Title: Bright Young Things
Genre: Romance / Angst
Rating: T
Pairing: Poe x Finn
Spoilers: The Last Jedi
Summary: There are chords in the heart of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.
Word Count: 2,120
Warnings: Such a cliché and I'm sure it's been done dozens of time since The Force Awakens but I can't help myself.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Summary is from The Masque of Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe.

A/N: I saw 10 Years like a week ago and I've been singing Never Had ever since. It really is in my top 10 favorite songs.

EDIT: Was forced to take down song lyrics, making this not make as much sense any longer. It's the first I've ever seen anyone have an issue with lyrics being placed within a song!fic, when credit was given where credit was due, but there you have it. I know I've done so under a previous account without issue before. But I'm taking them down now in order to avoid a conflict, so forgive any inconsistencies with reading this now. And please listen to Oscar Isaac's "Never Had" while you read this.

Finn was awake. He was awake. Poe kept repeating the words to himself over and over again, as he had been doing since he'd first seen his friend wandering aimlessly down a hallway, leaking IV fluids and only partially dressed. His heart had leapt in his chest at the scene, thudding a staggering tango behind his ribs like drums of war.

He dropped everything and ran to Finn, needing to be close, to touch him, to prove that it was real. If the first thing out of him mouth was to ask about Rey, Poe would just have to come to terms with that. He was awake and he was fine. And that was what mattered right now.

When Rey had brought him back from his (stupid, careless, idiotic) fight with Kylo Ren, Poe had felt his heart stop in his chest. Finn was barely getting to live his life. It couldn't end like this. For him to escape the oppressive First Order, a life of killing and commands, join the Resistance, fight for them, and then die for them.

It simply wasn't fair.

But he was awake now, conscious, coherent, alive. He was here. Here where Poe could hear him speak, listen to his voice, touch his shoulder and feel his warmth. Where Poe could drink in the view of him.

Finn was standing near the window in his room, watching the stars speed by like comets. His face was far away, contemplative, lost in his thoughts. Thinking of Rey, perhaps. Thinking of Phasma, of Kylo, of Han. Thinking of his almost death – of his awakening. When his eyes met Poe's in the glass, he turned, eyes bright with the same emotion that Poe remembered so well from the day they met.

So much life, so much feeling in him. The passion seemed to spill out of him in waves until it was tangible and real, until you could cut through it in the air like butter, until he fairly throbbed with it. Those dark eyes were filled with the same excitement now, and Poe felt awareness of those eyes tingle through him like an electric current.

Long or short, for how every many years he lived, Poe would never forget that moment when they met. He hadn't, of course, known what Finn was then, just that he was lost and terrified and brave and needed Poe's help. But, if he had known, Poe thought (and he thought of it often) that he would have still made the same choice. He would have still jumped into that TAI Fighter with him, still let them help each other.

Because it wasn't what Finn was (Stormtrooper, FN-2187, nameless, Resistance fighter, soldier) it was who he was. And he was brave even when he was scared, he was bright even when it was dark, he was a friend even when it seemed hopeless. He was loyal and honorable and good and perfect and kind and … and …

… And he was still wearing Poe's jacket.

With two long strides, Poe had encompassed a startled Finn in his arms, holding him tight. "I thought you weren't gonna make it, man." His voice was muffled against Finn's hair and Poe hoped to hell it hid the tremble in his words, hoped his grip was tight enough to mask the shaking of his hands, hoped that Finn couldn't feel his heart drumming double time where they were pressed together chest-to-chest.

Finn visibly relaxed against him at his words, returning the hug with fervor. And for a moment, Poe let himself bask in the closeness – inhale the scent of him, the clean hospital smell of his skin, freshly washed like linen and soap, the smell of Poe's – Finn's – jacket like oil and dust and smoke. But underneath all of that, a tangy spice that was distinctly Finn. An earthly real smell that made Poe want to nuzzle his face into the crook of Finn's neck and just breathe.

But he couldn't do that, it wasn't right, so he stepped back, all friendly pats on the back and too wide-smiles and upbeat eyes, all comrade and colleague and friend. Nothing more. Never anything more.

It had startled him, the first time his brain made the inkling of thought cross his consciousness. In all his years as a fighter for the Resistance, in all his years fighting alongside countless warriors, men and women, but mostly men, Poe had only ever felt his eyes drawn to women. He loved the leggy gracefulness of them, their curves and soft skin, their long-lashed doe eyes and wavy hair. He loved their soft edges.

Finn was none of those things. He was a barreling force of nature – with long, heavy, purposeful strides. He was solid muscle, a wall of will and weight, his hands were calloused, his skin dotted with scars. His eyes were fierce and focused – looking into you, through you. He was all masculine motion.

