To think that last time I updated this story, I hadn't started my second year of uni and there wasn't a global pandemic going on. Now I've finished my second year and, well, SARS CoV-2 is a thing. Hope y'all and your families and loved ones are staying safe.
Conserving spoons during school time was never an easy task for anyone with a chronic illness, especially after such a draining experience as chemotherapy. Still, no spoon deficit in the world was going to stop either of the boys from meeting each other that Saturday afternoon.
The decision to ask Ryan out hadn't been impulsive on Finley's part, despite the seemingly spontaneous nature of his proposal. He'd known he'd wanted to ask Ryan out ever since he'd sought refuge at Finley's house when his mother had reappeared. Ever since then, his desire for them to spend more time in the same vicinity had only grown stronger.
But not in the way that it had ended up happening. Though Ryan's plight had allowed Finley to become closer to him, it wasn't worth the troubled teen going through what he had gone through.
Still, he couldn't deny his excitement leading up to the date. If he'd had hair, he was sure that he would've spent hours fixing it. As it was, he had spent those hours choosing his outfit - a considerable task with his sore joints - and then, in an effort to calm his racing mind, had spent the following hour flicking through his book of classical tenor songs.
From a young age, Finley had found the activity of reading sheet music - even without it being played - just as stimulating, if not more so, than a typical book. When he'd been younger, he'd thought of it like being able to read and decipher a language or secret code that few else could. Even now, without that naivety, reading sheet music had become a comforting habit. It gave him something to focus and follow along to without costing spoons, something which had proved immensely beneficial during his time in the chemo chair. Even today, whenever he was overwhelmed by anger or frustration or pure unregulated chaos around him, he still found his mind flying back to his old music teacher putting her hands on his tiny, frail ones, teaching him his first scales.
"One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine. Good. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-"
"Where are you even going?" Rosemary had asked, interrupting his train of thought after bursting into his room without knocking.
"It's a secret, so you can't follow us there," Finley replied, snapping the book closed as if it contained the answer.
"Rude."
"You know why I've told them that," Finley said. "Look, I appreciate you being my wingman for a while, but I don't need you taking control of my love life. I know what I'm doing here."
"How? Are you going to serenade him?" she asked, nodding at the book. "You're not half bad at it, I'll give you that, but you're no Opera Ghost."
"Who says I need to be?" Finley retorted, sounding more confident than he felt. "We've already shared a bed, and I gave him another one of these." He reached under his collar to pull out the necklace. "This is gonna go well, it has to."
"You guys have matching necklaces now?" Rosemary said, her expression a mixture of surprise and very heavy amusement. "What next, you're gonna be sharing all your creepy fantasies with him? 'Oh Ryan, I should tell you that I think of you each night. I rub my-'"
This finally got Finley to clap his bony but broad hand over her mouth. She responded by licking his hand, falling about laughing when he pulled it away in disgust. She laughed even when he wiped his saliva-covered hand on her hair. "Can you give it a rest, just this once?" he pleaded. "This is actually important to me. It's my first date, for crying out loud."
"You've had-"
"Pity dates don't count!" Finley interrupted, his voice serrated with frustration. "You don't know how many people have only bothered to spend time with me so they can feel good about themselves for looking after the poor guy with cancer, only to ... I just want to be with someone who likes me for me, okay?."
She turned serious. "I get it," she said. "He's a good guy. If you get him, you should keep him for as long as you can."
"Why do you think I got Dad to write up that contract for him?" Finley said. "You know, the one that's intended to save his life?"
She smiled. "True. You've got him wrapped around your pinky." She stood up to leave, though not without adjusting the collar of the midnight blue shirt he had finally settled on. Some would've considered it too formal for a date, but it was one of the few items of clothing he owned that was somewhat flattering on his too-skinny frame.
When his sister had finally left him, Finely went back to skimming through his music book, until he finally reached the last pages.
There, on the inside of the back cover, were a few sheets that were not part of the original book. Rather they had been placed there by Finley himself. It was the song that meant more to him than any in the world and had been completely worth the 540 yen he had spent for it off of an obscure website that was mostly in Japanese (luckily for him, 540 yen was only £3.82).
