You don't sleep. You start drinking coffee even though it makes your nausea worse, just to stay awake. (It works, but barely). You watch the entire Nightmare on Elm Street series out of some misplaced amusement. You'd rather not sleep because of poorly-acted horror movies instead of the very real monsters that await you.
You think you would have gone insane by now if it wasn't for Finn.
You like Finn. A lot. He's more even tempered than the Mikaelsons. (Sorry Elijah). He's sweet and normal and human, which is more than you could ask for. He makes you feel normal too. The two of you get coffee every few days like clockwork. He helps finalize your plans for the garden and gives you tips on how to build a greenhouse.
You slip into his friendship like an old coat.
Finn politely ignores the darkening circles under your eyes and days you call off because of vestibular migraines. In return, you skip over the gaps in his anecdotes where his childhood would lie.
You get the feeling the two of you have more in common than gardening and a vaguely suicidal adolescence.
You're grateful he decided to stay in town.
The holidays come and go. This time of year usually depresses you. You make a point to ignore the calendar. You get to January without any snow. It can't be long now. You can smell it in the air— cold coming off the mountains.
Your month free of Mikaelsons is coming to a close. You haven't heard from any of them. Part of you is shocked. (You wonder what Elijah said to them to get them to leave you alone. Klaus, in particular, doesn't care for boundaries). You still don't know what you're going to say to Rebekah. You miss her.
You miss all of them.
All these days alone haven't spurred you any closer to a decision. You can't concentrate. On the rare occasions your head is clear enough to think, you still don't know what to do. You knew quite a few people in college who were polyamorous. But those relationships rarely lasted longer than a year (as young relationships tend to do). The internet isn't much more help. Most of it doesn't apply to you. You have yet to find an account of someone dating several members of a family without it being a cult.
Those usually end in Kool-aid or multiple arrests.
Maybe you should take that as a sign.
"You seem distracted," Finn comments, "A lot on your mind?"
You shake your head, clearing it like an etch-a-sketch. "Something like that. I'm just not sleeping well."
"Are you still having nightmares?"
You give him a tight smile. "Yeah. But I'm usually like this around this time of year anyway."
"Not a fan of the holidays?"
"Not particularly. I don't really celebrate."
Finn inclines his head and takes a sip of his chai. You got it once after he insisted. The peppercorn and star anise filled you with warmth. "I don't either, at least not anymore. I grew up celebrating Yule and Samhain."
Sounds like more fun than your childhood celebrations. Those mostly comprised of hiding in your room from your parents.
"Really? I've never celebrated it."
"My parents were… traditional."
You can read between the lines.
"I never liked this time of year," you admit, "It meant I had to be at home all day instead of at school."
"My siblings and I stayed at home, so there was no escape from our parents."
You pause.
"I didn't know you had any siblings."
Finn's jaw clenches so briefly you barely catch it. You've had the vague feeling his home life might have been worse than yours. Both of you have carefully managed to avoid any real mention of childhood.
Shitty parenting wins again.
"There were seven of us, at one point. Two died long ago," he finally says. You swallow. You were off-base.
"I'm so sorry," you stutter, "I didn't know—"
"It's alright," Finn interrupts with an insincere smile, "You couldn't have."
You know better than to pursue the subject. You change the subject how you can tell Finn desperately wants to.
"Do you have any plans for the rest of the week?"
"Not particularly," he answers, "I just finished moving in."
"You're doing better than me. I still haven't finished unpacking."
Finn laughs incredulously, face breaking into mirth. It brightens his face so much you have to look away.
"Are you serious? It's been almost a month."
You groan.
"I know," you complain, "I just hate unpacking." It took you four months to unpack all of your stuff at your old place, and that was with friends helping you. You have less friends and boxes than you did then. You just don't want to do it yourself. (You've never liked moving. It always seems like too much effort).
"I'll do it for you if you're going to keep whining about it," he says dryly.
"I would pay you in pastries."
Finn mulls it over.
"I accept," he says, leaning over to clink your paper cups together.
You pause again. "Are you serious?"
"I can only hear you complain so many times."
"Well," you say, "In that case, what dessert do you want?"
"Hm," Finn replies, "Surprise me."
You end up making tiramisu. You don't have mascarpone in the house, so you substitute with cream cheese. Ladyfingers don't take that long to bake. You're too impatient to let them sit out for the four days to get stale. Sometimes you find yourself missing the professional grade kitchen at your work. (Even more, you miss having all the ingredients you could want on hand).
