Finley Albaston was used to aches and pains. They were one out of many things that made him feel older than his teenage self. Everything from the annoying prick of the needle that began his chemo sessions to the relentless agony that woke him in the middle of the night as the cocktail of doxorubicin and vincristine and whatever else had been put into him attacked his bone marrow. These flare-ups often left a residual ache in his bones and joints that would cost him more spoons the next day and make it even harder to get out of bed.
Now, however, his dull ache and difficulty in getting up were for an entirely different reason.
Namely, the presence of Ryan's head resting against his bony chest and their hands somehow still loosely intertwined.
Finley had woken slowly, as he often did on weekends and after a rough night. Each layer of sleep had been gradually peeled off like an onion, revealing another, fresher layer underneath. Well, he seldom ever felt refreshed in the mornings, especially after a night like that when he was not only dealing with bone pain but trying to do so without disturbing his bunkmate.
Yet somehow, in spite of the weight of the other boy's head causing an ache in his chest, Finley actually welcomed waking up to this. While one of his hands was clasped with Ryan's, his other arm had somehow found its way around Ryan's back, thankfully avoiding the site of the astrocytoma. Ryan's own arm was draped around Finley's thin torso, held there by the natural human instinct to hold onto things in their sleep.
Despite the body language that was uncharacteristically intimate for someone like Ryan, Finley still welcomed it, for the very reason that it was so uncharacteristic. Ryan was not someone who easily or willingly let his guard down or wore his heart on his sleeve - which was understandable considering everything he'd been through - meaning he didn't exactly open himself up to trust either. Being in this position with him made Finley feel special, like he had cracked the code to the near-impenetrable safe that was Ryan's personal zone of openness and trust.
He wasn't exactly sure how he'd done it, but he was glad he had.
Taking advantage of the lazy morning (and the excuse to not move his sore joints), Finley let his gaze wander to the early morning sun streaming through the gap in the curtains, watching the specs of dust floating in the light. Today would be a rare pleasant day, weather-wise, in mid-September Britain - although Finley knew that no amount of sunshine could make Ryan feel better about having to go home later that day.
The thought turned his attention back to the sleeping boy on his chest. It wasn't fair that one kid had to endure all of that crap - the neglect, the gaslighting, the verbal abuse and now the lethal cancer. Even on the verge of terminal illness, Ryan was not weak by any means - a weak person wouldn't be able to come out of all of that and still have enough spirit to fight to keep himself alive - but the thought made Finley want to pull him closer to him, as if he could pull all the fractured pieces back together and shield him from the world so that nothing and no one could hurt him ever again.
In his musings, Finley hadn't realised that he had extracted his hand from Ryan's loose grip and started fingering Ryan's shiny, light brown hair. Hair was something of a fascination for Finley, having spent a large proportion of his life without his own. He'd used to do the same thing to Rosemary until she had started giving him dirty looks for it. Ryan's hair was a different experience, however - while Rosemary's was thick and strong and often got matted and tangled due to her haste in getting ready in the mornings, Ryan's was surprisingly soft and light, like downy feathers.
He was pulled out of his musings, however, when he noticed two glazed over brown eyes staring up at him.
"Oh, damn," he let out, quickly pulling his hand away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, I was just ..."
"'S'alright," Ryan said, his voice slurred slightly with lethargy. "Keep goin', feels nice."
With a smile and a hint of surprise, Finley resumed his petting of Ryan's hair, watching as he shifted into a more comfortable position (his head notably remaining on Finley's chest) and soft noises like purrs slipped from his lips, sounding remarkably catlike. Even his languid expression reminded Finley strongly of Harriet whenever she took up residence on his lap or torso.
"Sleep alright?" Finley asked.
"Fine ... until you woke me up," came the reply.
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault, you're dealing with a bunch of shit too," Ryan said, before sighing. "I should probably apologise, bringing my own shitstorm into your life."
"I have a family to help me, you don't," Finley pointed out.
"I have Chloe," Ryan said, sounding rather put out.
"She's not really acting like a sister though," Finley replied. "I mean, actually considering going with the woman that fucked over both you and your brother for life? If our mum did something like that, we wouldn't give her the time of day."
"True," Ryan sighed, looking melancholy again and turning his head to bury his face in Finley's chest. "I wish I didn't have to go back. Wanna stay here with you."
"Me too, but you can't keep running from your problems forever," Finley said, cringing internally at how much like a responsible adult he sounded. "Weren't you gonna wish for this? Seeing her again so you could rip into her?"
"That's right," Ryan sighed. "She came, I saw her, yelled at her, showed her just what she's done and ... I don't feel better or relieved or anything. I'm just ... I don't even know anymore."
Finley tightened his grip on Ryan, keeping him close and resuming stroking his hair. "Spoons?"