He didn't sing through it. Not yet. That would cost a spoon that was better saved for later.
Meanwhile, Ryan was sitting in his room in a similarly flattering but rather stiff crimson shirt, being given a similar pep talk by Chloe. He would've instinctively reached for the pile of skating magazines on his bedside table but looking at them had only brought about bitter memories of good things he'd lost (bittersweet, maybe, if he was being generous, but still with a high ratio of bitterness to sweetness). The comics were now dustier than they ever had been, but he didn't have the heart to move them.
"Look at you, you haven't even been nice for a week and you've already got a date," Chloe was saying. "See? It pays off."
"He liked me before I started being 'nice', though," Ryan pointed out. "Maybe I should revert back ..."
"Nice try," Chloe teased, playfully nudging his shoulder. "Just relax and enjoy it. I mean, this'll be one of the last times you'll be able to walk with him. Make the most of it, because it's gonna get harder once you've had it."
Ryan nodded, his expression falling slightly at the reminder. Sure, he'd fought for the surgery and had to wait longer than he'd wanted to get it, but it didn't mean he was looking forward to the fallout or the risk that something could go horribly wrong.
"Do you know where you're going?" Chloe asked, steering the topic back on track.
"No," Ryan admitted. "He just told me to meet at his house at 2 p.m."
"Good luck," she said simply.
The intermittent time seemed to pass by both very slow and very fast. Before he knew it, he was in the car with Mike pulling up just in front of Finley's house. Ryan's stomach had been tremoring more and more as the car ride went on, but the sight of Harriet prowling around the bushes did some ways towards easing his nerves. When he stepped out of the car, she meowed and trotted right up to him, brushing against his legs and looking up at him with wide green eyes.
Ryan bent down to stroke the cat's sleek head before looking up as he heard the door open. Finley stood behind it, somehow looking less sickly than usual. Maybe he had more spoons, or maybe it was the classy shirt that was the navy twin of the crimson that Ryan donned.
Or maybe it was the air of excitement that played around him and danced in his eyes.
"Hey," Finley greeted, his lilt dipping with just the right amount of gentle affection. "How are you feeling?"
"Not bad," Ryan answered, straightening up as Harriet broke away from him to head for the open door. "The brachytherapy was terrible, though."
"It'll be worth it," Finley reminded him. "It always is, trust me. Spoons?"
Nine. "Enough," Ryan stated, bringing out the spoon necklace. He hadn't taken it off except for PET and MRI scans as well as radiotherapy. Anything that involved him having to lie inside a large machine. "I have one spare, remember?"
It was all Finley could do not to kiss him right then and there.
He tried to pull himself together. "Do you wanna come inside for a minute? Mum is finishing some things up, but she'll drive us when she's done."
The boys took a seat in the living room, sitting rather close to each other on the sofa (They would've blamed on the fact that Cecelia was curled up on one side of it, but could they, really?)
"Nice shirt," Ryan stated.
"Thanks," Finley murmured, popping his collar. "I've been getting some inspiration from a great source lately."
"Really?" Ryan queried, raising an eyebrow. "Who's the fashion expert then? I might nick some of his ideas."
"Says the guy who could look good in a rubbish bag."
Fuck, a compliment. Ryan never let anybody one-up him, but he was flustered, barely fumbling out a retort. "W-what do you need a fashion expert for then?"
Whatever Finley had expected him to say, it evidently hadn't been that. From the look on Ryan's face, it seemed like he hadn't been expecting those words to come out of his mouth either.
For a few seconds, the older boy's pale face seemed to gain back a healthy blush. Then, he was laughing, hard and loud enough that even Cecelia raised her furry head. "Shit, Ryback, that was smooth as fuck."
Before he knew it, Ryan found himself laughing too, though it felt slightly weird to be essentially laughing at himself. He'd have to get used to the concept of good-natured self-deprecation, though part of him was also high-fiving himself for being the one to evoke that sound from Finley.
