IMPORTANT: sorry for the long wait. this was supposed to be the last chapter but it turned out to be way too long, so I had to divide it. The next part will be published shortly. (:
Notes:Robin dressed in black &. dark colors lives in my mind rent free
"I told you to stop with these fights, Rob."
Finney sighed, kneeled on the dirty floor of the bathroom in front of Robin, disinfecting his bloody knuckles with a plain, light blue handkerchief. Robin watched the blood rushing out, dwindling, and seep in the soft material, smudging it. He sunk against the wall.
"He started it,"
"Stop sulking like a child." Finney glanced up at him, pushing the tissue harder, making Robin wince.
"Ow, ow— I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He gasped once Finney reeled back, satisfied. "But - what am I without doing this? I live for this,"
Finney's gaze set on his, sighing sharply. He dropped both of his hands. "You're just Robin. And I'd like you better if you stopped starting stuff,"
"But they—"
"I know what they said," his eyes shift to something mirthless, his voice quiet as if restraining a sob. "And I'm used to it. Please, don't break your knuckles just for this. It's pointless."
Sometimes, looking back at it, Robin wished Finney would have valued himself more. He was definitely worth all the blood, and fights, the yells and the wounds. It might have been one year ago, even more, but he doesn't regret any of it. Because Finn was worth every single ruptured bone. But as of now, Robin would still take a fight for him.
A beat of silence passed, Finn's eyes back on healing the wound. Robin winced in pain as he snorted. "I think my limb might be broken."
Flyers of the incoming party cleared that mist that has been floating around in his mind since the hungover. He hasn't thought much about it, but he knew that he'd be grilled on with questions (mostly by Billy) if he didn't come. He used to love these, even when Bruce wasn't even close to being his friend, and he never happened to miss one. It was always the same drill: enter, get some shots, vomit with some girl holding up his hair, pass out (optional), and get back home with either an uber or stay at Bruce's. Either way - merrily and cheerful.
He hasn't been doing any of that for an eternity. A part of him doesn't miss it. It was unhealthy and it was the main reason that brought him to fight with Finney most of the time. The other part of him, well — missed it more than he should. Or maybe he just missed the feeling, and not even the bitter taste that would linger in his throat, scraping at the walls.
When he told Bruce that he would be there, he was pretty staggered despite inviting him. He blinked a few times and pursued his lips. "Well that's..." he trailed off. "well — alright. It's in one week exactly. Hey, you think you can bring something? I know your uncle has lots of Mexican brands. Even a cheap one. People there don't really realize, nor they care."
"Oh, yeah. Will do."
And that's what he did. Not-so-surprisingly, Bruce didn't dare to ask for much. Just a little help with the after-party that he requested to the rest too.
On his way to home, Griffin walked by his side in his usual elegant style: hands in pockets, stance straight, his brother's golden curls perfect just as rumpled and nose plunged in his scarf's depths, mind probably blanc and totally erased. Not a thought behind those icy, half-lidded eyes and long eyelashes. Just a pair of reddened cheeks and the comfortable silence that only he could provide Robin. The kind of silence that Robin knew he needed.
He liked the kid. Smart and bleak. Sometimes he gave an eerie aura, but something about it made Griffin more... Griffin. And he liked it. Suddenly, the silence broke, and Robin noticed how loud the snow was beneath their boots.
"Are you sure about it?"
Robin looked at him, frozen brows knitting together. Or at least he tried to. Griffin, expectedly, understood it immediately. Something about his expression made everything unfathomable.
"The party. You haven't been in one in a long time. I thought you wanted to — quit."
Robin guwaffed. "I don't know why I accepted either. Plus, who said I was going to drink? Maybe I'll just be there for the company."
"I won't be there, as usual. Vance? Doubt that. Billy will just want to get wasted, and Bruce — he has his own shit friends to look after. Frankly, it seems like he doesn't even have fun. He just babysits people to make sure they don't barf on the floor or break something. Otherwise his parents would have his head."
Robin took a moment to let everything sink in, nodding unconsciously. They walked by one of those little houses, side by side on the same street, walls probably hedging the yells of the dead souls of the people living in them. That's what Griffin often said. Not a voice was ever heard. Just peaceful people barely getting out of their houses. Robin remembers the context (which was to praise, really, since he barely remembered anything lately); Griffin wished his house was just like one of those.
Robin saw Griffin stopping, eyes on a peaceful dog laying under the eave of the roof, on the steps of the house. It was tiny and young. A normal dog of a golden color. It was watching the snow below his step, curiously, with big and shining dark eyes and a wagging tail. Griffin tilted his head, staring.
"Your excuses are getting old, you see. It used to be easy to read what you really hide. Although you seem to be getting lost in the same old maze." He kneeled down, voice sharp and sleek, looking at the dog from behind the fence. "It makes me beyond nauseous. Seeing you, The Robin Arellano, who threw fists and broke bones, floundering in your own hoaxes and lies and falling in your own grave. All for what you people enjoy to call a friendship."