Maybe you should get a blowtorch.
The tiramisu sits in your fridge overnight. You doze fitfully on your couch, not long enough to enter REM sleep. You still get flashes of an abandoned Asylum: witches and shattering bones.
Someone plunges thumbs into your eyes and you wake with a scream on your lips. You have to clutch your eyes to make sure you haven't gone blind. The sight of your living room brings you little comfort.
You make more of your vervain blend tea.
Your hands shake with a constant tremor.
The nightmare you had the night before was worse than all the other ones: you couldn't tell if you were awake. You couldn't remember your own name. Most of the time, you can't remember much detail about your dreams. All you remember is the sense of dread and slick terror that encompassed you. (And a name. Freya. You wonder why she's doing this to you).
The house grows stale and unsettling. Like dreams are infecting your home.
Finn comes over in early afternoon.
"Hi!" You greet, "I'm glad you didn't get lost."
He tucks his hands into the pockets of his winter coat, "It's not terribly far away," he says, amused. A gust of wind reminds you he's still standing out on the cold porch.
"Sorry!" You say, moving hastily out of the door frame, "Please come in."
Finn smiles and steps inside.
"I hope you know you don't actually have to help me unpack," you say, "But I made tiramisu anyway."
"I never break a promise," he scolds and his eyes wander around your entry way, "It doesn't look like you have much to unpack."
"A friend decorated the house for me. I didn't have to put in a lot of effort."
"You have good friends."
"Yeah," you echo, "I do."
Tick tock. Your month is running out.
You show him the garage and he just starts laughing.
"I'm not that well versed in unpacking," Finn says wryly, "But I'm almost positive you could have done this yourself."
He's right. There's only three boxes in your garage.
"I don't have an argument," you say, shrugging.
It's not like you haven't had the time. It's the energy you've been lacking.
"You're lucky I found you."
"Some would argue you're the lucky one: you're getting free tiramisu for minimal work."
"I've actually never had tiramisu," he muses, "I'm excited to try it."
You look at him, aghast.
"Have you been locked inside your whole life?"
"Well."
You help Finn carry the boxes into your living room and pull the tiramisu out of the refrigerator. Elijah replaced your old plates with a matching set. You're grateful for the lack of chips on the edges. By the time you dish up dessert, Finn has opened all the boxes and started sorting.
"I'm not going to pretend I know where you want these," Finn states, holding up some terrible drawings from when you were in high school.
"Preferably where the light of day can't reach them," you answer dryly.
"They're not that bad."
"But they are bad."
He acquiesces at that.
"One of my brothers paints," Finn says and you still at the mention of his siblings, unsure how to respond, "My favorites were always his early work."
"Why?" You ask carefully.
He smiles wryly. "It reminded me that he was human."
"Well," you say, collecting the papers, "I'm going to go hide the evidence of my humanity under my bed."
Finn laughs, a low chuckle that lingers in the back of his throat. You realize with a creeping awareness that if you were in a different place, you would be pursuing something else beside's Finn's friendship.
Is that what he expected when you invited him over? You glance furtively at him. You hope not.
You start an upstairs pile and go through the rest of one of the boxes. It's mostly junk: chargers that go to devices you don't even have anymore and art supplies for hobbies you haven't done in years. You find a set of pens you've been looking for. Maybe you should make the spare bedroom into a studio after all.
"Where do you want these?" Finn asks and you stiffen. You're silent for too long. He looks up at you, forehead creased in concern.
"Sorry," you say, eyes locked on the family photo albums you thought you lost two moves ago, "I didn't think I had those anymore."
He looks like he's about to open one and you stop yourself from snatching it away from him. He traces a finger over it.
"Where do you want them?" He asks.
You stop yourself from saying a bonfire.
"I'll put them upstairs," you say with a plastered on smile, "Want your reward?"
"We're hardly done," he says dryly. You roll your eyes.
"Such a rule follower, Finn, time to loosen up."
He gives a long-suffering sigh.
"That's not the first time I've heard that one."
He puts down the photo album and your muscles untense. He stands up and you realize he towers over you. You repress the shiver that tries to run up your spine.
"Dessert?"
"Dessert," Finn agrees.
You eat in the living room because you love breaking rules. (It's your house. There aren't any rules anymore). You put away the duvet you dragged in for your nap earlier. Finn is pleasantly surprised.
"This is excellent," he compliments, "I see you weren't exaggerating about your skill as a pastry chef."