"Language, Finley," warned Cynthia's voice from the doorway, having apparently finished up her work, though there was no bite to the warning. She could scarcely remember the last time she'd heard Finley laugh like that, much less when ill. "You boys ready?"
"As we'll ever be," Finley said, pushing himself up off the sofa and extending a rather gentlemanly hand to Ryan to help him stand as well.
Ryan could've stood up himself, really, but he found himself taking the proffered hand anyway and following Finley out of the door towards the red Vauxhall in the driveway.
"Will you actually tell me where we're going now?" Ryan asked as they climbed into the back seat.
"Nope," Finley replied, buckling his seatbelt. "If I tell you, it won't be a surprise."
"That's what people say to people they're about to murder," Ryan pointed out. "You know, like in Lion King? I don't wanna die yet, Fin, not when I'm gonna have surgery in less than a month."
"It's been scheduled?" Finley asked, momentarily dropping the joke. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"Gareth told me literally the same day you asked me out!" Ryan said. "Anyway, it's scheduled for Halloween, just so you know."
"You're welcome," Finley smirked.
"Yeah, I know," Ryan replied. "Thank you, and thank your dad too when you see him."
"Trust me, keeping you alive is thanks enough," Finley said casually as if saving lives was an average Tuesday for him. "I meant to ask if you'd eaten lunch before coming here," he continued.
Lunch had been served an hour before at Ashdene Ridge, as it always had been, but Ryan had barely touched it, his appetite diminished from a combination of illness and nerves (and illness of the nerves). "Not really."
"Even better if you haven't," Finley smiled, before lifting up the cover of the basket on the floor of the backseat. "Mum's made us a picnic. Don't worry, it's all vegetarian."
"Thank you, Mrs Albaston."
"Cynthia, please," she replied.
They talked about trivial things as the car ride went on, before at long last, Cynthia parked the car outside an open field framed with trees and dotted with fluffy white dandelions.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Ryan said, trailing off mid-sentence as he caught sight of the meadow.
"Sorry to disappoint," Finley grimaced. "I just thought-"
"I suffer from severe hay fever."
"Shit, um-"
"I'm taking the piss," Ryan grinned. "This looks pretty decent. High standards for a first date, eh?"
Finley breathed out as the weight of chagrin left him as quickly as it had arrived.
Cynthia opened the back doors and helped them step out of the car. Even the air felt crisper and cleaner out here, so much so that Ryan was filled with such surging energy that he felt he could run twice around the field without his cane.
He knew better than to try though.
Cynthia brought the large rug from the boot while Finley carried the picnic basket, insisting on shouldering it himself despite his aching joints and asserting that they certainly couldn't make Ryan, as their guest, do manual labour.
"I'll leave you boys to it," Cynthia said. "Have a nice time, and call me if there are any issues." With that, she left.
"Dig in," Finley offered, opening the basket and pulling the food out.
True to his word, there was no meat to be found, though it was all perfectly delicious. Ryan grazed without complaint, though he couldn't help but notice that Finley was nibbling at less than half the rate that he was.
"Not hungry?" he queried, after swallowing a mouthful of custard cream. "You could use some food in you."
Finley tensed. "I'm aware of that, thank you," he said stiffly. "One of the most fun things about cancer is that it eats your body and sanity up from the inside and leaves you powerless to do anything about it, and the best part is that it keeps coming back to undo all your hard work in between remission periods, therefore making all efforts futile." He crammed the rest of his quarter-eaten frosted doughnut into his mouth, seemingly to stifle his oncoming rant.
Ryan winced, remembering how his minor experience with brachytherapy had robbed him of his own appetite. "Sorry, you probably get that a lot." His apology was awkward, but he had to learn to not antagonise people within an hour of talking to them, and Finley was the last person on Earth he wanted to offend. "If it makes you feel better, you have a great taste in fashion."
Finley let out a laugh. "Maybe," he admitted. "Sorry, I shouldn't be bringing this stuff up. We're here to have fun, not for me to moan about how the world's got it in for me."
