Chapter Text
NYC
The sun has already begun to set. The day was as long as it was cold and gloomy, and now it's growing darker by the minute.
There is only darkness left of today.
Noah finds himself ruminating again. That’s all he seems to do these days. It gets worse around this time – when the sun begins to set.
Without moving a muscle, he looks toward the window. From his bed, he watches the distant lights twinkle almost as vibrantly as the droplets of condensation glistening as they trail down the glass like tears. Foggy and dim. It doesn’t make him feel much. He sighs, then lets his gaze drift around the room, as if to confirm its darkness by comparison. He checks his phone. Yup, he thinks, before locking the screen. Time for the familiar, tired decision: get up and turn on the lights, or let the darkness in and sit with it until morning.
Noah doesn’t ponder. He’s past that.
He gets up – defiant, objective, yet defeated – and pulls the curtains shut in one swift motion, gripping the fabric without mercy as it shrieks along the rod, irritating him almost as much as the decision itself. He shuts out the last few minutes of timid sunlight for good, deciding on behalf of both of them that he won’t let it mock him any further.
Enough of that for today, he thinks.
It's all he’s ever known. It's never been easy – in fact, it's been everything but. He’s grown accustomed to it. Almost comfortable. He knows it’ll never be easy, but this makes it easier. As long as he’s the one making the call. As long as it's his choice. As long as it's expected – it can't hurt him. He’s convinced himself of that.
His therapist once called it a coping mechanism. Self-preservation, she said. He doesn’t see anything wrong with it. He chooses not to. He also doesn’t linger on the screaming irony of it.
He crosses to the dresser and grabs the remote, reaches for the lamp beside his bed, and turns it off too. Kicking off his slippers, he returns to the same spot he occupied minutes ago – warm, indented, like it knew he’d return. Like it was waiting.
He clicks through streaming catalogs before settling on a brand new documentary he doubts he’ll really watch, but decides to try anyway. Just as it begins to hold his attention, his phone lights up in his peripheral vision. He squints, trying to see who it is without reaching for it. The phone is too far. He sighs and gives in.
Finn.
The name holds his gaze hostage, finding a place and settling just beneath his ribs despite his better judgment, everything else blurring – palms growing damp as his pulse stirs, just a fraction.
It must be the group chat, he thinks.
It isn’t.
He can hear his breathing now, lungs working harder as he considers putting his phone back down. He doesn’t. He just stares. He briefly wonders if he should pause the documentary, but before the thought can finish forming, his thumb unlocks the screen.
Old habits die screaming, Noah mocks himself.
→ Have you had a chance to look at the script yet? You never got back to me. I promise it’s actually worth reading this time. You’re gonna like it. Anyway, text me when you land – we can catch up before heading to set. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
No, he thinks. No – to all of it.
His gaze lingers on the words on his screen, and for the first time in a long while, he realizes he isn't staring absentmindedly. He tries not to think about his body’s somatic response, as if that alone might be enough to reverse it, like it never happened – a trick he knows won’t work.
Instead, he holds an imaginary door closed as a flood of thoughts presses against it, insistent and relentless.
As long as it's his choice. As long as it's expected. It can’t hurt him.
Choice. Hurt. Expected. The words echo so loudly his ears ring.
He fights – and feels himself losing. One thought finally leaks through, cracking the door just enough to slip inside before he can stop it.
He types quickly:
→ Hey, sorry. Haven’t looked yet. Not sure what to expect lol. I land around three, so I’ll just see you on set – don’t want to keep you waiting.
He hits send, before he can overthink it. He’s about to lock his phone and toss it aside when three little dots appear. He barely registers the quickness before the phone buzzes in his hand.
→ Perfect. And seriously, read it before you board – trust me. I’ll pick you up at three. See you there. :)
Finn’s casual certainty settles over him as he stifles his own curiosity before it has a chance to fully surface. Then, finally, he sets the phone down. He turns off the TV and huddles under the blankets. He glances at the pile of papers stamped CONFIDENTIAL sitting nonchalantly on his desk, inches away, like a fuse waiting to be lit.
He closes his eyes, forcing rest over thought for tonight, leaving the mockery for tomorrow.
He can feel the cold stillness weighing down on him as the incessant chatter outside his bedroom cuts through the short-lived silence. He might have chosen rest, but rest did not choose him. It rarely ever does. He nestles under the pile of blankets, clutching them closer, savoring the final threads of warmth and safety for a few minutes before finally bracing himself for the stretch of hours to come. He kicks off the bed, tucks himself into his robe and starts to make his way to the bathroom, stopping a step short of reaching it.
CONFIDENTIAL.
The capitalized red ink stares back up at him, silently screaming for his attention. Calling to be seen. Taunting him. Finn’s words reverberate in his mind.
Choice. Expected. Hurt.
