Fragile Things
Finnley sat across from Everett, his hands curled tightly around the edge of the table. His knuckles were bloodless against the worn wood. His fingers ached faintly from how hard he was gripping it, but he couldn’t seem to let go.
The restaurant was dimly lit, warm and low, with soft golden light flickering from wall sconces. The quiet clink of silverware and the gentle hum of conversation blurred around him. But all Finnley could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He stared at the candle between them, the flame trembling slightly with every faint shift of air.
Just say it, he told himself. Just get it over with.
But the words were stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat, and he felt like he might choke on them.
Everett was watching him carefully. Not impatiently, not expectantly. Just… carefully. His eyes were soft but searching, and it made Finnley’s stomach twist painfully.
“Finn?” Everett’s voice was quiet, low and steady. He tilted his head slightly. “Hey, you okay?”
Finnley’s hands tightened around the table edge, breath catching slightly.
God, why do you have to sound so gentle?
He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, summoning whatever fragile bit of courage he had left. When he exhaled, his voice came out uneven and low.
“I need to tell you something.”
Everett’s expression shifted slightly, barely perceptible, but Finnley caught it—the faint flicker of concern in his eyes, the subtle crease in his brow.
“Okay,” Everett said softly, leaning forward slightly, giving him his full attention. “I’m listening.”
Finnley’s throat tightened. He stared down at the table, suddenly unable to look at him. His fingers flexed faintly against the edge of the wood.
“I—” His voice wavered slightly, and he clenched his jaw, trying to steady it. “I’m… not good at this.”
Everett’s voice was quiet. “At what?”
Finnley exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound closer to a hollow laugh than anything else.
Everything, he almost said.
But instead, he forced the words out, brittle and breaking.
“Letting people in.”
There was a beat of silence. Finnley’s chest tightened.
He didn’t look at Everett. He couldn’t.
Because he was terrified of what he might see.
But Everett didn’t say anything. He just waited. Patiently.
So Finnley kept going.
Even though his throat felt raw and his hands were trembling faintly.
“I—” He swallowed thickly. “I have… this thing. It’s called philophobia. It—it basically means I’m afraid of falling in love. Or getting too close. Or… whatever you wanna call it.” His voice was flat and brittle, like he was reading off a diagnosis.
His eyes stayed fixed on the candle. He didn’t dare look up.
He didn’t want to see the confusion in Everett’s eyes. Or the disbelief. Or the disappointment.
Or worse—the pity.
His voice was quieter when he continued. Hoarser.
“It’s not—it’s not just that, though.” His breath stuttered slightly. “I… I’ve been with people before. And they—” He broke off, jaw tightening faintly. His hands curled into fists against the table, his knuckles bloodless.
He exhaled shakily.
“Larz made me feel like I was crazy. Like… like I was too much. Too emotional. Too complicated. Like I was impossible to love.” His voice cracked faintly on the last word, and he hated himself for it.
He gripped the edge of the table harder, like he could somehow hold himself together by force alone.
“And Silas… he—” Finnley’s breath hitched faintly. His throat tightened.
“He knew about my philophobia and my relationship with Larz.” he finally rasped out. “He knew I struggled with love and knew what the word did to me. We hadn’t talked for months because I saw he was with a girl and he kept denying it but I knew. Then recently he—” His voice turned bitter and fractured. “He used the words against me. Manipulated me and said i would never find someone who loved me like he did. He told me i was too broken to be loved by anyone else.”
His chest was too tight.
His lungs felt too small.
He had to force himself to keep breathing.
And still, he couldn’t look at Everett.
Because he already knew what he would see.
Judgment. Pity. Annoyance. Maybe even disgust.
It was always the same.
He stared at the candle until the flame blurred slightly.
And then he waited.
Waited for the part where Everett told him he was too broken.
Where he got up and left.
Where he let Finnley slip away.
But Everett didn’t leave.
