his fingers tap his wrist again. this feels like s a l v a t i o n, like something that gus thought he would never find. he is used to feeling small, is used to feeling like maybe —- just maybe —- he doesn’t belong. but here, with finley, he fits. it’s more than puzzle pieces snapping together, and it’s more than the time they dressed up as salt & pepper shakers for halloween. no, this is different. a good different. if gus is a library —— and he is. rows and rows of books and memories and kaleidoscope colors ——finley is the book that’s always been missing from the shelf. the spot has always been waiting for him, always looking lonely, and when gus’s gaze falls to finley’s lips before climbing back to the boy’s beautiful eyes —— the eyes that gus has fallen in love with, because the eyes neither age nor change, so gus will certainly be in love with finley forever —— his heart utters a ‘ welcome home ’ in uneven beats that gus is sure finley will hear. gus’s heart is an animal, a species of its own kind. he’s hidden it for so long, tried to settle its hunger and quench its thirst with anything he can find. the menu, written in the cursive elitists live for, lists the options: other boys, sometimes even other girls, new hobbies. it doesn’t help. nothing helps, and the creature living and breathing inside gus’s chest is r a v e n o u s. gus is afraid. he fears what it will do if it fails. if he fails. his heart needs finley’s heart between its teeth, eager to devour it at the altar, sacrifice it to the higher power that’s kept gus from swallowing finley whole all this time. he hopes he’s holy enough, pure enough for finley. he wants to worship him —— kiss all over the young god, make him t o u c h heaven rather than just know it —— but the feeling of inadequacy is the devil in this creation story, and gus is afraid that he can’t measure up, that he won’t measure up. that his prayers of let me be good enough for him, let him choose me, let this work out for the both of us, have gone unanswered and will be thrown into the pile of wishes that just weren’t real enough, weren’t good enough. but, this is r e a l. gus knows it’s real. he doesn’t know anything else.
“ hm ? ” gus murmurs, and he feels the chest creature bang its fists against his ribcage. i’m trying, he tells it, inching closer to finley. i’m trying to get you closer, to get u s closer. finley is speaking now, and gus is listening. he is. every syllable that drops from finley’s mouth sends gus’s frame spinning, their heads on the same pillow instead of on different continents. in different worlds. in different u n i v e r s e s. their backs are against the satin sheets, gazes to the ceiling, making shapes of the plaster, when gus realizes that finley is done speaking. how long has he been silent ? only a minute or two, gus assesses, and he breathes life in between him and finley, like their fallout was their downfall and he’s resurrecting them. ‘ and he rose on the third day, ’ one of the holy books read. if only it had been only three days. “ finley, ” gus pauses, a sharp inhale that is the calm before the storm that is about to sweep through this bed, this bedroom, this apartment. a palm drops to the middle of finley’s stomach, fingers touching the fabric of his shirt like his fingertips would dance across the other’s skin. waltzing slowly, softly. no sudden movements. “ i want you to feel something. ” gus takes one of finley’s hands carefully, presses it to the wrist — the wrist that finley can’t get enough of, anyway — and waits. “ do you feel it ? ” gus whispers, afraid his voice is going to thunder louder than his pulse. “ now, c’mere. ” gus pushes himself over onto his stomach, places one palm over finley’s hand —— the hand that’s still on his wrist. “ keep that there. ” the instructions are slow, soft. gus doesn’t want to scare finley, doesn’t want to confuse him. he can’t afford miscommunications here. gus’s fingertips dance against the soft skin of finley’s neck, and he forgets why his hands ever hurt at all. they’ve never felt this good. he’s never felt this good. he looks into finley’s eyes with his own, searching and scanning for answers in every speck of color that lives in the boy’s irises, and he’s praying again. this time, that this is okay. that this is something he can do. gus places two fingers on the sweet spot of finley’s neck, trying to find the trace of a pulse, but he can’t read it. he’s not strong enough, not with just his hands. gus looks into finley’s eyes again, gives him a look that beckons “ okay ? ” and he’s no longer looking at the boy. his tongue traces the outline of his lips before he dips his head down, pressing a kiss to the spot where his fingers no longer rest, and nothing has ever been so goddamn deliberate in the life of augustus abrams. he keeps his mouth there a bit longer than he needs, and the creature living inside gus’s chest moans in satisfaction inside its cage. he pulls away regretfully, retracting all physical connections he has to finley right now, and grins. a goofy, blushy grin. the kind of grin that could stop world wars and establish global peace. “ did you feel that, fin ? ” gus asks, and he’s still smiling. he can’t stop smiling. “ my heartbeat. it’s syncopated with yours. you know what that means ? ”
