#finnlo

Logan leans back, laughing, like he’s going to splay out and look up at the stars the way they so often do—and in their haze, it seems they both forget how full the bottle clutched to his chest actually is. Finn reaches out too late. Whiskey sloshes over Logan’s neck and collarbones, making him startle and yelp and sit up, arms out, baffled.

They break down again. There’s nothing for it.

“Merde,” Logan mutters, setting the bottle down with too much care. He swipes at the few droplets on his arms and sleeves, looks down at himself, and sighs. The flannel comes off with only a bit of struggle. He’s left in a white tee with a gaudy moose on the back, Bienvenue! stretching over its head and between his shoulders. His necklace falls out the soaked neckline when he leans forward to assess the damage.

“It’s not so bad,” Finn remarks.

Logan’s nose crinkles at the side. “Sorry. I know it’s a nice bottle.”

It’s true—Finn used his Christmas money for it. But he bought it just for this. For them. For the roof.

Looking at Logan shake his shirt out, he can’t imagine it would look better in any other place.

“Here,” he says, reaching across the (always too) small space between them, shrugging his own overshirt off as he goes. He daubs at Logan’s arm (hot so hot always so hot) and presses cotton to his chest, drinking in the tang of alcohol on the night breeze. It’s warm, for spring. He can smell the undertones of the whiskey on Logan’s skin.

This close, he can see porch-light reflecting off the dampness on Logan’s neck, not yet evaporated. A bit dribbles down into the hollow of his throat, past the thick cord of his necklace, vanishing into the wet patch above his collarbone. It’s good whiskey. He can hardly imagine how it would be to taste it off Logan. To take fabric between his teeth and drink every drop, then fix his mouth to the warm skin beneath.

Finn looks, and for a moment, it’s devastation.

He looks, and it’s Logan.

Green eyes, calm and quiet and deeper than the deepest sea. A sharp jaw begging to be kissed, to be bitten. Lips curled in what would be a wry grin if it wasn’t so him. He doesn’t flinch. It’s so much worse. They’re so close like this. They’re always too close.

“Finn.”

Finn fights the flutter of his eyes and feels the breath in his lungs go still. Logan’s voice around his name—not Harzy, ‘arzy, mon ami—and nobody home. Nobody’s home, not really. Just Percy, and Will, and maybe Dylan. A couple of the guys who haven’t left for break. Maybe even Cole, but he’s supposed to leave in the morning, he wouldn’t be out tonight, wouldn’t see if Finn finally collapsed under the tingling gooseflesh weight of that voice on his name. Yours-and-yours-and-yours, his heart beats. He would roll Logan onto his back, he thinks. Right here on the shingles. He’d kiss him until he couldn’t taste the alcohol, just Logan and spit and body and Logan. They really didn’t have that much. Not at all. He’d die for just a moment of it.

“Harzy.”

‘arzy.

Does he want Finn’s heart on a plate? He’ll give it to him now, with a shot to chase it. Oh, god, he can’t take another moment of this rib-clenching want in the night and his name. He wants to make Logan laugh like that again, loud, free, just to kiss it from his lips.

Logan looks sober. And sad.

Finn wants to apologize. His mouth is numb and empty. “Is that better?” he asks, ragged.

“Ouais,” Logan whispers back. The silence, the silence. Please please please please. “We should go inside. You’re drunk.”

Finn shakes his head. Please please pleasepleaseplease.

“I’m cold.”

He could cry. He could fucking cry. Would Logan break if he did? “I’ll get a blanket.”

That’s the thing of it all, that’s the fucking thing, is he can see it all over Logan’s face and his wildfire eyes and the unhappy curve of his mouth. He wouldn’t tell Finn no, if he took the cord of his necklace between his teeth and sucked it clean. He wouldn’t push him away if his neckline followed, and god knows he wouldn’t tear Finn a new one for kissing whiskey off his skin. He loved it when Finn took the sea-salt off him like that in France. He fucking loved it. The way he smiled—the way he held Finn.

Logan’s gaze flickers over his face. Finn braces for it. Digs his skates in hard.

“Okay.”

That’s…Finn stumbles over his own thoughts. He blinks. Logan’s expression does a funny thing, not quite agony, not quite a smile. He nods, once, just a dip of his chin.

“That would be nice.”

“Okay,” Finn says, too quiet to his own ears.

Logan takes the whiskey bottle by the neck and moves it away from the edge. “Okay.”

Finn slips in through their window, somehow. He’s not hammered but he feels like it, sweaty-cold with a pounding pulse. He scrubs both hands through his hair and folds them at the back of his neck, pushing hard on the pressure points there. He rests his head on his desk and tries to remember how to breathe. Cool wood. The sounds of a late, late dinner for one downstairs, and a party three or four streets down.

