lmao imagine noah and finn being roomies in atlanta while filming 😭
this literally smells like a ao3 fanfic... but wait, actually imagine the vision anon is trying to share:
the pure forced proximity of a year-long film schedule combined with mutual pining that’s been simmering behind the scenes for years.
imagine the nights out with the cast slowly shifting until the group chat goes quiet and it’s just the two of them left at the table. it gets to the point where grabbing dinner after a long day on set isn’t even a question anymore—it’s a settled fact, a ritual they both secretly count down to during the day.
but then imagine the soft hours in that shared apartment. they have a 'house playlist' that grows every day; finn introduces noah to 70s rock and indie bands while noah blasts the latest pop hits he likes until finn is caught humming them in the shower. it’s finn sending a spotify link at 2:00 am from the next room over with a simple 'reminded me of you,' and noah wearing finn’s headphones just to feel closer to him, even when they're only a wall apart.
then there are the nights of total exhaustion but filled with responsibilities. noah is slumped on the sofa, buried under college assignments, the only sound being the frantic clicking of a keyboard or noah’s tired voice on a study call. finn watches him from across the room, catching the exact moment noah’s eyes flutter shut. he doesn’t just put a blanket over him; he carefully moves the laptop, adjusts noah into a more comfortable position, and lingers there longer than he should. he knows he shouldn’t be admiring his friend’s beautiful face like this, but he’s so far gone he can’t look away. he wakes up the next morning unable to meet noah’s eyes over breakfast, terrified that his feelings are written all over his face.
noah starts to spiral. he notices finn acting distant and 'off,' and his heart sinks because he’s convinced finn finally figured out the years-long crush he’s been hiding and now he’s terrified that he’s made everything awkward beyond repair. the tension is thick, suffocating, and it only gets worse as the date for the byler kiss scene approaches.
but while noah is spiraling into rejection, finn is drowning in his own head. he’s been writing constantly, his notebook filled with frantic, half-finished lyrics that he hides the second noah enters the room. he seems lost in thought, his brows furrowed as he stares at his guitar strings without playing a note.
for finn, the distance isn't about noah. he is struggling under the weight of his sexuality, terrified by the way his heart stutters when noah laughs or gives that cute little smile finn can't resist. he isn't pulling away out of disgust; he’s pulling away because he’s terrified of how much he wants to stay. to have something real. to be loved.
the night before the scene, the air in the living room is thick. they’re sitting just a few inches apart, but it feels like a canyon. finn finally breaks the silence, his voice barely a whisper, cracking just slightly under the weight of his nerves: 'i think we should practice... the kiss, i mean. for... for the scene tomorrow.'
noah agrees, of course, his heart hammering against his ribs so loud he’s sure finn can hear it. it starts out hesitant—a ghost of a touch, just the light graze of their lips testing the waters. but then, the years of suppressed pining just... explode.
it isn’t a 'practice' kiss anymore. it’s desperate and heavy. finn’s hands tangle deep into noah’s hair, pulling him closer as if he’s trying to bridge every moment they spent apart. noah responds by gripping the hem of finn’s shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling him in like he’s finally coming up for air after being underwater for a decade.
they completely lose track of time on that worn-out sofa. between the kisses, there are breathless, shaky laughs and whispered confessions—conversations they’ve had a thousand times in their heads but never out loud. it’s so incredibly refreshing, like a fever finally breaking. every time they try to pull apart to catch their breath, one of them is pulling the other back in, realizing that 'practicing' was just the final excuse they needed to stop pretending. by the time they look at the clock, the night is half-gone, and the room feels different—lighter, somehow, now that it's filled with everything they finally dared to make real.
it’s the foah domestic era we deserve. i’m actually losing my mind over this...
writers, start working before i do...
