Finn Wolfhard Imagines

Boris- Runaways

"Boris, what are we?"

You ask Boris frankly as you both lay on the cold, damp ground across each other, looking at an empty night sky with beer bottles held in both of your hands.

You wore matching worn-out, ill-fitting jackets that hang loosely over both of your thin body frames. Their sleeves covered your skin that were painted with scars and deep shades of blue and purple from bruises that were in the process of healing. His even had tints of red and green contrasting them.

He sighed deeply, pretending not to hear what you just asked. He's changed lately. The way he dressed, did his hair, even the way he interacted with you seemed different. Onlookers- as few as there is- say he's trying to get 'cleaned up' and that you should be happy about it, but you just feel like he was growing distant.

Little did you know that one night, when you slept in the park after you ran from Boris's father, Boris snuck to your bedroom window to take you to a nearby carnival, thinking you would be in bed, plotting a great escape plan.

But he was met by your abusive father who knew you were dating. Boris caught him red-handed, stealing the money you've been saving up to run away so he beat him up but not enough to break his bones. Boris was quick to escape from his grasp and go where he could not find him.

Ever since, he decided not to pursue you as he thought staying with each other would only kill you both. He tried switching it up, making you dislike him but he soon realized, nothing worked.

"C'mon, milaya (pretty in Russian), let's get inside. It's raining soon." He helped you up, hovered his arm over your shoulder and reeled you close.

"Okay." You rested your head on his shoulder as you walked your way to his house. He fished the keys from under the rug and switched the lights on as soon as you guys got in.

"You tired?" He asked, his eyes brimming with a soft expression.

You nodded, feeling the world falling faint around you. You were clearly too drunk to stay up so he carried you on his back.

You felt him carrying you to his bedroom and laying you down on his bed, tucking you in, gentling resting your head on his pillow, and pulling the covers over you.

The bed wasn't big enough for the both of you so he sat on the floor beside his broken window, smoking a cig as he looked at you peacefully sleeping, then dozed off as the rain fell hard.

He was leaning against the window's frame, resting his arm along with his heavy head. You woke up by the sound of thunder and couldn't go back to sleep. You stood up with the pillow on your hand, looking for Boris so you found him there by the window.

You sat on the floor in front of him, placing the pillow on your lap and traced his features softly with your finger tips. His brows, his scars, and freckled cheeks. His face looked so tired, so fragile that any moment, he could break. You wanted so much to take him away from all of the violence that keeps following him around if only you could.

You ran your hands through his ruffled curls then slowly scooted over to rest him ever so gently on the pillow your lap. He flinched a little then looked for one of your hands, one eye still shut. As soon as he found one, he intertwined his fingertips with yours, whispering with his groggy voice and rusty English,

"Y/n, why do you even like me?"

"Boris, why do you even ask? I don't like you."

"What? Y/n... You-" He shot up, wide awake, with brows furrowed in utter confusion.

"I love you. I love how you're an asshole to everyone else except me. Makes me confident, knowing that no one else wants you the way that I do. I love how you reek of alcohol and cigarettes when I rest my head on the crook of your neck." You went on, chuckling softly as you played with his hair.

"I love your sarcasm and your dark sense of humor. I love how the sun's rays bless your curls with honey hues. I know you hate it so much that you keep blocking them out with that flimsy black umbrella of yours but it makes me love you even more."

He hummed in response, rubbing circles with his thumb at the back of your hand that he was still holding.

"I love how you effortlessly feel like home- how you feel so safe even when everyone around me and everything in me warns to stay away. Danger is written all over you but you'll always be my kind of thrill. I love, you Boris. You don't have to act like a saint to keep me."

"So... Tell me. What are we?-" Before you could even answer, you heard the door creak open then banged shut. It didn't even take so long for both of you to recognize that it was Boris's father ready to hit his son with a bat after reporting him to the police when he tried to assault you sexually.

Boris yanked his lampshade abruptly from the plug and smashed his window completely. You took your journal with the escape plan in it that was inside Boris's drawer.

He passed through the broken window, holding your hand in his as you both ran laughing. Boris stole his father's car and drove with you to the carnival in the heavy pouring rain.

As soon as you got to the carnival, no one was there. Everyone hurried to their cars or nearby restaurants. You guys had the whole carnival to yourself. Your father and Boris's wound never think of coming here. Not in this pouring rain.

Cherry wine by Hozier played so loudly through the speakers throughout the carnival. No one was looking so Boris asked if you wanted to dance, which you agreed to.

You guys danced and played in the puddles, kicking rat piss and human spit with diluted mud on water and staining each others' clothes.

Without the words, you both knew you were each other's person. No one had to say it first.

"I know what we are, Boris." You say, finding a temporary shelter from the rain, sitting all wet on the counter table of an empty ice cream shack beside Boris. He held his hand up your neck and rested his thumb on your cheek, attempting to finish your sentence after reeling you in for a subtle kiss.

"We're Runaways."