"Sure," Ryan agreed, though he made sure to file away the information about Finley's bodily insecurity as off-limits. "It's really nice here," he changed the subject, casting his eyes around the meadow. "How did you know about it?"
"My family used to come here often," Finley said. "We knew the guy who owned the land, he lets us come whenever. Can't really complain."
"Helps to have friends in high places," Ryan commented.
"Yep," Finley continued, not acknowledging Ryan's minor jibe. "My sisters and I would spend hours looking for four-leaf clovers. It drove our parents bonkers, but Charlene was convinced that if we found one, it would make me better ... and also get her a jetpack that she could use to fly everywhere."
"I thought that dandelions were the ones that granted wishes?"
"Yeah, but we blew on them for years and they didn't work, so ..." Finley shrugged. "Besides, not like we had to look very hard to find those. Four-leaf clovers, on the other hand ..."
"They're not wish-granting genies though," Ryan pointed out.
"Well, they're as close as we were gonna get!" Finley retorted. "Besides, genies are douchebags anyway, they always have to screw you over while granting your wishes. If I wished to not have cancer, they'd probably take it away and give me Parkinson's disease or something."
Ryan laughed. "Yeah, I wished to not have cancer when I first heard that I had a wish," he admitted. "I still have it, you know, since Mum came back on her own."
"You know what I said about wasting spoons on people who aren't worth it?" Finley replied. A nod. "That goes for wishes too."
"What do you think I should spend it on then?" Ryan asked.
"You don't have to spend it tomorrow if you're not sure," Finley began before his eyes widened. "Wait, since you're gonna be paraplegic after your surgery, you could wish for a super expensive wheelchair that can climb stairs and reach high places and all that."
"Now there's an idea," Ryan said, brightening. "But my care workers would probably never let me use it in the house." The idea of zipping around on a gleaming mechanical throne still enticed him, however. Maybe he'd hold onto that wish until he moved out.
"What about a jetpack?" Finley suggested.
"You do realise that they don't exist outside of video games, right?"
"I wish they did."
"I'll bear that in mind."
They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, during which they ate a bit more, before Finley spoke up again. "I love this place because ... it's just so far away from everything. No matter how long it's been or how many times I come here, it's just in its own pocket of time, or on a different plane of reality. Like whatever came before doesn't count anymore or matter."
"Alright, Mr Shakespeare," Ryan jabbed, though he understood how Finley felt perfectly. He felt the same way whenever they were alone together. "You must do well in English."
"Thanks, I did actually," Finley smirked. "Didn't even need considerations like I did most of my other GCSEs. I'm doing Creative Writing at A-Level now."
"Do you want to be a writer when you leave school then?"
"Don't know," Finley shrugged. "I didn't plan that far ahead. Never thought I'd live long enough to see my A-Levels."
"Shut up," Ryan teased, ignoring the chill that crept down his defective spinal cord at the mention of Finley not living. "You must have something."
Finley paused. "Okay, there is one thing," he admitted, "but ... you have to promise not to laugh."
"Now I'll probably laugh no matter what."
"Of course you will," Finley sighed in mock frustration. "Fine, I want to be an opera singer."
Ryan ended up choking considerably on his efforts to contain his predicted laughter. "That's even sadder than you having cancer," he spluttered out.
"You shut up," Finley snorted. "At least when I'm the next Pavarotti, I'll be adored by everyone, going all around the world and coming out smelling of roses."
"Go on, then, give us a tune."
Finley pouted slightly, but he sat up and straightened his shoulders. He took a deep breath ...
"Sento una voce che piange lontano ..."
... and suddenly, Ryan wasn't laughing anymore.
Despite his claims, it was plain to hear that Finley Albaston was no Pavarotti. His tone was slightly husky, grazing the bottom of his larynx like gravel on the river bed on the low notes, and his breathing technique suffered due to illness and due to sitting rather than standing. But it was immensely clear that his ambition of performing on stage was no impossible dream. His voice soared over each note, suspended and vibrating like wind chimes, and washed over the whole scene even more so than the golden sun hanging low in the sky.
