Chapter Twenty-Two

Finn

Now

Thanksgiving. The first year he’d celebrated the all-American holiday away from his family he’d treated himself to a sad truck stop version of the sacred meal, only to puke it up hours later when he’d chased it with a bottle of some no-brand bourbon. The following years he’d avoided any and all holidays that even remotely reminded him of what he’d had and lost. No need to dig himself even deeper into that hole of misery and regret. Some days, he hardly felt human anymore, avoiding everything that made him a member of their so-called superior species. Why not be like a beast instead? They didn’t give a fuck about days, months, and years one way or the other. Their instinctual urge to survive and reproduce was all that drove them onwards, day after day, year after year. And since Finn had no intention of reproducing anytime soon, if ever, it became survival that his entire world revolved around.

And there was something simple and freeing about that, everything else fading away. No past, no present, just the here and now. If he was hungry, he went looking for food. If he was tired, he slept. It didn’t matter what time of day it was or where exactly he happened to be. There was always a small bridge that he could huddle up under if it was raining, and if the sun was out and the weather mild, he would find a field or clearing and just lie down. When he ran out of money, he went searching for a job. There were always the kind of jobs that didn’t require papers. Where no one asked questions as long as you didn’t ask any in return. As long as you could use your hands and didn’t mind getting a little dirty and working when everyone else was asleep.

Over the years, he’d encountered an entirely different America than the one he’d become used to in Oregon. An America he, of course, knew existed. That he’d been born into, but that he’d been lucky enough to escape. How easy it is to forget how the other half lived when you were no longer part of that half. When your feet were suddenly touching the greener grass, your belly was full, and the yelling retreated. But then they’d been back, the blank faces with the hollow eyes and he’d been just another ghost among them, no name, no past, no purpose.

And now it was Thanksgiving again, and for the first time in eight years, it meant something because he was someone again. He was going somewhere, with someone to go there with. Apparently, it was a tradition that Vernon, the good-natured diner owner, cooked up a storm, and everyone who wanted to or had nowhere else to be was welcome.

“You wanna go?” Hank had asked him last night, Finn’s head resting against his thick warm thigh, the worn denim soft against his cheek. It had been no easy task to reply, the yes turning into a gurgled noise instead. It was quite a challenge to speak when his mouth was preoccupied elsewhere, his lips stretched, wrapped around Hank’s soft, flaccid cock, cradling it against his tongue. With the bittersweet aftertaste of Hank’s cum pooling in his belly, he’d felt tired suddenly, sated. And somehow, it had seemed impossible to release himself from Hank’s cock. Like his entire life depended on that physical connection with the other man. And Hank hadn’t seemed to mind, one hand brushing through Finn’s sweaty hair absentmindedly, the other resting between Finn’s sticky thighs, two fat fingers buried deep inside Finn’s well-fucked hole.

It struck him with a newfound clarity that things with Hank were different. Fundamentally different. Because Finn had never allowed anyone of his previous sexual partners to touch him like this, usually out the door before the condom came off. He’d never been a cuddler, avoiding intimacy at all costs, following sex. He was a get-your-cock-inside-me-leave-your-load-and-get-the-fuck-lost kinda guy. It wasn’t like him to be this needy, this clingy. Fuck, he’d hardly recognized the succession of sounds spilling from his lips a few minutes earlier when Hank had shifted beneath him, stretching to reach for the remote, and he’d almost— almost —removed his fingers from Finn’s hole. It’d felt like someone had torn off one of his limbs, the emptiness bordering on unbearable.

Hank had just chuckled good-naturedly, restarting the WWI documentary that’d been interrupted for the third night in a row, this time a few minutes into the Battle of the Somme. Pathetically, he’d melted into the couch, Hank’s index finger brushing repeatedly against that sensitive spot inside him, while the French and the British fought the Germans on both sides of the Somme River. Hank had joked that Finn could soon earn a master’s degree in whining with a minor in whimpering, causing Finn to laugh so hard around his cock that he’d nearly choked on it. What a way to go that would’ve been. Death by cockwarming. Yeah, he could think of worse ways to leave this planet.

