I
The spirit of Finn doesn't live anywhere in the Lima cemetery, and it doesn't linger near the black granite headstone labelled, plainly, "Beloved Son and Friend."
It sweeps by the Hummels' cozy white-painted house, and on many evenings it comes by, tries to wrap its filmy arms about his mother's restlessly sleeping form. Or it looks into the tire shop, wishes it could relieve the ache in Burt's tired eyes. Depending on the slant of the wind, sometimes it'll come in and caress the pictures that still hang on his bulletin board, but it doesn't stay long there, either.
It's not that it doesn't care. It's that there are so many people to check up on. Santana, and Quinn, and little bro Kurt, and wistful Marley, and so many others need his attention.
Sometimes it hops upon a swirling zephyr and hovers around a certain budding Broadway star of our acquaintance, just to see how she's doing. But she's also trying to make it without him, and so, it moves away, quickly, before she can feel him glide tender fingers against her hand or drop a cool tear down her cheek. (Or maybe it's her tear, but she's making her new dream come true, by hook or by crook, and she'll brush it away so as to mourn later.) She'll always love him, and he'll always love her, so the spirit of Finn will come visit her on opening night, too and every night after that. But no, it doesn't live in New York City, either.
It doesn't even live in the little tree that Puck planted and re-planted and carved forever with the single word, "Quarterback.", close by the football field where he'd spent so much time looking for something he never would find there; still, it visits the sprightly young thing from time to time, rustles the tender greenish leaves, and basks in the clear golden light of the Lima springtime. And on the days and nights that it storms, it plays the drums amongst the flat, slate sky, and shakes the branches about for a laugh.
II
Tina says, slowly, "Do you think he's here?"
The graduates, or soon to be graduates - he can hardly believe it, Artie thinks, they're almost done - are huddled about it, in a circle, with the tree in their center. They've laid out a picnic, and Sam brought one of Finn's pictures out to prop up against it.
"He's at home, with his parents," Sam says matter-of-factly, stretching out his legs and tapping the bark with his toes. His eyes are still a little red, ever since they came back from LA and put that grand-looking (still a bit disappointing) second-place trophy in their case. Blaine looks at him, compassionate and silent, and Sam nods back - just nods, because talking, right now, is too much.
When he'd been rousing the team on the bus, in the theater, it'd popped into his head to say what he had, about Finn being there with them, because it felt true, like the right thing to say. And it had helped. Sort of. Now that he was thinking about it, it felt like a lie, which hurt. Because he'd led them, and they'd lost Finn's plaque, and then they'd lost. And they'd lost Finn, which hurt, most of all.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Artie says. "Finn meant so much to you. He recruited you to Glee. He went after you in Kentucky."
"It wouldn't hurt so much if we'd had, you know, a real goodbye," Tina blurts out. Blaine and Sam winced.
"Tina," Artie says with a sigh, "you know it's not all about you."
"I know it isn't," Tina persists, "and I'm really not a monster, I just - I just wish our last words were right and the things we wanted to say to him instead of, uh, meaningless things. Like solos. Or wanting solos. Um, I think my last words to him were just, "See you later."
Tina wipes the back of her hand against her cheek. Blaine smiles at her as she stumbles, trying to get it right.
"I wish I could have told him he was my hero, but I got so tired of feeling so sad all the time. And then I couldn't even say it, at his funeral.."
"What were your last words?" Sam says to Blaine, curiously.
"Something silly," Blaine admits. " 'Don't forget, the proposal's at two-thirty'. I think."
"That's not silly," Sam frowned. "You proposed to his little brother, the love of his freaking life. That's huge."
"He'd have been an amazing brother-in-law," Blaine said.
The silence hung in sheets between them. A breeze whipped up the grass on the edges of Tina's blanket.
"I'm glad we got to go to Nationals and sing for him," Artie said, more to break up the sadness welling up in everyone's faces. "He needed to know he'd always be here among us. Guarding his legacy. My last words to him were "Thanks for everything, Finn," right about the end of Regionals. And something like, 'when can we set up practices for Nationals? Let me know.' " Tina knelt and reached up to pat Artie's hand.
"Even though we lost Nationals?" Sam asks. "Finn was super-competitive."
"Even though we lost. But look - even though Glee's over, we still have them. Our friends, Marley, Unique, Kitty, Ryder, Jake."
'I'm glad we got to have them," says Tina softly. "Even if - " her face went rueful - "even if I wasn't the nicest."
Blaine started packing up the remnants of lunch into the basket. "Come on," he said, "let's go sing a song with them. I think we can have a secret meeting just for this, can't we? Another song for Finn, because we can never have enough of them." But he threw a curious glance over at Sam, who had, again, fallen silent. "You never said your last words to Finn. What were they?"
"I don't - I don't even remember," Sam said, with anguish. "I don't remember. And that's now how this was supposed to go down, guys. I - I can't. Just leave me alone, guys. Let me think."
"Do you want me to stay with you, Sam?" Tina asked softly.
"N - no, Tina, that's really sweet, but no," said Sam, choked up. "No. Just go on, I'll be in there in a minute."
They walked away towards the school, looking back at Sam's loping figure, kicking restless circles in the lawn. Blaine tried to hang back, but Tina tugged at his sleeve, looped her hand through his elbow and leaned in to whisper in his ear. The spirit of Finn was there, though, and it stopped to listen as his friend leaned his forehead against the little tree.
"Finn," said Sam, lowly, "I just feel - I just feel so shitty, you know. I never got to say goodbye or any - anything. I think I just waved. I'm not even sure if that's what I did. I said nothing to you and I'll never forget that."
He paused. Something tickled his cheek, but Sam pressed on.
"And it's not cool, but I knew I could do that because we were friends and we didn't have to say anything. You and I, you know, we're bros forever, and we both knew that."
The sun filtered in, thinly, through the leaves. Coughing, Sam struggled to form the words:
"But - but I just hope I led the New Directions in LA the way you would have done, even if we didn't win. Because" - and here, a flash of insight sparked into Sam's brain, like lightning - "because it's the friendships that matter. Us being a team. Shit. Shit, dude. You're not in the tree. Shit." Sam breathed in deeply, evenly, in and out, little huffs - "you're everywhere we are. As long as we know that - you're still alive."
Sam fell down in a heap on the ground and stared up at the branches. He opened the one water bottle he still had left, and poured out its last drops, close by the roots that, Sam, imagined, snaked their way miles and miles in between New Haven and Providence and Chicago and Lima and New York.
"I promise I won't let those friendships die, Finn. I promise."
Finn smiled in between the clouds, and Sam felt a vague pat on his shoulder (whether that was him just imagining the comfort or whether it was a real thing, Sam didn't know) - but he didn't care. He let a broad smile finally spread across his face, and the spirit of Finn protected him as he napped against his tree.