But after the adrenaline of their escape to Jakku had passed, Poe had come to terms that his potential friend had died in the crash. He'd let it go, forcing himself into that calm, objective mindset that missions forced him to enter: he'd lost another comrade. That was war.

But when BB-8 had rolled up to him, when he'd looked up and seen Finn running towards him, Poe was struck with the most incredible feeling –

Indescribable joy.

His breath had whooshed out of him violently with the feeling and for a fleeting moment he'd thought he was having a panic attack. But then Finn had grabbed him, hugged him, and Poe had realized, that, no, he wasn't panicking – he was truly feeling something for someone for the first time, perhaps ever.

He was almost speechless with the dizzying thought that began to swirl within in. He… he could love this boy. If he let himself. If he let himself go.

"Is that my jacket?"

"Oh, yeah, you want it back?"

"No, keep it." He swallowed thickly, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his throat dry, his eyes fixated on the wide stretch of shoulders, as he saw people see Finn in that jacket and know that it was Poe's. "It looks good."

But now Finn is telling him about a plan to save Rey, to protect her, and Poe wonders if it will ever get any easier to hear him speak of her with such emotion. What would he have to do to see Finn light up like that when he spoke his own name? Would he be so animated and strong-willed about Poe when he spoke? Would he say his name like a verbal caress?

It's not like Poe could blame him. Rey was everything that he himself, a few short months ago, would have found utterly enchanting. She was petite and dainty on the surface, but fire and verve underneath. Beautiful and strong – a Leia of her time.

Though it isn't thoughts of Rey that keep Poe up at night. It isn't Rey's face Poe longs to see contrasted against his pillow, burrowed in his sheets. He doesn't want to tangle his legs with Rey, or trace the contours of her face. He doesn't want delicate and lovely. He wants broad shoulders, shirt stretched by their breadth. He wants a hard chest pressed to his, large calloused palms against his sides. He wants his hands to trace a firm stomach, wants to trace the ridges of muscles, run his fingertips over scars, feel the strength splayed out beneath him.

Poe felt his eyes following Finn as he paced like a jungle cat across his room, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. His was gestating wildly as he made his points and voiced his concerns. His eyes were brilliant with excitement.

It was intoxicating.

"Finn."

He stopped, turning to look at Poe who had sprawled inelegantly across his bed after their hug, lounging and insolently at ease there. When Finn's eyes darted up the length of his body before landing on his face, Poe's veins thrummed like they were filled with starlight and fire.

"Whatever it is, I'll do it. Just tell me what you need."

When Finn blinked, Poe thought maybe he had gone too far. But then he grinned and practically glowed with happiness, before rolling into another one-sided conversation about his plan. He only stopped when Poe grabbed his sleeve (his jacket, his mark) and tugged him to a stop in front of the cot.

Standing fluidly, put them chest-to-chest, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, lips –

"Um…"

A stammer broken off by a quick press of lips, butterfly light, almost not there at all. But it made Finn's eyes open wide with shock. And it made Poe's heart thunder in his ears like stampeding fathiers, making lights dance behind his eyes bright as kyber crystals. A swift, harsh press of lips to lips, nothing more, and then a step back. Pair it with a roguish, crooked smile, and hope…

Finn was silent, lips still parted, drawing Poe's gaze, before he snapped them back up to those dark eyes, glazed and hazy with uncertainty and bewilderment. One hand was half extended to his mouth, fingertips pressing with wonderment against them. When he finally met Poe's eyes, one eyebrow was raised in question, regarding Poe with fearless poise.

A careless shrug. "Seemed a good way to keep you quiet." When Finn would have exploded in irritation, Poe pressed their foreheads together, staring, his own eyes earnest and genuine. "And, you look really good in that jacket."

When Poe went to pull back, (don't ruin the moment, let it go, easy, just a moment, nothing more) he almost jumped in surprise when a gentle tug on his wrist made him stop. He tried to meet Finn's eyes, but they were slanted down, away, embarrassed.

"It still smells like you." It was mumbled, tone too laid back and carefree to be real. It was an admission, Poe realized, of why he still wore it. Because it smelled like him.

"I…" Words wouldn't come, they failed him. He who always had a comeback, a comment, something to say, was speechless. What…

The hand encircling his wrist (calloused, strong, firm) gave a single, silent squeeze, and deep eyes glanced up at him through dark lashes. They were honest and intense – as dazzling as a supernova.

Giving his head a shake, Poe put that smile back on his face, the one that made the knees of ladies weak, the one that irritated Leia, the one that got him out of any tight spot. "I think it smells better on you."

And before Finn could respond, before the moment could grow awkward or forced, Poe twisted his hand, entwining their fingers, and pulled him out the door.

"Now let's go save the girl."