Robin just listened, as if the talk was a monologue about someone else; he couldn't even recognize himself anymore, couldn't he? Then Griffin turned around, gazes meeting. They were just as ghostly as ever, but gloomier, making those irises shrink the little light color they had. Instead - cold, deep ocean blue seeped in, enveloping the tiny black dot supposed to be the pupil.
"The worst thing is — It's maddening how you're ruining your notion and the ability to distinguish your own truths from the lies and the excuses you keep spitting. The most maddening of all, though, is how you can't seem to comprehend the gravity of making me - the one on a notch above all of your rotten brains - not fathom you a bit."
He stood up, and Robin followed him with his eyes.
"You're more fucked up than you think. You all are. And may God atone your corrupted mindsets, that not one of you has the capacity to talk about."
The first thought that Robin had, in that vile moment of silence, was: but- sweet, sage Griffin, you're an atheist.
Then, in a blink of an eye, Christmas was there, bringing with it the awful taste of the same old songs, sickening the air but fulfilling it with lights. Denver's corpses would come crawling out in the night to hear those muffled melodies once again. Yet, Robin would have given a broken rib to switch places with the living death; Christmas was not thrilling. It felt old, and grey and drab and sad.
As deep as his mind was able to go, the last time he had fun in Christmas was two years ago - but that was because he was fourteen. A kid. He barely had an idea of what life was about.
But even at sixteen, he wished he wouldn't have one. That only brought his life down.
And Bruce's. And Vance's. And Billy's — and Griffin was thirteen; and talking about his position and company, Robin was shocked to see that he still had some sanity in him.
Did he?
Or maybe Griffin was the most insane, senseless, psychotic, mentally disturbed, around the bend out of them all.
But that didn't matter, because when a wooden white door opened and revealed a room brimming with people drinking amok, chugging down beer under flashing and colorful lights, every bit of Robin's improvements in the last years were shattered.
"Nice, nice!" Bruce snappily smiled, bringing his dimples to sink in his cheeks and his narrow eyes to close. Robin couldn't tell if his happiness to see him was fueled by his mere presence or from the bottles, but then his answer was quickly answered when his almond eyes shifted to the stuff. "Thank you, Dios mio, you're a lifesaver. Yes, a hero indeed." He spoke, carefully taking them.
"Uh..." Robin just followed with his eyes. "I think it's better if I - okay, nevermind." He stepped in, enduring Bruce to step steadily aside before taking off somewhere in the crowd. He wasn't drunk nor high - relieving.
The music was rowdy and loud enough for the other houses to vividly hear as well, maybe even make the floor shake. Robin turned his head to see people dancing like hellish beasts on the floor. He turned again to see tongues in throats, and then again where deep voices yelled 'chug chug chug!'
He pushed through the people, some people eyeing him and whispering. Checking how himself out (bordeaux vest, black blouse with rolled-up sleeves and a black tie) he quickly rushed to the table where he poured himself some Yamada House red wine, admiring the velvet color being stricken by the sheer lights. He swallowed - and his body was more than relieved to welcome the feeling again.
To be truthful, he can't quite recall what exactly made him want to come, but this wine? Worth it.
After some sips that soon turned into two goblets, he stood up. Steady as ever - he's always been able to hold the alcol very well.
Better than anyone (except for Vance) actually.
He searched for a bathroom until someone bumped into him. He quickly looked back, blinded by the flashy and colorful lights.
"Billy?" He looked at him and cocked his head to the side, as much curious as bewildered. He was wearing a normal, black apron with a purple tie, his blonde forelock shielding his forehead just perfectly with strands falling on his eyes. "Hey, do you know where a non-full bathroom is? Jesus, I thought I knew Bruce's house like the back of my hand, but turns out he has way more rooms than I knew of."
"Hello," he flashed him an amiable smile. "You should try the second floor. People are usually too drunk to reach it."
"Second ? That floor is just... bedrooms. I just know people are — I'll go to the third floor. Thank you."
The blondie was suddenly jarred as soon as he started to walk away. Something in his eyes shifted along with the air around them. "Aye, ayeayeaye— " he caught his tanned arm, catching Robin off guard. "I do not recommend the third floor, y'know? That bathroom is floundered by turns an' hallways."
Robin frowned. "Thank you Billy." He harshly retrieved his hand, blatantly suspicious, and took some steps back towards the stairs. Billy tried to keep the pace but failed — he was shorter and therefore had smaller steps. "You're a real pal. I'll take it from there."
"The third floor is too far—"
"I really need to fuckin' pee, Billy."
"Yep. That's why we're here." With a strained smile, he tightly grasped Robin's wrist as they reached the final step of the second floor, urging him to come closer. "It's not even crowded,"
Robin turned his head to the right, where the bathroom door was open ajar. As he took one step closer, the grip around his wrist loosening as if Billy was releasing all the tension out of his body, from behind the corner a boy dressed in light blue colors rushed in, not bothering to close the door behind. He was then followed by a group of smiling and tittering people: Robin recognized them. They were in his same year.
Throwing up sounds were heard but muffled and hedged by the loud music coming from downstairs.