• • •

Dim lights fell over the ice at Madison Square Garden. A roar of wild cheers broke the passing wave of near-silence, just as a familiar dance of red and blue began painting the shiny white surface.

Finn had treasured memories of this place, of loud Saturday nights for him, Alex, and their dad to dress in blue and red and blend within the crowd. Bits and pieces of that first game, too—ages ago now. One that forever sealed Finn's undying love of hockey. He must've been no more than six at the time, yet he was sure that somewhere, in the clutter of his bedroom closet, he could still find the tiny jersey and beanie he'd so proudly worn that day. And so did Alex.

Now Finn couldn't put into words how it felt, almost fourteen years later, to be sitting in the same stands between his parents as his brother zipped behind the glass in New York colors. Because Alex was incredible—present, fast, all wicked moves and perfect, blazing wrist shots. And Finn couldn't imagine being more proud of him.

That night, the Rangers were leading the Maple Leafs 3-1 when the third period started, short-handed and with thirty seconds left in Toronto's second power play of the night. When the Leafs iced the puck, both teams changed their lines, and Finn was left to follow Alex's closely as it came out of the bench. It gave the goalie—Kasey Winter, number thirty, a wall in the cage, really—the span of a few seconds to catch his breath after beautifully blocking five consecutive, aggressive shots. He'd made it look like child's play, effortless.

Toronto won the next face-off. The puck slid back fast to the open blue line, and Finn's shout came out quicker than the Leafs' defensive reaction. Alex swiftly intercepted the puck, chipped it forward, and took off as though his life depended on that breakaway chance. Finn held himself to the edge of his seat with clenched fists as Alex, nearing the blue crease, sent a bullet of a snap shot past the goalie's glove and straight into the top right corner of the net.

The goal horn blared, the crowd exploded in a single chant, and Finn barely registered the blood-chilling sound of his brother crashing into the boards behind the net, falling under the full force of the Leafs defenseman's body.

"Alex!"

Finn gasped—a desperate catch for breath. The frantic beating of his heart quickly filled the deafening silence in his ears. His eyes opened to a dark room, slowly adjusting to the silver stream of moonlight pouring through the window. No shutters, no curtains. There were shadows of blurred photographs all over the wall at his side. He wasn't home.

With numb fingers, he grabbed the edge of his blanket and sank further under the covers. He was too warm, cold sweat coated his forehead in droplets, but somehow he couldn't stop shivering.

He's fine, Finn told himself, fighting away the lump in his throat.

He rolled onto his back, burrowing into the rumpled, overheated sheets. The ceiling was dull, anonymous, and suffocating. When he turned, this time on his other side, a breath he didn't know he was holding suddenly spilled free, and the room, one he shared, became colors.

There was Logan, sound asleep with his lips slightly parted, holding onto his pillow with a tenderly curled fist.

He kept Finn grounded, even as his tingly hand slid to the back of his head, fingers pushing numbly over that recently-healed, fragile spot where he had hit the boards no longer than a month ago—ghosts of fingers that had eased up his pain, a warm body stitched to his side day and night when he couldn't even keep his eyes open.

Finn reached blindly for the bedside table. The clock on the phone's screen read 3:28. Too early to get up, go for a run, and try to clear that brutal image from his mind. Too late for a call that wasn't worth the jumpscare.

Quiet lingered in the dark, and Finn flopped onto his stomach. His heavy eyes were on Logan when he squeezed the pillow between his arms, seeking the kind of warmth he could feel radiating from the other side of the bedroom.

He didn't fight them then. As his heartbeat slowed down to a sinuous rhythm again, Finn let those fear-filled tears finally fall.

He woke to a gentle hand on his shoulder and a familiar, hardly graceful weight dipping the mattress.

"Harz." A brief shake. "Harzy, wake up. It's late."

Finn stirred, slowly unfolding himself from the load of the horrible night still crushing his body.

“It’s almost 7:30.”

Logan's voice was deep in the morning, usually scratchy with a touch of grumpiness. Soft and sweet to Finn's ears, on the rare occasions when Logan was the first to get up.

It made Finn jolt up. "My alarm."

"You snoozed it," Logan arched a confused brow. "Twice."

It took Finn a moment to rub sleep from his bleary eyes, only to find Logan still smiling at him, as if lighting up the sun.

"Allez. I want coffee."

"Your class..."

"Ouais." Logan’s hand settled on Finn's back, thumb stroking absently between his shoulder blades. "And you'll make us both late if you don't hurry."

