TITLE: Finn's Love Letter
SUMMARY: Finn gets a love letter. 1x04 AU.
RATING: T
A/N: I'm obsessed with My Mad Fat Diary so I decided to write this. There might be a sequel. Apologies for any grammar/spelling mistakes, I didn't reread this. Warning for swearing.
It's the morning when Finn decides to check the post for the first time in months.
He usually leaves it to his dad, trusting him to deliver his letters to him, as Finn is usually too hangover in the mornings to even dress himself after late nights at the pub. Fortunately, Nelson senior doesn't give him too much shit for it, dutifully making breakfast and watering the cacti and yes, checking the mat for anything white and rectangular. In return, Finn does the occasional odd job in the evening and the afternoons. There's not much to do as it's only them in the house, and half of the time they're off doing their own thing – Mr Nelson has his office job, and Finn of course divides his time between footie with his mates and pints at the pub. No one is there to make a mess in the kitchen, to leave their stuff around the house, to drop and break antiques in their living room and giggle afterwards with an apologetic shrug. Not anymore, at least.
Mr Nelson, however, is not home. His dad had a conference lasting two days, and so the morning responsibilities fell on Finn. Excellent timing too, as he'd left the pub and the extra three pints Chop had planned for him early last night, not feeling the mood. Coincidentally, Rae hadn't been there. Household chores, Chloe had elaborated.
He smiles at the thought of Rae and lightly hops off the stairs, popping his head through the neck of his shirt. He'd been feeling a certain way about Rae ever since Knebworth. It's a fuzzy feeling inside his ribcage and reminds him of the nausea he feels after a particularly exhilarating rollercoaster ride, but Finn knows it's a positive kind of nausea. His movements are tuned to Rae: whenever she talks to him, he turns his body towards hers immediately; whenever she looked at him with those doe-like eyes, he feels just a little breathless and has to look down at his lap to gather his bearings; whenever she touched him, he has to make a conscious effort not to grab her hand and keep it there. When he'd hugged her the day before, he'd snuggled into her five seconds too long.
He shakes his head self-depreciatingly, and laughs at his own idiocy. He's been acting like a fool ever since these new … feelings had flared up, and it reminds him of his 13-year-old, knobhead self. Gone are the days where his suave, mysterious, bad-boy persona got him any bird in the near vicinity. Now he's back to his preteen awkwardness, letting his mind be bulldozed by the blinding sun that was Rae Earl.
There are a lot more letters strewn over the mat than he bargained for, and Finn feels hesitant in picking them up and rubbing his traceable fingerprints on them. He didn't expect this much responsibility. What if they were important? What if he'd lose them and his dad would lose his job? Finn breathes out, berating himself for his blind panic. He is indeed an idiot.
"It's a wonder I still know how to breathe," he mutters to himself, squatting down and carefully picking up the envelopes. Some of them are thicker than the others, and he swears that he feels something oval-shaped through an A4 sized envelope. He shakes his head, incredulous. It's his dad's mail, and he knows not to question his father's correspondences.
But what really catches his attention is a dainty, pink envelope hidden between stacks of bills. He frowns and holds it up in the morning light. His eyes narrow. It was addressed to him, which was strange, as he didn't get post often.
Finn scrutinisesthe writing on the front, hoping to discover the nature of the letter in the block letters of his name. Finnley Nelson. Not many people call him by his full name – even at college he's Finn – and none of them would ever send him a pink letter.
He scoops up all the letters, organisesthem in a neat pile and carries them to the living room, his letter on top of the stack. He puts them on the kitchen counter, in between the cactus pot and the wall. His own letter he keeps in his hand.
Dragging a stool behind him, he sits down and tears the envelope open and gingerly takes out the letter. It smells faintly of aloe vera. Finn furrows his eyebrows – it's familiar, but he can't recollect where he knows it from.
He takes a breath, not really knowing why, and reads.
Dear Finn,
I have decided to be a better, more honest me. I don't want to lie and I don't want to bottle it up anymore. From now on, I'm going to be straightforward with everything, including my feelings. Which includes my feelings for you. I've been trying to tell you how I feel but every time I do something either happens or I become my coward old self and brick it. I'm so sorry that you're reading this in a sodding letter instead, but I really like you Finn. You're kind, special, good-looking, and you have the second best musical prowess in this town, I have to admit. You're great Finn, and even though I know that you don't feel the same I just had to get it off my chest. I hope this doesn't make things awkward?
Love,
Rae
PS: Please excuse the foul pink, it's Chloe's. My mother has no friends so she has no envelopes, not that I can blame anyone.
Finn's fingers tremble slightly as he finishes reading. His eyes are the size of dinner plates and his face is bewildered.
Rae, Rae, Rae. The name dazzles like a disco ball in his head, bouncing around his skull. He feels a pounding head ache starting, but welcomes it. As he strokes the letter, the words finally sinking in, their meaning catching up to him, his shocked face gives way to one of wonderment.
Rae liked him. She really liked him.
He attempts not to crinkle the paper as he reads it again and again, this time with a lit expression. His smile widens, then falters, then contorts into a smug smirk. He can't help but chuckle at her endnote.
She's so adorable.
And wonderful.
God, Rae, I think you're great too. And very good-looking.
But why does she think I wouldn't feel the same?
He frowns at the sentence, and his eyes narrow as he spies the shaky 'e' of the word 'same'. Did he give her that impression? That he didn't like her? Was it because he'd been such a dick to her before? But he'd apologised for that. And he beaten up that thug for her. And he'd made the Knebworth mixtape in honour of her. Granted, he didn't actually tell her that, but it was obvious. Fucking Spaceman was the first track, for christ's sake.
He bites the cuticles around his thumb, nervously. He feels guilty for his earlier thoughts. Did Rae somehow notice the frustration he has whenever he's around her? It's not that he feels embarrassed of his feelings for Rae, he's just scared that she wouldn't feel the same and think he's a right knob for even entertaining such thoughts about her.
He has to set her straight. He has to tell her that no, he did feel the same and that he actually has the best musical prowess, thank you very much.
He smiles at the letter. The fuzzy feeling inside him uncurls into something more intense, traveling from his core to his fingertips. He finally recognises the aloe vera scent as the one that permeates from Rae's skin every day, and he assumes it's her moisturiser. It always smells great to him, but he's sure now it's his favourite smell in the world.
Finn strokes the letter one more time, imagining a nerve-wracked Rae at her desk, pouring out her feelings on the paper in spite of being under the impression that he didn't like back. Not only is he elated – he's in awe. She's so brave. He owes her the same courtesy. He owes her his bravery.
With that thought, he hurries out the kitchen and stomps up the stairs to his bedroom, letter still clutched in his hand.
A/N: Hope you liked it!