Finn can't drive past the graveyard.
He goes out of his way to avoid it – he knows it's been years, knows it's been far too long and he shouldn't have this problem, but he can't help it.
Seeing the graveyard, the memories keep rushing back to him, and he can't handle that.
So he doesn't go past it.
The little boy walks up to the casket, a closed lid covering the body.
He feels his heart jump into his throat and he fingers the flag, lets the cloth run over him. He feels it on one level but on another he's numb, and he lets his eyes close.
His mother comes up to him and leads him away, a hand on his shoulder. He lets himself be comforted by her, fall into her, and he doesn't let himself think.
People walk up to him and put hands on his arm and give him hugs but he doesn't register them past the initial touch.
How can he? When everything's falling apart, what good is this?
His dad's the one to teach him to ride a bike.
The little boy falls off of the bike so many times but his dad doesn't yell, doesn't scream, only watches, lets him learn, lets him be comfortable.
By the end of the day, he's good. Scrapes mark his body but he doesn't care, smiling at his dad.
They share a hug, and Finn says it.
"I love you, dad."
Ten years later, he sees a bike and feels his heart stop.
This isn't – he knows he shouldn't have this sort of problem, shouldn't be this affected by a bike, of all things, but his mother – she's getting remarried and she's going to start a new life without his father and that's not okay.
He remembers and it hits him like a freight train that this is happening and he's gone and maybe he hasn't dealt with it properly but he feels his chest seize up and he wants – he wants to be five years old again and learning to ride a bike.
But he can't. He's never going to be that way again.
His dad's never going to see him.
Finn wishes his father was there to see his first date with Rachel. He loves her, he knows he loves her, and it'd be nice to show her off to his father, to watch as his father smiled and said You're a very nice girl, Rachel, and to see her blush.
Instead, he introduces her to Burt, eventually, when they're already dating (again), and it's close but not good enough.
Not really.
I'm going to go past it, he tells himself, and he nods, steeling himself for the inevitable. I'm going to drive past and it's going to be fine.
He gets nearly there, the yard within sight, before his heart seizes up and his hands go clammy.
He can barely turn on the blinker, pulling to the side of the road.
I can't.
Next time he's conscious of what he's doing, he's sliding down the wall in the bathroom.
He's overwhelmed and hurt and this – this is harder than anything he's ever had to do and he can't think, can only make himself breathe.
He sits on the grimy floor and puts his head into his hands and sobs.
Before long, his mother comes in, sits next to him, takes his hand into her own, and sings to him.
Finn wishes his father was there to see his wedding.
He's marrying Rachel, of all people, and they've been through hell and back but it's enough to be here, now, holding her hand and seeing her smile.
"I love you," he whispers, and she says it back, her eyes shining.
He looks into the audience and he wishes his father was there – but it's a dull ache, more half-remembered than currently felt.
Is this being okay?
His dad's the one to teach him to play football.
They toss a ball back and forth and they laugh and Finn loves it more than he's loved anything else and he knows that when he's older, he's going to be a football player.
He is.
He tries out for his father, because he knows it's what he would have wanted, and Finn is good, better than he ever was before, because he has a reason to be doing this.
Are you proud of me now, Dad? he thinks, and he knows it's silly and cheesy but he's allowed to be that way, sometimes.
And when he makes captain, he knows he's done it.
Are you proud of me?
Finn wishes his father was there to see his graduation.
He's not anyone important in it, not really, but when he accepts his diploma he looks at his mother and at Burt and he smiles, and he feels an ache in his chest.
It's times like these that he feels the loss most of all, most poignantly, and he doesn't break down, though he comes close.
He can't.
He can't watch at the funeral itself.
The box is lowered into the ground and he knows he's supposed to watch but instead he turns his head instead into his mother's coat, the wool scratching his face.
He hears the sound of dirt being piled on top of it and he feels sick, like he wants to run away, like he wants to get out of his own skin, leave this place.
His mother has a grip on his arm and she's whispering into his hair.
"I love you. Daddy loves you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She's crying, and he feels her tears on his hair but he doesn't move.
His dad's the one to teach him how to play video games.
It's not really something that needs to be taught, but Finn has memories of being eight years old (younger, even) and his father playing with him, helping him out.
Now, he can't play video games without thinking of that, of him, and there are words on the tip of his tongue that never get said because there's no one there to hear them.
It's silly but he doesn't play with anyone else. Burt tries, he really does, but that's no substitute for his father and Finn knows that there's no point in pretending otherwise.
He drives past the graveyard for the first time since it happened, and he's okay.
He's nervous but he doesn't have to be – it's not anything.
I'm okay.
He smiles.