He didn’t say a word for a long moment.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“Jesus, Finn.”
Finnley’s eyes flicked up, startled by the way Everett said his name—hoarse and low, like it hurt him to say it.
Everett’s eyes were so impossibly soft. Warm and pained. And there was no judgment there. No annoyance. No pity.
Just… care.
Finnley’s throat tightened sharply.
“God, I’m so sorry,” Everett murmured. His voice was raw with sincerity. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”
Finnley’s chest stuttered violently, and he had to look away again, blinking hard against the sudden sting in his eyes.
Everett’s hand moved carefully across the table, slow and deliberate. He didn’t touch Finnley’s hand—just rested his fingers nearby, close enough for Finnley to take if he wanted to. But he didn’t.
Instead, Everett’s voice softened even further, unbearably gentle.
“Hey,” he said quietly, waiting until Finnley glanced at him again.
He offered the smallest, softest smile.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
Finnley’s throat closed so tightly he almost couldn’t breathe.
“I’m not gonna leave,” Everett said quietly. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait.” His eyes were steady, unwavering. “I just want you to be comfortable. That’s all. You can take as much time as you need. As long as you need.”
Finnley stared at him, his chest tightening painfully.
He could barely breathe around it.
Everett’s smile turned a little sad, almost sheepish.
“I mean… honestly?” His voice softened with something faintly self-conscious. “I’d be happy just being your friend. I don’t care about anything else. I just—I just wanna be around you. That’s enough for me.”
His voice was light, casual. Like it was nothing.
But Finnley saw it.
The way Everett’s eyes flickered faintly, almost imperceptibly.
The way his throat bobbed slightly when he swallowed.
The subtle, almost pained look he didn’t quite manage to hide.
And it stuck with Finnley—clung to him, even after they left the restaurant, even as they went to Ev’s apartment after dinner, even as he laid awake in bed that night.
Because he knew, even if Everett wouldn’t say it, that he hadn’t wanted to say they could just be friends.
Like it had hurt.
Like it had cost him something.
And Finnley couldn’t stop thinking about it.
About the look on Everett’s face.
And about how he hadn’t deserved it.
But wanted it anyway.
•~✮✩✮~•
Everett sat on the floor of his living room, legs stretched out in front of him, his back pressed loosely against the couch. Finnley sat beside him, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them.
The apartment was mostly dark, except for the small glow of the floor lamp in the corner. It painted everything in soft amber hues, turning Finnley’s already delicate features almost ethereal.
They hadn’t gone home right after the restaurant. When Finnley had softly asked, “Can we just… hang out a little longer?” Everett didn’t even hesitate. Of course he said yes. He would have said yes a thousand times.
So they ended up here—on the floor, sharing a blanket that Everett had dragged down from the couch, their feet tucked beneath it. The TV was on, but neither of them were really watching. Some old movie Everett had thrown on for background noise, the dialogue nothing but a faint murmur in the background.
Everett kept sneaking glances at him.
Finnley’s eyes were distant, unfocused, his gaze somewhere far away. His fingers plucked absently at the hem of his sleeve, tugging at a loose thread over and over.
And Everett’s chest ached.
Because he knew exactly where Finnley’s head was.
With them.
With the ghosts he had trusted.
With the people who had broken him.
Everett didn’t say anything.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t push.
Instead, he shifted slightly closer, slow and careful, as if not to spook him. The blanket shifted with him, brushing against Finnley’s arm. Their elbows just barely grazed.
And he waited.
Just… waited.
Letting Finnley decide if he wanted the space between them to disappear.
After a long moment, he felt it.
The slow, tentative shift of Finnley leaning just slightly into him. Barely noticeable. Barely even there. But it was enough.
Everett’s chest squeezed painfully, and he had to blink hard against the sudden stinging in his eyes.
God, he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
But Everett did.
He felt it.
And he was never going to take it for granted.
