#finnlio

Wind rustles the willow tree. Light seeps through the curtains, dandelion-colored and timid. Finn and Celio lay together, assigning bird calls to their owners, telling each other of lemon syllabub and shop windows. Moments like this are rare. Spare mornings left untouched by churchgoers or patients. When they do arrive, Finn always finds himself wrapping an arm around Celio's stomach, half-mumbling, half-begging for a peaceful moment together, while Celio insists otherwise. I have to stop by the market, he says. Or it will be exercise, cleaning, letters to respond to, even despite the sun being asleep. "A schedule does our health good." he claimed a moment ago, standing by the bed. "You act as if I subject you to torture…" "You torture me," Finn grumped. He outstretched a hand, lazily failing to catch Celio's shirt. "Men die from broken hearts, you know." "So you will be dead in my bed because I made breakfast," Celio's voice sparkled. "Yes. Tragically." "Then you can help me." Finn made a noise that spoke for itself. Celio sighed. "I'll bring it to you. You'll forgive me." He leaned over the mattress, combed through Finn's disheveled hair and placed a kiss over the mole on his cheek. Finn took the opportunity and snapped his arms around Celio's waist, tumbling him onto the bed, chests pressed together. While Celio tried prying his fingers off to no avail, Finn burrowed his face in his neck. "You were not as asleep as you were acting," Celio said. "You'll forgive me," Finn responded, muffled. Refusing was useless. Finn's head lays on his chest, now, no longer holding him captive. Celio's heart vocalizes under his ear like a lullaby. Men were cold to the touch more often. Bodies mute, dead on their side of the mattress. The closest to adoration Finn experienced was searing tea splashed on his front by a betrayed wife. He never held it over their heads. Being in his company was a sign of the times; he end of careers, families, happiness. It was never as airy as he'd fantasized, but with Celio's fingers traveling over his vertebrae, today, he hopes, near-prays it will be different. He holds his hand, and Celio's pulse misses a beat. At first, Finn thinks he must have imagined it, but it only races further, reminiscent of him forgetting to close the gate behind Shire. Did Celio not want to be touched? Perhaps forcing him to stay had truly upset him?— "I love you," Celio says. Oh. Finn adjusts to look at him. Celio focuses on the ceiling before finally returning the gaze. His eyes are porcelain, loving in the identical, anxious way of a teenaged boy's first kiss. Finn's heart pangs. He always looks at him like he's someone else. He treats Finn as someone who never failed. Who never committed unspeakable acts, who never wept, or panicked, or placed molding bread in front of his parents. He runs him baths, rubs knots out of his neck as if he never spat at him for saving his life—he never deserved that kindness. God, or whatever fickle thing set his future in front of the gallows, knows he didn't. Finn watches men die and has the audacity to be aghast, to need comfort from Celio for the same damn thing every day when he hangs his coat. It is as if Celio is so godly he cannot comprehend his human failure... It is practically manipulation to keep his intrigue alive, your lips pursed on the words: if you were anybody else, you wouldn't like me. Finn opens his mouth, this time, albeit for a moment. "I love you, too," he says. The phrase is too simple. It does not repay the debt he owes. Still, Celio's heartbeat quiets.