Right now, as they’d just entered the buzzing diner, Henry waving at them from the other end of the room, it was hard to remember that there had been a time when he’d been able to convince himself that he didn’t need anyone. Because it was becoming frighteningly clear to him that there were more and more times during the day that he needed Hank. When he would make up excuses to run the few yards over to the shop to ask Hank some made-up bullshit question. And Hank didn’t seem to mind, his eyes always lighting up when he saw him, those delicious crow’s feet crinkling at the corners as he patiently answered Finn’s question like it was the sole purpose of his existence.

“There you are,” Henry beamed, flanked by a scowling Colton, who was doing a poor attempt at folding napkins into… swans? Or turkeys, maybe. It was, after all, Thanksgiving.

“Henry,” Hank nodded, heading straight for his nephew, placing his right hand—the very same hand that had gotten Finn off this morning in the shower in a record-breaking one minute and then some—on Colton’s shoulder, squeezing it fondly. Hank’s face lit up as he took in his nephew, his hazel eyes growing just a tad more golden. An irrational feeling of jealousy flashed through Finn’s chest before it transformed into shame. Hank wasn’t his. Never would be.

“Now, what the heck did she get you up to now?” Hank nodded at the line-up of crippled paper birds on the counter.

“Don’t ask,” Colton groaned, adjusting a paper wing that kept flapping to the side.

“Swans?” Hank nodded at the sad collection of birds.

“More like dodos,” Henry chuckled, blowing a kiss at the now mean-looking ex-soldier.

“They’re turkeys,” Colton mumbled. “Til insisted.” So, they were turkeys. Neat. “Besides, where the hell’ve you been?” He looked straight at Hank. “You’re late. Vernon’s been askin’ about you. You are, after all, his designated gravy taster.“ Now, why did that sound fucking filthy? Then again, everything seemed to have an underlying sexual meaning these days.

Perhaps Hank thought so, too, because a faint blush spread across his cheeks, disappearing behind his scruffy beard, and a phantom itchy sensation exploded across Finn’s thighs. The skin was all fucked up. In a good way, though. A map of rosy rivers and violet valleys. Scratches left behind by Hank’s beard intermingled with bite marks and hickeys. He doubted that the sensitive skin on his inner thighs would ever be normal-looking again. Fuck, he hoped it wouldn’t. He preferred it like this; a landscape forever changed by a devastating storm passing through.

“Something came up,” Finn blurted. Henry sent him a curious grin before walking in his direction, linking his arm with Finn’s like they were two schoolgirls.

“Things come up all the time.” Henry winked at him. A few inches shorter than Finn, there was still a presence about the younger man that invaded the entire room whenever he was near. He’d noticed around town, too. At the shops or in the streets, people naturally gravitated toward Henry. He could see why. He was all fucking sunshine and roses, wasn’t he? This small-town wholesomeness just oozing from him. “I’m just gonna steal this one.” Henry gave Hank a knowing look. Oh God, if he was going to be subjected to the Nebraskan version of The Joker’s Wild, he needed a drink first. Or two. He was nowhere near ready for the dreaded question that he knew—just fucking knew—was coming his way in a few minutes. So, what’s up with you and Hank? Yes, what was indeed up with him and Hank?

“I’ll head to the kitchen, then,” Hank murmured with a neutral nod, a silent, ‘ you gonna be okay with this lot?’ directed at Finn.

“See ya, Hank,” Henry said and waved his fingers as he headed for the door to the kitchen reluctantly. “Let’s help Tilly set the table.” Henry nodded to the center of the large room, his right arm still linked with Finn’s. All the smaller tables had been rearranged into one long table, stretching down the diner. There was room for at least twenty people, if not more. Burnt orange tablecloths had replaced the standard red and white checkered ones, and stacks of white dinner plates were placed at the end of the table.

“Okay.” Finn swallowed around the lump in his throat. For a minute he felt like an intruder, like someone who’d snuck in on someone else’s Thanksgiving and was bound to be discovered and thrown out at any minute. Then he felt Henry’s hand on his shoulder.

“I know. It’s a lot. But it’s Tilly. Just embrace it and go with it. The love.” Finn found himself relaxing, the tightening sensation in his chest loosening a little. “Her kids aren’t home from college this year. So, we’re all gonna feel the proxy mamma love tonight,” he laughed.