Though they remained firmly on the ground, both boys felt as if they were truly flying, while the rest of the world fell away around them.
When Finley was finished, he turned to Ryan, not the least bit surprised or embarrassed at the mesmerised look on his companion's face. Finley was donning a soft smile that carried a hint of self-satisfaction, as if to say, like what you hear? Or maybe who's laughing now?
The moment hung in the air like the final falsetto notes of an aria, before Ryan finally formed a response. "Your voice is the most beautiful thing for 100 miles, Fin."
"You really think that?" Finley asked.
"Without a doubt," Ryan confirmed, putting his hand over Finley's, still staring at him like he was his sun, his moon, his stars, the centre of everything. "The world needs to hear it. You need to live so you can make that happen, please."
"I'd be happy to sing for the rest of my life," Finley agreed. "It's like I'm flying, you know? Like, everyone always sees me as this fragile porcelain doll, but I have something in me that they can't see, and they're always surprised when I bring it out." He took a deep breath. "Sorry, I know I said I shouldn't be ranting, but it just gets overwhelming, you know? Not everyone knows about everything, or cares, but I can't ever forget it. I won't ever be like other guys my age, who can go out to the movies every other week or go to the gym and get muscular or comfortably hold down a job. Not if I'm gonna be going in and out of this for the rest of my life - however long that is."
"Fuck," Ryan murmured. "How the hell do you deal with it all?"
"Same way you've dealt with your whole life in care," Finley pointed out. "I mean, think about it. From a young age, you've been treated differently. You didn't have things other people did, had trouble fitting in, all for reasons that weren't your fault and were beyond your control. You've endured that for years, and yet here you are, still here. How do you think you did that?"
"Yeah, but, I'm ..." Ryan hesitated, "... damaged. I mean, we both are, but you're not beyond repair, surely."
"You don't know," Finley admitted, his eyes finding considerable interest in a patch of dandelions growing near them, their fluffy pappi absently floating away in the breeze.
"I probably do," Ryan replied, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. "C'mon, Fin, you know that I'm the last person in the world to judge you on this stuff."
Finley shook his head. "You'll hate me."
"I could never," Ryan insisted. "I've done some shit, Finley. I could never hate you for whatever you've done. Not without expecting you to hate me right back."
The older boy was silent, so Ryan continued. "Look, if I tell you some of mine, will you feel comfortable telling me yours?"
Finley sighed, straightening up again. It seemed to take more effort than last time. "Maybe not all of it. Not today."
Ryan nodded, accepting the compromise. "Look, life can be a pain in the arse - and everywhere else - but it's not gonna stay that way forever. You can still go places, sing on that stage - a million stages, all over the world. I'm not saying you haven't had it rough, and you're probably going to have it rough a million more times in the future. Just ... it's easier when you have so many people around you that love you." His conversation with Rosemary days before flashed through his mind briefly.
"I lo-" Finley caught himself before he could finish his statement. "It's not always love. Sure, I know my family loves me, and I love them right back, but ... a lot of the time, I don't get close friends. Acquaintances, yeah, I have plenty of those, but it's hard to maintain friendships when you're hardly in school. I'm not used to having friends." He let out a self-deprecating laugh. "Christ, that is sadder than having cancer."
"That makes two of us." Ryan laughed along with him before looking at Finley properly. The other boy was no longer looking him in the eye. He was staring off into the sunset and holding a forced stoic expression, the same one you make when you're holding back sudden, excruciating rushes of emotion, trying to pretend it didn't bother you - but your eyes betrayed everything.
It was a look Ryan knew all too well - he used it to cover up the battles with his own pain.
"Fin?" he asked, tentatively shuffling closer - before the other boy, overcome with emotion, suddenly embraced him hard, clinging to him as if they had spent a long time far apart and longed to be reunited again. He buried his face in Ryan's cotton-clad shoulder, his own shoulders still tense with the effort of holding back what was flooding his being and threatening to spill out.
