“Yes. It’s actually Fionn in Irish. Finn is the anglicized version. He was a…” Finn paused, biting his bottom lip, the blush increasing. “He was a mythical Irish warrior. Kinda like a folklore hero. A mythical creature.”
“Yeah, that seems more like it.” Hank laughed, too, now. “So… Finn the Hun, now that we’re properly introduced, let’s get you some clothes. It’s only strangers I allow to run around my house naked.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you, Hank. For… you know…” He looked at his naked groin, embarrassment pouring off him.
“Yeah, you’re alright.” Hank nodded. “Underwear is in the top drawer. T-shirts and pants in the third. Help yourself.” He nodded again at the dresser behind him.
“Okay. I’ll put the model planes back up on top. Sorry about that. Do you remember how they were?” A timid, apologetic smile tugged at Finn’s mouth, and it was just now that Hank realized that a small pale scar tore through his upper lip, too, aligning with the one through his eyebrow. As if some artist had swept a paintbrush along his face, just missing the pointed tipof his nose and the rounded chin. It had been hidden under a cluster of sporadic freckles, but he noticed it now as more mid-morning light spilled through the linen curtains.
“No worries,” he mumbled. “I’ll get you some water and some broth while you get dressed. You must be hungry.”
“Yeah, I am, I think. Thank you, Hank.” Finn rose from the bed as Hank headed for the door. “Oh, Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a dog? I thought I heard one before.” There was a light eagerness to Finn’s voice, like when he’d spoken about the Bristol Blenheim.
“Well, I’m lookin’ after my nephew’s dog.”
“Yeah? What kinda dog?”
“It’s a black lab. His name’s Louis. He’s a brat with a pea-sized brain, but he’s a good enough boy, I guess,” Hank sighed.
“Can he…?” Finn hesitated. “Can I have him in here? With me?” There was a childlike tone in the younger man’s voice. An odd loneliness to his modest request that weirdly spoke to the loneliness inhabiting Hank’s own soul.
“Yeah, sure. He’s been dying to get in here, anyway, ever since I brought you home.” Finn smiled as he rose from the bed and stood in front of the old cherry wood dresser. The unblemished skin on his slender back was nearly as pale as the snow covering everything outside. Hank looked away, somehow feeling like he was trespassing, despite Finn being naked all along. It was different now that he knew his name. It felt… wrong somehow that he’d seen Finn naked and exposed like that.
“Was he… Was he in here at some point? Or maybe it was something I dreamed. Because I could’ve sworn that someone licked my face.” He remained facing the dresser as he pulled open the top drawer, the muscles of his broad shoulders flexing. “And I… I assume it wasn’t you, Hank.” Finn didn’t need to be facing him for Hank to tell that he was smiling. Teasing.
“No, it wasn’t me,” Hank replied. “I’m not one of those Huns, as you call ‘em.” Reaching for the door handle, he slowly opened the door and peeked out before opening it completely. He knew by now that Louis—no matter how braindead he appeared most of the time—had some quite spectacular ninja moves. It wouldn’t be the first time that he would come bouncing out of nowhere. He at least wanted to give Finn a chance to get dressed first. “I’ll be right back with your water. I’ll heat up the broth, too. It’s real good. It’s from our local diner. Chicken.” God, he was rambling now, wasn’t he? It was just that it’d been so long since he’d had someone to talk to. Since Colton moved out last year, he’d only had Eugene and now Louis to talk to when he was at home, and that eventually got weird, too, when you didn’t get a reply. Sure, he had Til and Vern and people around town, too, but it was a different kind of conversation that he longed for. The one you only had with someone who knew you thoroughly and intimately.
“That sounds awesome. Thank you, Hank.”Awesome.No one spoke like that around here.Awesomewasn’t a word you threw around in rural Nebraska.Stellar,yes.Grand,for sure. But notawesome.That sounded like one of those West Coast tourists who breezed through town in the summer.Awesome thisandawesome that.If it had been Eugene, it would’ve beensickordope.Yeah, even after all those years in Nebraska, you hadn’t been able to take that California boy out of Eugene.
“Oh, Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you happen to know where my backpack is? I have my glasses in there and I’m really quite useless without them,” Finn squinted, and it was only just now that Hank realized that he’d been doing that a lot, Hank mistaking it for confusion.
“Yeah, sure. I put it in the mudroom. Where’re the glasses?”
“In the front pocket. Thank you, Hank.”Hank.It’d been a long while since someone had spoken his name with such comradery, almost. Of course, people around town called him by his name, but it sounded different in his own home, a sense of familiarity in the way Finn pronounced his name.
“No worries. I’ll be right back.”
Closing the door carefully behind him, he headed towards the kitchen. Starting the kettle, he looked out of the kitchen window at the snow falling steadily, covering every surface.It’s snowing, my love. It’s really coming down now. And there’s a stranger in our house. His name’s Finn and he sounds just like you. All educated and shit. He looks a bit like you, too. Not as pretty, of course. No one’s as pretty as you, my love. You’re still the prettiest boy I ever saw…
Chapter Twelve
Finn
Now
It had been ages since he’d slept in a real house, in a real bed. And even though the sheets were now rumpled and carried the faint smell of sweat and sickness, it beat his moldy old sleeping bag any day of the week. Shit, compared to sleeping on a freezing cold cargo train between God-knows-where and the end-of-the-earth, this felt like the fucking Hilton. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt somewhat clean and rested. Since he’d felt safe. Of course, there’d been places over the years where he’d stayed just a little while longer than he’d initially intended. Especially in those remote places where people usually didn’t ask too many questions, afraid that you would perhaps ask some back inreturn. Where the stone faces and the wary eyes told their own story of loss, neglect, or worse. Much worse.
Like that time in Alaska. He’d spent a few months in a dismal town called Hooper’s Bay. A large portion of the town had been wiped out during a major fire in 2006 and the air was still heavy with a collective sense of resignation. Maybe that’s why Finn had felt compelled to stay just a little longer. He’d gotten a job helping on a boat by just showing up one day when another crew member hadn’t. It took more than one nameless face being replaced by another overnight to get a rise out of anyone. That was the name of the game, apparently. He knew fuck all about fishing, but no one seemed to care. No one asked about fancy papers like ID or past references. The less you shared about yourself, the better. To the rest of the crew, he was just another ghost passing through, blowing into town one day, gone the next, leaving only a boot imprint behind in the snow until a new blizzard blasted through town, erasing everything.
Sure, there was that summer in Montana where he’d worked on a farm. That elderly couple had been nice, almost treating him like one of their own. In small glimpses that summer, he’d felt like a real person again. Like someone’s son or brother. Because he had been that at one point, hadn’t he? Someone’s son and someone’s brother. And no matter how many years he kept running from that feeling—that feeling of belonging somewhere—it seemed to be imprinted on his very soul because it wouldn’t go away. So, he kept running. As long as he remembered, he kept on running and didn’t allow himself to rest. At least not for long. When people started asking about the stuff he’d spent years trying to bury deep inside, it was Finn’s cue to move on.