“Okay. Thanks, man.”

“Sure. If you put out the plates, I’ll go grab some of those dodos.” Turning around, Henry headed for the counter where Colton was diligently counting his bird battalion. Squeezing his fiancé from behind, the younger guy murmured something into Colton’s ear and a rosy blush spread across the giant’s cheeks. For a second, a dull pain swept through Finn’s chest, and he longed to go find Hank in the kitchen and just… They wouldn’t have to touch. He just wanted to be near him, to feel the solid warmth emanating from Hank’s body. That would be enough.

“Here we go.” Henry unloaded an armful of paper birds on the table. “No, my man has many talents, but folding paper birds ain’t one of them,” he mused.

“They’re… unique,” Finn smiled.

“They’re butt ugly, that’s what they are.” Henry shook his head, staring besotted at a deranged paper turkey. Finn grabbed a stack of plates and started placing them at small intervals in front of each chair. Moss-green candles were placed in the middle of the table in brass candle holders, twigs of holly with red berries serving as decoration too. A kind of meditative state took over as he carefully made his way down along the table to the soft voice of Crystal Gayle in the background. ‘ Don’t it make my brown eyes blue.’ He’d always wondered about that when he was a child. If he could somehow, someway, make his dull, muddy-brown eyes a perfect bright blue like the rest of his family. It had seemed so important back then to look the same as Cara and their parents. That no one would be able to tell that Finn was an imposter, stealing a part of a life that had never been his to take.

Just when Finn thought he was home safe, Henry preoccupied with inspecting the wine glasses, the dreaded words breached the silence. “So, what’s the dealio with you and Grumpy Senior?” Fuck.

“What?” That’s it, Finn. You can do it. Play ignorant.

“Hank. What’s up with you and Hank?” Henry insisted, his clear blue eyes lingering on Finn.

“Um… nothing. Just… you know…” Grabbing a couple of water glasses, Finn started placing them in front of each plate.

“Oh. Okay,” Henry hummed, turning a glass in his hand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Henry trailed after him, placing a paper dodo on top of each plate and cutlery at the sides. “It’s just… I haven’t seen Hank this happy in a long time and I just figured… you know?” He shrugged, stopping next to Finn. Swallowing, Finn adjusted a plate, sucking in a breath before replying.

“We’ve become friends, I guess. He’s a nice man.” Nice. Hank was a lot of things and the word nice seemed lame and insufficient. Hank was fucking hot and ruthless when he fucked Finn, whether it was with his fat fingers, thick tongue, or his fucking glorious cock. He was all fleshy and soft, that woodsy smell enough to make Finn come in his pants. He loved how Hank was all quiet when they fucked, that focused, concentrated frown between his gray brows, like he was solving some age-old mathematical problem. Like he was trying to measure out how he could hit Finn’s prostate with the perfect amount of force at the exact right angle. But it wasn’t just about the sex. It was more than that. Hank was this ever-present calm that swept over him when they lay on the couch at night. With his deep hums and his absentminded fingers trailing up and down Finn’s back in soothing, circular movements as they watched another WWI documentary, losing themselves in the monotonous voice of the British narrator. Losing themselves in the company of the other, the light from the TV flashing across their content faces in the dark.

“Yeah, he’s a good guy. Saved Colton when he came back from the war. Wouldn’t let him fall apart. I’ll never forget that,” Henry nodded, a moist sheen to his eyes, turning the blue watery.

He saved me, too, Finn wanted to add. And it almost looked like Henry, too, was waiting for Finn to say those exact words, a curious smile tugging at his lips.

“There you boys are.” Tilly hurried toward them, a broad smile on her face. “Now, look at that little birdy,” she chirped, picking up one of Colton’s battered turkeys. “Ain’t he just a funny-looking fella, this one?” she laughed. “Oh, and look at this little guy?” She cooed, picking up the bird’s even uglier twin. Placing the two birds in the center of the table, she adjusted their—beaks?—slightly, taking them in, arms crossed across her chest. “Don’t they just look cute together, boys? Like two little lovebirds, dontcha think?” Brushing at her right eye, she squeezed Henry’s shoulder. “He did good, your man.” If Finn didn’t know that it was physically impossible, he could’ve sworn that the veterinarian grew a few inches as he, too, took in the pair of perfectly imperfect birds.