"Thank you," Finley whispered, his voice trembling, "for being here, with me, right now."
Ryan returned the hug, clenching his torso firmly. Despite Finley being older and a couple of inches taller than even Ryan's stature, the feel of his spindly frame suddenly made him seem so very small and vulnerable. It sharply reminded him that Finley wasn't as un-damaged as Ryan typically perceived him, even relative to himself. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he assured him.
"Me too," Finley agreed.
They stayed holding onto each other for what felt like forever, but neither were particularly inclined to break their contact. When they finally did, Ryan seemed to have forgotten how to sit upright without support, so Finley gently helped him lie on his stomach, deftly avoiding his back.
Ryan reached into the picnic basket, pulling out the last of the pink frosted doughnuts. He broke it in half and passed one half to Finley. "Here's to us," he murmured.
"Cheers," Finley said, 'clinking' his half with Ryan's before chowing down on the fluffy sweet treat.
"Isn't sugar meant to be bad for cancer?" Ryan suddenly remembered, mere seconds after they'd both finished.
"Too late now," Finley shrugged. "I could probably die happy with this as my last meal."
"Well, if you do, then at least the angel choir will have the best soloist," Ryan smiled. "Got any more tunes?"
"We're no strangers to love. You know the rules, and so do-"
"Shut up," Ryan interrupted, swatting at him, though his heart lifted at the sound of Finley's laugh. "Anything but that, please."
"Somebody once told me the world is gonna roll me. I ain't the-"
Ryan reached up and clapped a hand over Finley's mouth, feeling that laughter against his skin.
Remembering when he'd done the same to Rosemary that morning, Finley licked Ryan's hand and laughed some more when he pulled away in disgust. "Okay, maybe we'll give them a rest," Ryan conceded, wiping his hand on the picnic blanket.
Finley's laughter finally died down, though sooner than Ryan would've preferred. "Sorry, couldn't resist," he explained. "I got tired of people asking me to sing when I told them I wanted to be an opera singer, so I've just started going to those songs. You're lucky I decided to sing a real song for you just now."
"I'm honoured," Ryan replied. "Seriously."
At some point, Ryan's head had ended up in Finley's lap. They weren't sure how, but he wasn't going to move it. Finley absently started petting his hair, running his fingers through the silky strands, causing Ryan's eyes to slide shut. "You're really good at that."
"Want me to sing you a lullaby?" Finley asked.
He hadn't been serious, and Ryan knew that on some level too, but having Finley sing to him again - something beautiful - wasn't something he was willing to pass up. "Sure."
"If I could begin to be half of what you think of me, I could do about anything, I could even ..."
It was a simpler song than the aria he had sung earlier, but it did the job. Ryan went limp in his lap before he'd even reached the end of the second verse. Nonetheless, Finley kept singing: "I always thought I might be bad; now I'm sure that its true cause I think you're so good, and I'm nothing like you. Look at you go - I just adore you. I wish that I knew what makes you think I'm so special ..."
If Ryan was properly listening or hearing his words anymore, he didn't react outwardly. Finley finished the lullaby, though kept absent-mindedly humming it as he stared down at Ryan's sleeping face, his chiselled features that softened in relaxation, the eyelashes settling on his cheekbones. It didn't take long for drowsiness to catch up with Finley too. He lay back on the blanket, staring up at the fading shafts of sunlight peeking through the leaves and kissing his pale skin, before allowing himself to doze off, unable to find a reason to keep his eyes open much longer.
Holy moly, this chapter was freaking long and it took for-freaking-ever to write, I am so sorry it's been a while, some of you were probably wondering if I'd abandoned this. Rest assured, I haven't abandoned it and I don't plan to.
Yeah, I'm much better at writing angst than fluff, can you tell? I tried to make this somewhat lighthearted, but also tried to develop Finley a lot more here, since I've kinda neglected him in favour of Rosemary. Shameful, really, but that's what this chapter is for. Hopefully, I did a decent job.
Stay safe out there, folks.
Justice xx