It didn't get better from there. Not when Finn walked into class fifteen minutes late with a sore, scraped hand—courtesy of the untied shoelace he tripped over. Not when he had to spend his lunch break in his professor's office, discussing the details of that Methods paper he was ages behind on. And certainly not when he kept making a fool of himself on the ice during practice, tripping over his feet every two strides—the Frozen Four only a few weeks away and too many eyes settled on his every move.

Logan's, for instance. Carefully observing. Not the kind of glances that left burns on Finn's skin. The kind they both pretended not to sneak at each other at any given moment. In the gym, on the ice, in crowded places where Finn's heart was constantly pulled in one achingly wrong direction.

And later, in the locker room, at Will's worried, You okay, Harz?, Finn almost lost it. With a faint nod and a tight smile that threatened to tear off his lips, he disappeared into the showers. Eager to leave as quickly, he got dressed and drove himself and Logan back to campus in a weird silence they were both still trying to figure out, unknown and terribly uncomfortable. Meanwhile, Logan's puzzled eyes showed no sign of breaking away.

The moment they walked through the door of the OKN house, Finn was in his bed before he could notice that Logan hadn't followed him upstairs. For the hundredth time that day, he picked up his phone to check for any sign from Alex, only to find that the text he'd sent that morning—Hey, bud. Just checking in. Everything okay?—was still unread.

Finn knew he was being irrational. It had just been a dream. Everything was fine, and there was no reason to bother Alex with this nonsense.

Or maybe he should just call...

The door cracked open, and Logan came in behind a large box of delicious-smelling pizza.

"Hungry?" He smiled, but Finn didn’t miss the hesitation.

Only then did Finn also realize he'd eaten nothing but two burnt pieces of toast and a protein bar all day. His stomach churned and growled to remind him.

"Starving," he sighed. He crossed his legs and patted the space on the mattress in front of him.

To his surprise, Logan walked over to where he was slouched against a pile of pillows and kicked off his shoes. They looked at each other for an awkward moment, and then, at Finn's reluctance, Logan rolled his eyes and cocked his head toward the open space between Finn and the wall.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, the warm box balanced across their knees. Logan tore a loaded slice for Finn, who bumped his elbow in return.

"Thanks," Finn said through a small smile. "When did you get it?"

"Mh?"

"Pizza."

"Oh," Logan blew on his stringy slice. "Like two minutes ago?"

Finn's brow furrowed as he cocked his head. "How?"

"Delivery."

"We've been back for, like, five minutes..."

"Ordered it earlier," Logan mumbled around a big bite. "At the rink."

"You did?" Finn's voice came out thick. A swell of something warm and steady settled in his chest.

"I thought you might have..." Logan kept his eyes down as he chewed. "You looked like you needed a—what is it that you always say? A comfy night?"

Finn could only nod, even as an ocean of words crashed against every corner of his mind.

How, he wanted to ask. How do you always know?

Six months. That's all it took for Logan to throw Finn's world upside down. A dare, a bet, the spark of a firework waiting to be lit. A loud spectacle of lights that Finn wanted to last all night, and maybe some more.

There was no reason to keep Logan out of something that wasn't too big to share, or as frighteningly beautiful as whatever they kept tiptoeing around.

So Finn put his pizza back in the box. It left greasy crumbs all over his fingertips that he tried to rub off as he took a deep breath. His next words overlapped with Logan’s careful question.

"I'm sorry, Lo—"

"Wanna tell me what's going on?"

Insane, the way those green eyes made the heaviest weight feel ten times lighter.

"It's...nothing," Finn sighed. "Nothing really happened."

Logan tilted his head back against the headboard and shot him a side-eyed look.

"Really, I... It's stupid," Finn insisted. "I just had a bad dream, that's all."

If it took Logan a second longer to answer, Finn wouldn't hold it against him. He watched Logan swallow a familiar gulp of fear, of hope that none of the awkwardness was his fault. Finn hadn't come to terms with that feeling yet. Maybe he just didn't want to.

Logan shook his head. "It's not stupid. You're worried. I can tell."

"I shouldn't be," Finn huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "I know it was just a dream…but Alex was hurt and—I mean, it's probably all tangled together. The concussion and...I think I miss home? I don't know."

"Did you call him?"

"I didn't. He's on a roadie and I thought..." Finn looked down at his fidgeting fingers. "I thought I shouldn't bother him."

Without a second thought, Logan stood up.

"What are you—"

"Where are the Rags at tonight?" he asked, rummaging through his backpack.

"I—um, Toronto."