*****

“Well, you’re practically a Nebraskan now,” Hank hummed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down from swallowing the beer.

“Yeah? How so?” They were sitting on the porch, staring out into the dark, the outline of the pine trees only a faint shadow against the sky. As their white breath danced in front of them, Finn felt the weariness from a long day ending with a Thanksgiving dinner filled with townsfolk settling in his bones.

“Surviving one of Til’s dinners, mingling with townies, sitting next to Pastor Midlake’s wife, of all people… Jeez, that woman can talk. Til ain’t got nothin’ on her. You get the whole family tree, too?”

“Yeah, all the cousins and the great-grandfather from Sweden.”

“You did good, kid.” Hank nodded, his boots resting on the porch railing in front of them.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Dietrich,” Finn smiled ceremoniously. “I feel different, too,” he teased. “Born again Nebraskan and all.” Hank chimed in with a deep, hearty laugh before taking another sip.

For a few minutes, the quiet of the late November night stretched out between them as they sipped their beer. Imagine December was just around the corner. He couldn’t help but wonder if Hank had a Christmas tree. He kind of hoped that he did. As overwhelming as tonight had been, he’d felt mostly comfortable, placed right across from Hank at the table, feeling his familiar hazel eyes grounding him whenever he felt himself drifting. Finn couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the company of that many people. Well, he could. It’d been Cara’s eighteenth birthday and his mom had gone all in, inviting friends and family from near and far. He’d never been a fan of social gatherings like that, preferring when it was just him and his parents and Cara. But somehow tonight had been different. Every time he’d felt the panic rise inside of him, his gaze had searched and found Hank’s across the table, and he’d felt this invisible power grounding him immediately, preventing him from spinning out of control. Like two blocks of lead were tethered to his ankles, making it impossible for him to drift off like he usually would.

“You should open a clinic, young man,” the pastor’s wife had cooed mid-pumpkin pie. “Or go into business with young Henry.” It wasn’t the first time that people around town had made similar suggestions.

“You should take it as a compliment,” Hank had told him once when he’d recounted being flanked by Ms. Costa in the dairy section. “If they didn’t want ya to stick around, you’d know. Folk around town ain’t subtle about these things.” Do you want me to stick around? He’d wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to put Hank on the spot like that.

“How come you aren’t home, Finn? With your people.” Hank shifted next to him, his beer-scented breath hitting him.

“I… I don’t know.” At one point, he’d known, but with time, the reasons had blurred together. That night in the car. The increasing desperation in Cara’s voice when she realized she couldn’t feel her legs. That day in the hospital when the doctor had given them his two cents of wisdom that always—no matter how you looked at it—amounted to the conclusion that Cara would never walk, run, and dance again. Not ever. And then, those small fragments of a conversation that he wished to God that he’d never overheard. ‘I don’t know if I can. Every time I look at him… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive…’ You couldn’t forgive something like that. That was the reason, wasn’t it? They couldn’t.

“You must miss them, is all,” Hank muttered, playing with the label on his beer. He felt fear rising inside. Had Hank not meant it when he’d offered he could stay for the winter? Was he done with him, bored with him, by now?

“Look, if you want me gone, all you have to do is say so, and I’ll be out of your hair.” Anger. That was better. Anger always felt so much better than fear. Fear was all-consuming, whereas anger was fleeting, and afterward he always felt this strange sense of relief. Never lasted long, though.

“Now, don’t be stupid, kid. Why would I want ya gone? What kinda dumb-ass question is that?” There was no annoyance in Hank’s voice. He spoke the words quietly, matter-of-factly. Some days Finn wondered if Hank could even get mad or if it was a concept so foreign to him that he couldn’t muster that feeling. Another thing that made him like Hank even more. He never raised his voice in anger. He never yelled. “I was just wondering, is all.” And there it was again, wasn’t it? The vulnerability that just spoke to the vulnerability inside Finn. The lilt in Hank’s voice that made him raw, and wanted him to tell Hank about himself. The small hum that made Finn want to shed this skin of pretend and the bullshit I’m fines.

