of his mouth, the back of his teeth, twining with his.

After a while, they come up for air, pulling a hair's breadth away to gulp in much needed oxygen. They’re both panting and hard and ready when Finney asks;

“Are you gonna take off those pants or should I do it?”

And Robin is so, so weak and almost worryingly turned on, and he’s got one of the prettiest boys he’s ever laid eyes on in his bed, sweet and impatient and moaning for him.

So he shouldn’t be blamed for the speed with which he rids himself of his remaining clothes, or the things he does that night to make Finney bite his pillows in futile attempts to muffle his cries.

It's alright. They have the whole house for themselves tomorrow as well and nowhere to be. And if they wake up and do it all over again?

Well, that's between them and Robin's neighbours, who give him dirty looks the next time he catches sight of them. He shoots them a bright grin in response, completely unbothered. Why would he be? He only went out to get some groceries, and has no intentions of loitering around.

After all, he has the finest boy in town sated and snoozing in his bed after he'd successfully made him pass out, and who'll most likely wake up complaining of being sticky and sore.

The least Robin can do, he muses, is make him breakfast.

Finney's wakefulness comes to him in segments.

First, he registers the cold bite of air nipping at his exposed skin. It's Sunday, which means he doesn't feel a single ounce of guilt for snuggling back into the warm covers.

His hearing and smell come to him next. The dreamy fog clouding his mind lifts with the delicious aroma of pancakes and coffee wafting into the room, making his mouth water.

It's not his father, his mind provides helpfully. He hasn't cooked for them in years. It can't be Gwen either, because there's no lingering odor of burnt food.

Robin.

Memories from last night play themselves out in his mind like a film tape. All at once, Finney's up and more awake than he's ever been in his whole life.

Oh. So they... they really did that.

Woah.

He doesn't remember passing out. It probably happened somewhere between Finney telling Robin to keep going and Robin telling him that he looks unfairly pretty when he cries.

Finney smothers his face with a pillow to hide his blush. It doesn't help that it smells like Robin. It also doesn't help that it bears some quite prominent tear stains—

Must have been the one he was abusing last night.

"I may be new to this whole thing, but I'm pretty sure some people would consider it insulting if their date tried to suffocate themselves the morning after."

Finney nearly gets a whiplash from the speed with which he flings the pillow across the room. It doesn't make it far, landing at the foot of the bed.

Robin greets him with an amused smile. He's fully dressed for the day, hair mused and posture relaxed. Finney sits up to face him better, sheets pooling around his waist.

"Hi."

Robin's eyes slide down Finney's body. If he weren't already exposed, he'd say the other was undressing him with his gaze.

"Hello yourself."

Hastily, Finney pulls the blanket around his shoulders. It's to stave off the cold, he reasons, because feeling shy from Robin's intense look would just be absurd after all they'd done.

Robin, ever the gentleman, doesn't comment on it. He crosses the room in three long strides, cupping Finney's face with a gentle hand.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," Finney hums. He takes a quick, mental stock of his body.

There are some bruises he can feel forming where Robin gripped his flesh a bit too hard, but nothing too bad. His throat is dry, which is a common occurrence in the mornings, so he brushes that aside as well.

Overall, he's feeling pleasantly sore—better than he has in a while.

"How long have you been up?"

"Not too long," Robin leans in to nuzzle at Finney's temple, "I made you some breakfast."

"I'm not really hungry."

"We can eat later." He kisses the corner of Finney's lips. For both their sakes, Finney hopes they're not going to start anything before he has a chance to brush his teeth.

"Come lie down with me?"

"Of course."

The pair settles on the bed, Finney draping himself unceremoniously over Robin's chest. He's like a furnace, Finney thinks, always running hot no matter the season.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright?" Robin mumbles into his hair. "I wasn't too rough, was I?"

There's an edge to Robin's voice that sounds too much like uncertainty, and that simply won't do.

"Trust me. If you were, I'd let you know." To further assert his point, he presses a close-mouthed kiss on the other's lips. "You were perfect, Robin. Thank you."

It's both equally funny and alarming how quickly Robin's cheeks turn red. He turns his head away and grumbles something under his breath, clearly embarrassed.

Finney kind of wants to marry him.

With Robin's arms secured around him and his strong heartbeat pounding beneath Finney's hands, he thinks maybe someday, he will.