"D’accord." He padded back with his laptop, messing with the trackpad as he went. When he dropped like a rock onto the mattress, a quiet warmth settled over Finn. He watched Logan's fingers fly across the keys until he gave a satisfied nod. The pre-game show now played on the screen with the sound muted, adding a touch of light to the dimming room. "We're watching the game."

"We are?" Finn heard himself ask.

"Ouais. Starts in twenty," Logan said, and playfully slapped Finn's hands away so he could tear off some more pizza. "You better act fast."

"You wouldn't," Finn scoffed, savoring the comfort of Logan's soft look. A look that quickly turned into something rather impish.

"Watch me," Logan said, all but tearing the box out of Finn's reach.

It was this easy, watching the rest of the world disappear and zeroing in on this taste of blinding happiness that was Logan, and the fire burning inside him.

A fight Finn would've lost from the start quickly ended with Logan surrendering at the mere hint of a tickle, and a small puddle of tomato sauce and cheese on the floor. The fire eased, bound to keep the flame alive as they ate in a bundle of ease, chatting about their upcoming game against Cornell. All the while, Logan made a point of stealing as many pepperoni from Finn's slices as Finn let him.

The commentator informed them that there were ten minutes left until puck drop when Logan turned up the volume on his laptop. It didn't cover the short ping that came seconds later from the nightstand.

Logan snatched Finn's phone, passed it to him with a subtle smile, and stuck his nose in to peek at the notification.

"It's Alex," Finn breathed.

"What's he saying?"

It was a short voice note, so Finn let it play on speaker.

"'Sup, Fish? Sorry for the late reply, bud. It's been a crazy long day. I'm just getting a second here before the game starts. How—"

"O'Hara," someone spoke up from the noisy background. "Who's that?"

"Oh, wait," Alex said, his voice slightly more distant. "It's my brother. Say hi, Kase."

"Hello, baby Alex!"

A loud laugh bubbled out of Finn, in perfect sync with his brother's.

"That was Kasey, by the way. He's annoying—"

"Watch it!"

"—but don't tell him I said that. Anyway, I'll call you back tomorrow, if you're free?"

"Tell him to come to the party," Kasey shouted (New York Rangers goalie Kasey Winter, Finn realized)—probably yelled it in Alex's ear, judging by the size of his voice.

There was a grunt, followed by the telltale smack of a blocker catching against flesh.

"Ow," Alex hissed through another laugh. "All right—Jesus. Okay, sorry about that. What was I saying?"

Kasey came up again. "The party!"

"Yes, the party. So, we basically have the weekend off, and if you feel like driving home for a couple days, we're throwing the biggest party at my place. You should totally come. Oh, and bring Logan, too."

"Who's Logan?"

"Okay, I'm—yeah, that's it. Gotta go win this game now. Catch you later, Fish. Love you."

Logan's mouth hung open when Finn looked up from his phone.

"Was that Kasey Winter?"

"Yep."

“Did he just invite us to a party?”

"Uh-huh," Finn laughed. “Got plans for the weekend?”

Oh, he was gone gone for the way Logan had to lift his chin up to glare at him. Almost affronted, with that tinge of dare in his frown.

"We have now." Logan stressed the words with a weak punch to Finn's arm. "Allez."

Logan pulled the laptop on their laps, the game just about to begin. He tossed Finn's phone away and sank down on the pillows they shared, pressing minutely closer to him. Imperceptibly, to the eyes of a stranger. But Finn didn't feel it any less.

A faint glimmer fell over Scotiabank Arena in Toronto, and a spectacle of lasers began. Kasey Winter led the New York Rangers onto the ice, with Alex right at his back.

Careful not to make Logan shift, or move at all, Finn slid down the comforter. He needed him this close for some reason, not an inch farther. He found his throat tighten when he called out a faint, "Lo?"

Time stopped ticking when Logan leaned his head sideways. There was a freshly healed cut over the bridge of his nose, just a brush away from that dark mole on its side. Logan looked cozy, the picture of peace, and he smelled like the cheap soap they kept at the rink. This close, what else could Finn do but get lost in these new favorite colors of his?

"Thank you," Finn whispered as his eyes inevitably strayed away, drawn by the perfect arch of a beautiful bow.

He watched green eyes wander across his face, as if counting one by one all the freckles there. Finn would be lying to himself if he thought Logan didn't slip too—caught Finn red-handed as he bit down on his own lips against something unthinkable.

Logan didn't say anything. His smile was sympathetic, wouldn't give much away.

When the referee blew the whistle and dropped the puck, they both (so slowly, much unwillingly) moved back to the game. Logan's full head of curls eventually found home on Finn's shoulder when the cheeriness that came with Alex's first goal of the game faded.