“My sister Cara is— was —a dancer,” he started. “And… she wasn’t just a dancer, you know. No, it was more than that. She had this God-given gift, you know. When she moved across the stage, you’d forget everything else around you. Only the music and her slight figure blowing, twirling, flying across the floor would matter. Like she’d set you free with one small dip of her chin or sway of her hand.” Taking another sip of his beer, he spoke out into the night.

“Cara is ten years younger than me. I’m adopted. My parents had long given up hope of having a child of their own when they adopted me. And then, ten years later, Cara came along and from the day she was born—fuck, even before that—she became everything to me. Like this shining star, you know. Mine to hold, to love, to keep. To protect,” he croaked. She had been, hadn’t she? Everything had felt like a new beginning after she was born. Like with one stroke of an invisible paintbrush, everything was wiped clean. Poof, it’s gone.

“Was?” Hank whispered next to him. “What happened to her?”

“I looked away. One night, eight years ago, for one stupid moment, I looked away and…” A hollow laugh escaped him, the image of that night so vivid, so clear in his mind. “I came away with a few scars, you know. Just… just cuts and bruises here and there.” Brushing at the pale scar across his eyebrow, bile rose from his stomach, the sour taste reaching his mouth. “Cara wasn’t that lucky. She was paralyzed from the waist down.”

“Finn…”

“No, not you, too, Hank. I don’t want to hear those fucking words coming out of your mouth. Not from you. That’s not who we are.” He sensed Hank nodding next to him, then his heavy palm landed on his thigh, a simple gesture instead of the words he wasn’t allowed to speak.

“So, you just left?”

“I did.”

“And you’ve never spoken to any of them again?”

“No. It was… The accident changed everything. Like there’s a before when everything was just… I don’t know… golden . Right . And then, in a split-second, everything was just flipped over, and I woke up to an entirely different reality.”

“Yeah, I get that. But accidents happen, kid.”

“I know. But I was the one driving. I was the one who looked away.”

“Finn…” Hank’s hand squeezed around his thigh, a silent message penetrating his jeans. An almost unbearable itch spread across his skin. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve Hank’s understanding. Why was he always so fucking understanding?

“Cara will never walk again, run again, dance again, because of me!” He got up from the chair, pacing to the other end of the porch. “She was supposed to go to New York. She had a fucking scholarship. She was the most vibrant, beautiful creature, and then I took it all away from her. I was like that fucking… that bird that doesn’t belong. Somehow, it sneaked its way into the nest, pretending to be something it’s not, something it was never born to be, and then…”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” Hank rose from his chair, closing the few steps between them.

“For fuck’s sake, Hank! What did I tell you? Not from you. You think I don’t know that? But it doesn’t matter. The result is the same, isn’t it? Cara will never dance again, and it’s because of me. Me! I took her dream away from her. No matter how you look at it, I’m the one who looked away. Shit happens when you look away, and now I gotta live with the consequences.” His words came out in pants now, and he wanted to hit, kick, smash something. Claw at Hank’s empathic face with his bare hands and scratch at his kind eyes that were now spilling over with sympathy.

“Don’t you think that it’s a harsh punishment? To live on your own like that. To sentence yourself to a life without your family.”

“No. It’s not anywhere near being sufficient.”

“And your sister? Your folks?”

“What about them?”

“Aren’t you punishing them too, by leaving and staying away?” He hated the truth in Hank’s words, echoing a question he’d asked himself again and again over the years.

“They’re better off,” he whispered, turning away from Hank and his overwhelming presence. He didn’t want his words, his comfort, his touch. He didn’t want his absolution.

“What now?” He didn’t have to face Hank to know that he’d stepped closer, that inexplicable connection, that odd string between them, pulling at him.

“I said they’re better off. Look, Hank, I’m grateful—” He nearly lost his balance as two hands landed on his waist and turned him effortlessly. Forcefully.

“Don’t give me that crap, kid. I’m too old for that. I don’t want your gratitude.”

“No? What do you want then? Another go at my ass?” Finn spat, well aware that this man, who’d been nothing but kind to him, didn’t deserve his crude words. And yet, he was unable to stop himself.