Noah has grown into the understanding that there isn’t ever really much to expect when it comes to scripts, actually. Quiet, timid queer kid whose sexuality is never explicitly stated, because that would be too loud. Pining, lots and lots of pining – but only ever in service of other character dynamics. Love – but it's never meant for him. Gay subtext. Memes. Goosebumps. Tragedy. Exposition.
Too familiar, too personal.
Expected.
Noah has come to understand that it’s best to be seen and not heard – not only through portraying his character – but through his own experience. He’s always had strong opinions. He’s never made them known – he knows better. You’re not that important, he thinks. And anyway, his grievances are too… raw. Too biased. Too personal. So, he takes it all on the chin. Every criticism, every note, every subtle punchline at his expense.
He remembers what it was like being twelve on set. The horror, the exhaustion, the fear, the physicality, the internal confusion.
He remembers seeing his dead body. The video of it being punched. The casual laughter cracking behind the camera. He remembers having to police himself when the creators recount this story in interviews. He had to appear less affected by it on camera than he really was, so he learned to let his jaw carry the tension his mind had compartmentalized. By the time he turned thirteen, stoicism had become second nature.
He remembers realizing his character was gay, too.
He remembers wondering if people would know. Would they figure it out? Would they catch onto Will?
Would they catch onto me?
He recalls fidgeting, a lot – which pulls his attention to the way he’s fidgeting with the sleeves of his robe right now.
He reminds himself that it's all in good fun.
All of it. Each thing. Sitting in its own corner. Claiming its space. Setting up camp. Slowly taking ownership – locked away, hidden, unseen. Sometimes, he struggles to draw the line between Noah and Will. He finds himself forgetting which pain belongs to whom. It all bleeds together, a single ache that refuses to be sorted. It’s only gotten worse since he came out.
What he can’t remember, however, is when it all started to feel like a deliberate humiliation ritual – like blatant, broadcast mockery. The kind he’s learned to expect, and feels as it tightens in his chest now.
He remembers the media scrutiny. He remembers trying, really hard, to be like his cast mates. He remembers how Finn used to walk him back to his trailer at night, because he was afraid of the dark.
He remembers the only person who’s ever made him feel seen and held in all his fragile humanity. With that, he makes his choice – Fuck it. Finn’s right. He'd rather know what to expect.
“Holy shit! OH MY GOD! BROOKE!” Noah screams from the shower. He barely manages to wrap a towel around his waist before he’s slipping out and crashing into the living room. “Look! Right there, Episode Four! I have powers! HOLY SHIT I HAVE POWERS!” He’s beaming. Brooke beams back at him in equal intensity, her fond smile giving away how long it's been since she’s seen him like this. She takes in the unabashed joy in his face, letting the sight of it settle before joining in on the frantic excitement. They hop around like children, enthusiastic exclamations punctuating through sharp, overlapping thoughts for a few minutes before Brooke forces herself back into assistant mode. As soon as Brooke turns away to gather their bearings for the airport, Noah opens his text messages and begins to type.
→ OMG! AHHH! You were so right. See you soon.
He hits send, letting it go without a second thought.
ATL
Atlanta feels much hotter and stickier than Vancouver, even in January. The stark difference settles into the grooves of Finn’s palms as his fingers dig for the sparse bills he stuffed into his pockets before scrambling out the door. Inside, it was a lot easier to ignore – now he’s not sure whether the sweat is a product of the subtle weather change or a manifestation of what he knows will be a years’ worth of big crowds, too much chatter, and a slow-burn pressure that has left him hollowed out before.
It’s a cumulative pressure, years in the making, and it’s now bearing down all at once. He begins to feel it in his bones, as if they’re being pulled length-wise in opposite directions. Filming is exhausting, yes, but Finn knows it could be much worse – he’s acutely aware of how easy he has it in that regard. This is something else. It’s a feeling that didn’t flare and fade, but nestled into him – an attritional weight placed upon him in the shape of long shoots, no real rest, and the knowledge that the finish line only led to another marathon.
He had even started running, working out – preparing.
It was only after they began filming the last time that he really started to reflect on how unprepared he was, how unprepared he always had been. On the surface, he always kind of knew – but the knowledge came in the form of sensing something clouding over him, while also recognizing he may not be equipped with the tools to figure out exactly what.
Unprepared, he thinks.
He pulls out two crinkled bills and shyly thanks the barista before exchanging them for two iced drinks. Cool plastic presses against his palm. The sensation offers a quiet, immediate comfort as he reaches the car and slides inside, setting them carefully into the cupholders.
He sinks back into the driver’s seat, shifting around uncomfortably as he waits, although he is not quite sure what exactly it is that he’s waiting for.
His gaze lingers on the drinks. Iced matcha, oat milk – he thinks, worrying about the ice melting. He whips his phone out of his coat pocket and opens it to his text thread with Noah.
Nothing yet. His last text hasn’t even gone through. He must not have landed yet, he reassures himself, his palms dampening again. I should start driving, he contemplates, focusing on the sound of his fingers tapping on the steering wheel in sync with the pulse pounding beneath the skin of his neck.