"You've never had tiramisu before. And I never exaggerate," you say dryly, "At least not about baking."
He smiles, quiet and small. "I'll keep that in mind."
You take two bites of the tiramisu before your body rebels. Eating hasn't been your friend lately. (Neither have the headaches, or your inability to sleep). Nausea sweeps over you. You set your plate aside. You hope Finn doesn't notice.
You unpack another box to fill time. Finn helps once he's finished. Between the two of you, everything gets put away. The photo albums sit, discarded, on top of your drawings.
You really should get a portfolio if you're going to keep all of your high school artwork.
You turn around and realize Finn is standing closer to you than you realized. He backs away when you jump.
"Sorry," he says, amused glint in his eyes, "Didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't," you promise, "Do you want any tea? Coffee?"
"Tea, please."
Predictable.
You brew some of your home-made blend. It's the only thing that gets you to sleep anymore.
Not that you're planning on sleeping again anytime soon. Not if you can help it.
You use the new electric kettle sitting on your counter. No more microwaving mugs of water. You think Elijah got tired of improperly brewed tea. Such a stickler for the rules. He and Finn would get along.
"Here," you say when you return to the living room, "I know it's not chai, but it'll have to do."
"I believe I can go without for one day."
His eyes meet yours, amused spark in his eyes, as he lifts his cup to his lips. You take a sip of yours, sweetened with honey.
Finn keels over, coughing up blood. The teacup crashes to the floor and shatters into a hundred tiny pieces. Erratic retching noises escape his throat.
"Oh my god!" You say, dropping your cup to rush over to him, "Are you okay?"
Black veins pulse beneath his eyes and you freeze. Realization hits you. Vervain. Your new tea blend. You inhale a shaking breath.
"Fuck."
You make it halfway to the door before he catches you, pinning you to the floor. His fangs are bared inches from your throat, black replacing his light-colored irises. Your heart palpitates.
"Please don't hurt me!"
"I wasn't planning on it until you poisoned me."
"I didn't mean to!" You exclaim with wide, desperate eyes, "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were a…"
Finn cocks his head.
"So you do know about vampires then?" He states, voice hard, "Are you working for my mother?"
"What?" You ask, head spinning at the direction this conversation has taken, "No?"
"So you're not a witch?"
"Why the hell would you think I was a witch?"
He shakes you and your head crashes against the floor. You groan and bile rises in your throat.
"Jesus Christ— I'm not a fucking witch! Are you trying to give me a concussion?"
"I have to be sure," he says, eyes frantic in a way that alarms you. Finn seemed so mild-mannered before. You don't recognize him in this wildness. "Where did you get the amulet? I can sense the magic from here."
"I told you! My friend gave it to me."
Finn's piercing eyes bore into you. Your bones pop under his grasp, heart racing so loudly you can hear it in your ears. You think he's not going to believe you, but his grip relaxes on your wrists.
"Fine," he bites out, "Who is this friend?"
Going off of how the Salvatores and everyone you've ever met seems to loathe the Mikaelsons, you think you're going to skip the name-dropping.
"Just a friend," you evade, "He's a vampire too."
"Are you sure?"
You can't tell whether your head is spinning because of your possible concussion or because of the bizarre path this conversation is taking.
"Am I sure he's a friend? Or that he's a vampire?"
"Both."
"… I'm positive."
He releases you and allows you to sit up. You clutch at your temples.
"I'm sorry," he says stiffly, "I need to go."
You catch him by the wrist. It's worrying you're more concerned with getting answers than him attacking you. You're too used to people hurting you at this point. You wonder when it stopped fazing you.
"I don't think so. You owe me an explanation."
He looks at you and you briefly remember that it's a bad idea to taunt vampires.
Especially ones who aren't in…
Who aren't friends with you.
You don't know if Finn counts as a friend anymore.
But Finn doesn't bare his teeth at you. He watches you for a too-long moment. You don't look away.
You refuse to be scared. You've been afraid too many times.
Eventually, a defeated look washes over his face instead. You can feel the ache from here.
"Alright," he says, "I suppose you've earned it."
Sorry for the cliff hanger ;) I'll probably be switching to an every week update schedule for a bit because I managed to build up a stockpile of chapters that I am impatient to release! Also I just read the Grisha Trilogy + Six of Crows & CK and I am in LOVE. If any of you have book recommendations for me, let me know in the comments :-)
Love y'all! Hope you enjoyed the chapter