“Don’t be like that. This ain’t about me, Finn. It’s about you and what you’re doing to yourself. You’re punishing yourself for somethin’ that ain’t your fault.” As calm as Hank’s voice remained, his grip around Finn’s waist was steady, his fingers digging into his obliques and as much as he hated it—hated himself for it—he felt himself getting hard.

“I swear to God, Hank, if you say that one more time, I’m…” His entire body shivered by now, and he loathed himself for just wanting to lean against the broad warm chest in front of him and just let it take some of this weight off him. Just for a second.

“You’re what? You’re gonna take a swing at me? Or you’re gonna leave?” Wiggling free, he stepped backward, his shins connecting with the railing as he pointed an accusing finger between them.

“Jesus fucking Christ. And what about you? What about you, old man?” He spat.

“What about me?”

“Aren’t you punishing yourself, too? Living like a fucking… living in the shadows of him .“ He knew it was a low blow bringing Eugene into this, but he felt cornered, like a rabid dog, trying to fight its way out.

“This ain’t about me,” Hank repeated quietly, and if it hadn’t been for the darkening in his hazel eyes, Finn would’ve thought that Hank was unaffected by his words. “You can’t make this about me just by mentioning my grief, my pain.” Hank slammed a hand against his chest, just above his heart. “And you’re right. I have been punishing myself. For living when he ain’t. For getting older when he won’t. Heck, for smilin’ when he can’t. When he won’t ever again. And that’s wrong. I see that now. I don’t wanna do that anymore.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not you, Hank. Sometimes it’s just not possible to see the silver lining, I guess. Perhaps you can make it work, day in and day out, going about your small-town life, but I can’t. I’m not that good at pretending.”

“Does that usually work for you? I guess it must have, in the past, since you do it?” Hank brushed at his beard, taking Finn in.

“What?” he spat.

“Pushing people away. Seeing how far you can push them before they make up their minds that you’re not worth it.”

“Oh, what? Now you suddenly have a fucking psychology degree, is that it?” Fuck, he was relentless, wasn’t he? So relentless, this small-town mind reader.

“You see, the thing is, it won’t work. Not with me. There ain’t nothin’ you can say or do to push me away. Because I know the real you. I see the real you and this ain’t it. So, you can quit with the whole asshole act. The whole me-against-the-world crap. It won’t work.”

“Is that so?” He recognized the subtle tremble in his voice, and he wondered if Hank could hear it too.

“It is.”

“So, who am I then?” He tipped his chin defiantly, although he felt the resistance dissolving inside.

“You’re Finn the Hun. You’re the guy who goes out into the woods every mornin’ to look for those goddamn mourning doves, even though they’re the dullest birds you’ll ever see. You’re the guy whose face lights up like a Christmas display when he talks about WWII fighter planes. You’re the guy who’s sentenced himself to a life of drifting about because he made a mistake. And you’re the guy who lets an old asshole like me fuck him, even though he could have anyone with that perky ass and that million-dollar smile.” Okay, then.

“Well, I guess you see what you wanna see, Hank. Look, I don’t wanna talk about it. Can we just let this go?”

“Sure, we can. But it ain’t gonna go away just because you don’t face it. The truth.” Hank took another step towards him, reaching for his hand, tangling their fingers together. He started deflating, the anger slowly dissipating, exhaustion taking over.

“Fuck, Hank,” he chuckled bitterly. “Just because I take your cock from time to time doesn’t mean I have to take your advice, too. I don’t want it. Okay?”

“Okay, kid.” Hank wrapped his other arm around him, pulling him close and tucking his head against his chest. His heart was beating steadily against Finn’s ear, dadum-dadum-dadum . Resting his chin on top of Finn’s head, he blew a warm breath against his hair. “And you take it so damn fine, too…” Hank rasped. And just like that, he was back to being putty in Hank’s hands.

“Hank…” He whispered.

“You’re alright, kid. You’re alright,” he hummed.

“Look, can we just…” Finn spoke against the softness of Hank’s sweater.

“Yeah, of course we can.” Tears pressed behind his eyelids, the cool night air wafting along his neck, making him shiver. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” Hank pressed a quick kiss to his temple. “It’s late.”