It was weird to see Finn like this.
Yeah, no duh, Leo: we’ve been covering this story for a while now. Where have you been?
But he just meant, well . . . Happy.
Like, sure, it was one thing for the dude to no longer be waving a knife around, to be less pissy about every living thing that looked in his direction (and even non-living thing; Leo was convinced he’d beat up a lightpost if it just so happened to be in his way). But this wasn’t just, Hey, I calmed down a bit and am not nearly as angry at the world (or you). Would you like to be friends? He was . . . smiling. Not smirking all cocky and condescending, but down-to-earth, simple as a child lighting up on Christmas, smiling. Only that, unlike that child, he’d gone through every circle of hell to find this happiness, it seemed . . .
Gods, how did he do that?
Leo was still partially convinced he was talking to someone else entirely.
But when he dared to stare at him longer than a fleeting beat of don’t look him in the eye don’t look him in the eye oh gods don’t provoke him (Spoiler alert: Leo provoked him every time), he caught traces of familiarity. He still noticed a crooked quirk to the shape of his grin, like he couldn’t fully fight off the hellraiser in him. He still caught that sort of spiritedness, but something that was in better control, not fueled by a hatred for the world and everyone in it—and, look, Leo understood, okay? He was guilty of feeling some of that hate himself, for everything he had gone through to get to this point. He’d just always figured making light of the crappiness (joking, that is) was easiest.
Maybe the Finn he met all that time ago thought the same about his anger.
Of course, the very second that flash of Knife Guy in his grin softened to something sincere, Leo had to abort that ever-elusive eye contact as if he’d provoke something else out of him: somehow more daunting than the aggression he was used to. He heard him out, yeah. He processed—with the grace of an old car rumbling down the road on flat tires, merrily swerving into a ditch—that Finn did want to “start over,” in some sense. And he . . . what? He wanted to, too? Maybe? Really, what was the worst that could happen, right? (So, it was lost on him why this was so stupidly difficult.)
Leo managed another abrupt exhalation. Sort of a chuff, sort of a cough, mostly just because he’d been holding his breath again. “I mean,” he began, half-shrugging as his fingers futzed with his pant leg. “It’s really not like I have high standards or anything, dude. We know this.” Or any ability to think before he spoke; also another quality of which they both were aware. And as his dumpster fire of a brain caught up with the implications behind that statement, he all but flinched on the spot. “That’s—! Shit, I just meant . . . ”
Yeah, everyone here is 100% aware of what you meant, bro. A+ as always.
Shaking his head, he tried to swallow down another swell in his throat as a flush of warmth collected in his cheeks. “Sure. Yeah. Like, it’s cool, I, uh— I guess.” And oh-so-eloquent as always. His hand lifted to his face, one palm dragging down the side of it, like he could erase the color burning ever brighter. “Actually, yeah, you could stand to threaten me a little bit more. Especially when I’m giving you a very good reason to. Full permission, man. No sweat.”