Robin grimaced, and Billy, behind him, looked even more nervous than earlier. He couldn't take his eyes off from the flailed people hindering the bathroom's entrance. Robin's disgusted face turned into further confusion.
"What got you so tensed, dude?" He squeezed his shoulder in attempt to ease his nerves. Billy didn't move at all, just gulped and nodded idly, following Robin, wordless.
They moved to the third floor: almost empty and quieter. Robin preferred it this way, which confused him but shook it off as soon as he spotted the bathroom. "Fucking finally." It was closed, but not locked. Billy, behind him, stood some feet apart. Robin opened it but soon jumped back at the sight.
Vance and Bruce jumped too, pushing one another away, sprinting apart. "Jesus - fuck. Do you not know how to knock?!"
Robin stood there, eyes wide, as some muffled spanish song was loud in the background. The pair's eyes shifted to the blonde boy, hiding behind Robin.
"I — I tried to stop him." He shrugged. Robin turned back, eyes sharpening. "But right now—"
"—You guys made up." Robin turned back at them, pointing his finger loosely at the two. Bruce had strands of hair pointing toward every direction, and Vance's blonde tufts were just as a disaster. Their lips were red and swollen. "Or... made out." He awkwardly added.
Billy tried to interrupt. "Please, hear me out,"
"Well... it's Robin. Better him than anyone else. Turns out Vance was just needy of attention," Bruce chuckled, leaning against the sink, fixing his companion's unkept white tie. "Weren't you?"
"...Shut it."
As Bruce chuckled, Robin turned to Billy. "You knew?!"
"As if it wasn't obvious enough." Vance's bushy eyebrows pulled together.
"Guys," Billy spoke, calling out for Bruce under the messy conversation between the three. Eventually, being left out, he gulped, panicking - and something shattered. "GUYS."
Then everybody and everything plunged into silence, along with the music downstairs stopping for a change.
Billy shifted uncomfortably his weight from one foot to another. "Finney is throwing up on the second floor."
Robin suddenly felt heavy, not sure if it was the mere mention of the name, not knowing that he'd be here, or if it was the fact that he was vomiting his organs out. Either way, he suddenly felt overwhelmed, and straightened his stance, at a loss of what to do.
Bruce did the same as Vance tucked his hands in his pockets, turning to meet his lover's gaze with something concerned, overly sweet and puzzled. "Finney's here?"
He shrugged. "I had no idea. He has never been to any of those... events. The booze makes him uneasy."
"Finn's teetotal. Are you sure it was him?"
Billy nodded. "Yes. I saw him earlier declining a glass someone was offering him - he was wearing a light blue suit... and - and I went to talk to him, and he seemed fine. Just fine. Well, not really. He— he looked nervous, and uncomfortable and... I just shook it off because Donna was by his side, holding his arm..."
"You should've come to me, Billy. He's one of those people who cannot he trusted in the hands of those people," he says placidly. "That is unless I'm around. Or Donna."
Robin groaned loudly, his ears filled with a droning sound. He suddenly sprinted off, bumping shoulders with Billy as he did so, hands turning into fists — Finn must've been dragged by someone. Anyone — anyone could've done it, and as soon as he could get his hands on them, he wished he would've stayed home with Gwen.
A spark of electricity run up his spine, twisting around it and reverberating in every bone of his body, something invigorating that provoked his nails to dig further in his palm and to shake uncontrollably. And Robin thought how good it felt to finally feel .
He strode down the steps, surveying his surroundings as soon as he reached the second floor, stepping on the velvet carpet. Turning around, he spotted the flock of youngsters — a piece of it had left. Some of them were covering their mouths with their hands, gasping, some other were snickering, and others again were genuinely concerned.
"Hey!" Robin yelled, gaining all the attention: fear rushed through their faces, some going pale and some gulping. He then swore he heard someone whispering 'shit, that's Robin'. "I suggest you ward off unless you want your noses bloody and ruptured. Move."
A beat passes, all of them exchanging glances ruled by fear. Then Robin felt heavy steps echoing behind him before a tall, buff figure stood before him. "Are you fucking deaf?" he spat. "He said move."
And that did it. Gulping, they stepped back without qualms.
Robin squished between, unable to wait any more second, blood meandering in his veins, heating up every bit of his body, gnawing at his insides — and the situation quickly escalated when a shudder breath left his lips at the sight before him: Finney was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, crouched next to the toilet, body bristling as if dying of hypothermia.
He quickly crouches to the floor, scared to touch him. Finney has been hating him for the past year. He hasn't touched him in what felt like forever, and Robin hadn't yet forgotten how his touch felt. Hesitantly, he took both sides of his face and lifted his face towards: he was pale, eyes dark and withered.
Something in his chest tightened.
But as his eyes shifted from the floor to him, something akin to a light crossed his orbs. Finney muttered something — his name, could've been. He didn't know, nor did he care. He just let him touch him as his jaw trembled. Something about it made him look like a little child, stashing himself in a room until someone cared enough to pick him up.
Vance careened behind them, and Robin's hands retrieved awkwardly. The blondie kneeled down, offering a hand, but Finney gulped and shook him off.