He shifts abruptly, his eyes landing on the pile of papers in the back seat.
CONFIDENTIAL.
A hint of a smile ghosts across his mouth as he imagines Noah reading episode four – the surprise, the excitement, the relief. He pictures it so clearly, and wishes he could’ve really seen it himself. It’s been too long since he has.
He wonders what the final four scripts will be like. He thinks about all the times he and Noah have sat in the same room for table reads. How they’d trade quick, knowing glances at one another from a distance each time one of their characters had scenes that felt quietly rewarding – scenes that felt earned to them. How they’d look at each other first whenever a punchline landed, the ones they knew the other would find funny, almost as if waiting for a chance to catch each other laughing.
The sound dances through his mind.
He pauses, quietly grateful that he’ll get to witness every glint of fulfillment, every spark of joy – he’ll be there to catch every twinkle reflected in Noah’s eyes when they read the last four scripts together. His phone buzzes in his hand, pulling him out of the moment – a quiet nudge that the world outside it still existed.
Noah.
→ Landed. Exhausted. Dying for caffeine.
Finn catches himself smiling inwardly at the words on his screen – a faint sense of accomplishment settling in; small, but real, tucked in the corners of his mind – just as the phone buzzes once again.
→ Just saw your other message. Missed you too. Lmk when you’re here – about to grab my bags.
He types back:
→ Less than five minutes away.
He hits send, tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, and starts driving, blasting music and AC with equal ferocity, hoping both will drown out the inexplicable flutter of warmth he feels rising in his chest.
His grip remains steady on the wheel as his mind wanders.
He’s already relived every year of set and press memories and it hasn't even been five whole minutes since he shifted gears. He only knows this because he realizes the song he began blasting – Waiting On A Friend, The Rolling Stones – hasn’t even arrived at the swelling outro yet. Relief washes over him as he approaches a red light. A sigh, tentative, slips past his lips.
His fingers continue to tap, tap, tap on the wheel, and without warning, he feels it. The pit in his stomach. He shuts his eyes and tries to swallow it down, but the feeling persists. Almost like a silhouette, it peeks its head through a crack in the door, creeps in and quietly settles. His eyes lock on the motionless road ahead of him.
He remembers what it felt like to realize – in real time – that in his case, life does not imitate art, but rather, it is the art that began to imitate his life.
The long months of filming season four were challenging in countless ways. Only one of them lingered – much like the smell of stale cigarettes clings onto his clothes, stitching itself to him before seamlessly metamorphosing into just another layer he adorns.
Finn pauses at the thought. He remembers being thirteen – the first time he caught himself curiously observing the way Charlie plucked a cigarette out of its casing. The way he held it loosely in between his fingers, almost as if he was unafraid that it could slip right through, and the way Natalia bashfully mirrored his movements in perfect synchronicity.
He remembers watching as they both raised the cigarette to their lips, then leaned toward each other, stopping half way – meeting only at the flame that hovered between them, cupped at the base of Charlie’s hand like a quiet, unspoken boundary. They drew back slowly, and the cherries glowed on, lingering behind them, a delayed afterimage – two small embers refusing to let the moment end, trailing their retreat like proof that something had passed between them at all.
He found it fascinating – the way they exhaled the smoke between easy banter and shy laughter, like they weren’t risking their lives, or like it couldn’t possibly hurt. As if danger, when shared and softened, could look like intimacy.
At the time, Finn thought he was only watching. By fifteen, he had begun to feel it – the temptation, one that he never foresaw. He remembers weighing it out in his mind before relenting; the first time he held a cigarette in between his lips, dragging it in rather than inviting it into him. Eventually, it made itself at home. It became part of him, quietly, the way habits do – unquestioned, and unremarkable – everywhere he went, the smell of tobacco lingering in his wake. And yet, at fifteen, he still couldn't name it, not really – back then, all he allowed himself to feel was the threat of a slip, and the weight of risk.
At some point, it all fell into place. Years blurred together in the same way feelings did, and finally, he understood what it was he had been leaning toward. He recognized it for what it was: a wanting he didn’t yet know how to hold – a wanting, sunlight caught in its eyelashes, looking at him with a delicacy that somehow pierced right through; peeking its head through a crack in the door, creeping in, quietly settling. Art, imitating life.
Four years ago, season four.
The irony stings. Finn tries to tighten his grip around the wheel as the light flashes yellow, the sweat on his palms betraying him as his hands slip against the leather. He blinks, trying to ground himself as a shiver pushes its way up from his feet, registering everywhere at once, before escaping through his mouth in a sigh, perfectly timed with the traffic light switching to green.
He drives ahead for about two more minutes before taking a sharp turn into the terminal. He swirls his way through the winding airport roads, following the signs with a casual focus. As he pulls into ARRIVALS, he feels it again – the warmth, fluttering beneath his ribs, rising and falling with each breath.
This feeling isn’t new – only clearer now, closer.
The silhouette returns. Between its fingers, a lit match.