Carefully, he tugged the blanket up higher, covering Finnley’s knees, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t say anything—just did it. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t noticed how tightly Finnley’s hands were trembling against his own arms.
And then, slowly, deliberately, Everett let his head tip sideways, coming to rest lightly against Finnley’s. He barely let his weight settle, giving Finnley every possible chance to pull away.
But he didn’t.
Finnley stayed.
And Everett could have cried from the relief of it.
They stayed like that for a long time—both quiet, both still.
The movie rolled on, but neither of them cared.
Everett didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too deeply.
He was afraid if he did, Finnley would pull away.
And he never wanted him to.
•~✮✩✮~•
Everett stood in his kitchen, rolling out a ball of dough with slow, methodical movements. His friends were scattered around the apartment, some perched on the couch, some leaning against the counter, others on the floor, all making their own pizzas. The scent of garlic and tomato sauce lingered faintly in the air.
It should have felt warm, easy.
But it didn’t.
His hands were steady, but his chest felt heavy. Too heavy.
And he couldn’t shake it.
The image of Finnley’s face, eyes hollow and worn, kept flashing through his mind.
He could still feel the slight weight of Finnley’s head against his own.
And the way he had leaned into him, just barely.
Like he didn’t even know he was doing it.
“You good?” Isaac’s voice broke through his thoughts.
Everett blinked, glancing over at his friend. Isaac was watching him, brows slightly furrowed.
Everett forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
But his voice was too flat.
Too thin.
And Isaac caught it.
So did Lilith, from where she was leaning against the counter.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re lying.”
He shook his head slightly, setting down the dough and swiping his hands against a towel.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered.
But he could already feel his throat tightening.
And then Asako spoke softly, gently.
“Everett,” she said, too careful. “What’s wrong?”
And just like that, he broke.
Right there in his kitchen, surrounded by his friends.
His chest caved, and he suddenly had to press his palm hard against the counter, trying to steady himself.
“It’s Finnley,” he choked out. His voice cracked, uneven and raw.
He didn’t even realize he was crying until he felt the first tear slip down his cheek.
And then he couldn’t stop.
The words spilled out in fractured pieces—Finnley’s fear, his self-loathing, the way he had been hurt so deeply he didn’t know how to trust anymore.
He didn’t tell them everything.
Didn’t tell them about Larz.
Or Silas.
Because that wasn’t his story to tell.
Because he would never betray Finnley’s trust.
Not like they had.
But he told them enough.
Just enough for them to understand.
Enough for them to feel the ache in his chest.
When he finally stopped talking, he was trembling slightly, hands gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping him standing.
And no one said a word.
For half a second, the room was completely still.
And then Lilith suddenly made a soft, broken sound in the back of her throat, and she was crying.
Her face crumpled as she crossed the room, not even hesitating before she wrapped her arms tightly around Everett’s neck.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Asako’s eyes were wet, her bottom lip trembling slightly. She came next, wrapping her arms around him too, tucking her face into his shoulder.
Rennee’s eyes were red-rimmed, her hands trembling faintly as she slowly slid to the floor and pulled at the hem of Everett’s shirt, silently asking him to sit down with her.
And just like that, they were all pulling him down.
No one asked if he wanted to be held.
No one waited for him to say “I’m okay.”
They just held him.
They pressed into him from all sides—Isaac’s hand on the back of his head, fingers twisting loosely into his hair.
Rennee with her arms around his waist, squeezing him so tightly he almost couldn’t breathe.
Lilith pressed her forehead against his, her face wet against his cheek.
Asako’s hand resting lightly over his heart, as if trying to hold it steady.
No one let go.
Not once.
They stayed like that, clinging to him, holding him together.
And Everett cried.
Really, really cried.
For the boy who had been broken.
For the boy who thought he wasn’t worth staying for.
For the boy Everett would never let go of.
And he made the promise again.
I’ll stay.
I’ll stay as long as it takes.
I’ll never let him go.