"I don't know," came the muffled reply. "I usually don't know until I get out of bed. You?"
"Nine."
"Nine?" Ryan echoed in surprise, turning his head so he was looking more directly at Finley again.
"Yeah, it's always less after a night like that," Finley admitted.
"Still hurting?" Finley noticed how Ryan tensed slightly as he asked this, as if aware of the pressure of his body on Finley's.
"Not too bad, nothing I can't handle," Finley insisted, tightening his grip around Ryan to keep him from trying to move away.
"You're so thin," Ryan observed, seemingly noticing this now he was more awake. Finley's sharp collarbones were exposed through the neck of his loose pyjama top and his ulna and radius bones dug into Ryan's back as Finley's arm held him.
Finley shrugged, as if it didn't bother him. "Par for the course."
The silver spoon necklace was still draped around his neck (Finley never took it off as he could never forget that he had leukaemia). Ryan reached for it and gently fingered the glass bottle. "Still, keep one in reserve, yeah?"
"Naturally," Finley replied. "That reminds me, actually." Carefully, he rolled over in bed, extracting himself from Ryan's grip (and trying not to dwell on how tightly the other boy was holding onto him) and reached for his bedside table. He opened the top drawer and took something out of it. "I meant to give you this," he said, before presenting the object in front of Ryan's curious eyes.
It was an odd charm on a silver chain, a charm of a tiny silver spoon in a glass bottle with a little pickaxe and label saying "In case of emergency, break glass" - a necklace identical to Finley's own. The glass shone in the early sunlight and was reflected in Ryan's eyes.
With a small gasp, Ryan took hold of the proffered gift. "You got this for me?"
"Just as a reminder, always keep an extra spoon close to you," Finley said. "Don't waste any on people who aren't worth you sharing them with."
"Thanks," Ryan said, his expression still one of disbelief that someone would do something nice for him - at least, without prompting or puppeteering on his part. This was elavated when Finley reached around and fastened the clasp around his neck. When he was done, he relaxed back into Finley, giving him a gentle squeeze. "You're definitely worth sharing spoons with."
Before Finley could respond to this, a knock on his bedroom door sounded. "You awake, guys?"
Finley groaned. "Get us some painkillers, then we'll get out of bed." It was a safe bet to assume Ryan needed them as well.
"I brought you some last night," she protested.
"Yeah, but they're the kind that make you sleep," Finley reminded her. "C'mon Rosemary, get a couple of sick guys some Anadin Extra, will you?"
"Fine," Rosemary groaned, walking away to find the medicine. "A couple of sick guys. You said it, not me," she muttered to herself with a private smile.
***
An hour later, the two boys had dragged themselves out of bed, showered, changed and made their way downstairs for breakfast (a routine that cost them three spoons each, leaving Finley with six and Ryan with nine).
"What time do you want to go back, Ryan?" Cynthia asked him.
Preferably never. "I don't know ... eleven-ish?" Because if he stayed much longer than that, they would have to make him lunch too and he had already taken too much from them.
And in his heart of hearts, he knew this wasn't a problem that could be solved by ignoring it. Much like cancer, it had to be dealt with quickly and efficiently, lest it grow and spread into something far worse and out of control.
Of course, as any oncologist would tell you, that was easier said than done.
"Text me when you get back, yeah?" Finley said, when the dreaded time for Ryan to leave cams about. When the other boy just silently nodded in response, his expression kept as neutral as possible, Finley suddenly wrapped him in a spindly but firm hug. This time, Ryan responded, wrapping his one spare arm around Finley's neck, clinging on as tightly as he could - partly out of an unwillingness to part and partly him trying to keep himself stable as his weak legs and cane struggled to hold him.
"Good luck," Finley whispered in his ear, before he gently eased them apart.
Ryan was acutely aware of his heart pumping as Cynthia drove him back. He felt the blood flowing through every major artery and vein in his body, from the carotid arteries in his neck to the deep palmar arches in his wrists. His tumour was the worst offender, accentuating each pulse with a throb of pain. The pressure of the back of the car seat wasn't pleasant, but trying to sit bolt upright for long was nigh unthinkable.
"We're here, any time you need to talk," Cynthia told him as he was getting out of the car.
Great, let me tell you about how I really don't want face that woman and Chloe again and I'd rather someone solve the problem for me, said Ryan's inner monologue.
8 spoons.
Miks walked out of the house and met him halfway down the path before he'd even reached the door. "Hi, feeling any better?" he asked.
"A little," Ryan admitted. "Is she here?"
"... Yes," Mike replied, rather sheepishly. "She's with Chloe in the quiet room right now. Do you want to see her?"
No. "Yes."
"Okay," Mike said slowly, unsurely. Nonetheless, he turned and walked back to the house, Ryan in tow.