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Noah sits cross-legged on his bed, phone balanced precariously on the ledge of his knee. His thumb flicks across the screen in a looping motion, and his face is lit up in the blue of the backlight. The room looks like every other late-adolescent lair: posters curling at the corners, a desk colonized by empty water bottles and half-drained energy drinks, and a pile of laundry somewhere between clean and worn.
Finn is here too, but not on the bed. Finn never sits where expected. He has pulled the battered, navy swivel chair from the desk into the middle of the carpet, and is tipped so far back on its two rear wheels that he’s in permanent danger of disaster. He is apparently reading, but every few minutes he glances up from the half-shut book to watch Noah.
The evening is a perfect imitation of normalcy, maybe even sleepover energy, except they’re too old for it, and neither of them is in pajamas. There’s a bedside lamp casting a warm cone over the bedsheets, making them look almost clean, and Finn is humming some kind of endless non-tune, not quite under his breath, but not really for an audience.
Noah’s brow knots and unknots as he scrolls, the tendons flexing at his temple. “Jesus,” he mutters, too quietly for Finn to hear, and then—louder—“Holy shit. You’ve seen the subreddit tonight?”
Finn, whose hearing is extremely selective, pretends to finish the sentence of whatever he’s reading before answering. “Which one?”
“StrangerThings,” says Noah, not looking up. “And X. It’s like…it’s like Matt and Ross murdered a dog on live television. They’re losing it.”
Finn leans forward, letting the chair slam back to four points of contact with the carpet. “People are always going to freak out. You can’t read that stuff, dude.”
Noah lets the phone drop onto the bedspread. “I know. It just feels like… they’re not wrong, some of them.”
Finn cocks an eyebrow. “Not wrong about what?”
Noah presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until pinpricks bloom, red and bright, behind his eyelids. “About, like, the queerbaiting thing. The Byler thing.” He says it fast, like it might hurt less if he doesn’t give the words enough time to land.
Finn considers this for a moment. “Did you actually think they were going to do it?”
Noah sighs, a sound that is both half-laugh and half-resignation. “I don’t know. Maybe. People really thought.”
There is a pause, which Finn lets get long, as if he’s giving Noah space to walk back the admission. When he doesn’t, Finn says, “You know how much people on the internet want to be mad, right? If they’d made it canon, everyone would just have found something else to be pissed about. Or it would’ve been, like, ‘oh they only did it for woke points.’”
Noah wants to argue, but the words stick in his throat like a splinter. Instead, he picks at the loose thread on the hem of his shorts, twirling it until it knots around his finger. “I know,” he says. “It’s just—” He cuts himself off, but it’s obvious he’s going to say it anyway. “For once, it would be cool if a gay character on TV could just be… not doomed. Not a tragedy. Not a prop for other people’s development arcs. Will Byers has been getting tortured for years, and then in the epilogue he’s just… happy with some random boyfriend nobody even remembers. It’s lazy writing. No — it’s shit writing.”
Finn snorts, and the sound is half mean, half affectionate. “Damn, you really did want Byler to be endgame.”
Noah rolls his eyes, but it’s not a real dismissal. “Maybe,” he says, soft, and pulls his knees up higher on the bed.
“I knew it,” Finn says, and pushes up from the chair, letting it spin behind him. He walks over and stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at Noah with the kind of smirk that means he’s about to say something annoying or dangerous. “You know, you’re kind of beautiful, Will Byers.”
Noah almost laughs, but it comes out as more of a scoff. He tosses a pillow at Finn’s legs. “You’re kind of an asshole, Mike Wheeler.”
Finn grins, teeth bared, and makes a big production of clambering onto the bed, knees digging into the mattress so the whole thing dips and sways. “Oh, that’s how it is?” He’s already launching himself at Noah, hands outstretched, aiming straight for the spot just above Noah’s ribs where he’s most ticklish—Finn’s known this since season one, since that sleepover at the Embassy Suites where they first got the call sheet and spent a whole night seeing who could make the other laugh harder. Even now, it’s still stupidly effective. Noah tries to twist away but his knees are up and he’s folded over himself, so he just curls tighter, chin to chest, laugh caught in his throat.
Noah yelps—high and sharp, louder than he means to—but Finn doesn’t let up. He’s relentless, finding every vulnerable gap between ribs and in the hollow under Noah’s arms, both of them wrestling, limbs tangled in a mess of thrifted shirts and bare skin. Noah tries to fight back, but Finn’s wiry arms are surprisingly strong, and every time Noah gets close to prying him off, Finn just switches tactics, tickling along Noah’s side until Noah is gasping and hiccuping with laughter.
At some point the phone slides off the bed and lands with a clatter on the ground, but neither of them breaks for it. Finn is laughing too now, that weird, wild way he has where he can’t keep his eyes open because he’s smiling too hard. Each time Noah tries to say “stop,” it comes out in a breathless, broken giggle.
After a minute, Finn relents, collapsing back onto the bed and rolling onto his side, close enough that Noah can smell the coconut of Finn’s shampoo, or maybe it’s a kind of body spray, something cheap and sweet.
For a second, the only sound is the shared, ragged breathing.
Noah waits until his breathing slows. His heart is rapping hard in his chest, but not in a bad way. It’s more like he’s standing on the edge of a high dive, the world holding still so long as he doesn’t take the next step.
He pushes the hair from his eyes and says, “You know,”—it comes out weirdly loud in the hush of the room—“sometimes I think we could just… say it.”
Finn’s eyes flick up, sudden and bright. “Say what?” He’s still grinning, but there’s a crackle underneath now.
Noah shrugs, but it’s a lie, because he’s been thinking about tthis for months, and the words are already queued up. “Just… not hide, you know?” He picks at the edge of Finn’s sleeve, his fingers tracing the stretched seam. “I think the world would keep spinning if we did. Like, if we just… came out. Together.”
Finn doesn't say anything right away. After a second, he sits up a little, elbow digging into the mattress, and says, "You mean, like, as a couple?"
Noah doesn't flinch, just nods. "Would be kind of fun, right?" Noah says, voice careful. "FOAH would be trending, like, everywhere."
Finn shakes his head, but it's not a no. He flops back, makes a show of groaning into Noah's pillow. "We've talked about this," he says, muffled. "I like our privacy."
Noah scoots closer, propping his chin on Finn's shoulder. "You don't even post on Instagram anymore," he says. "You're like a hermit. I could be the social media half."
Finn tilts his head. “You really think we’d be okay?”
“Yeah,” says Noah. “Like, look at Dan and Phil.”
Finn blinks, lost. “Who?”
“Oh my god,” Noah groans, “You are literally hopeless. You’ve never heard of Phan?”
“Is that, like, a ship name? Or an anime?”
Noah stares at Finn, as if reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment. “They were YouTubers. The OGs. They came out as a couple after more than ten years. Fans loved it.”
Finn makes a thinking face. “Huh. So you want to be a YouTuber now?”
Noah shoves at Finn’s shoulder, but it’s more playful than anything. “No. I’m saying, people could handle it. We could handle it.”
Finn is quiet for a second, and the weight of him pressing down on Noah’s hips is a question. “And I guess you want to open an OnlyFans as well, while we’re at it?”
Noah makes a face, pure horror, but also a little thrill. “No! I mean—unless we’re, like, really broke. But even then—no!”
Finn is cracking up, sliding down so he’s lying half-on top of Noah, face tucked in the hollow between Noah’s neck and shoulder. “We’d make so much money,” Finn mumbles, the words hot against Noah’s skin.
Noah’s heart is beating so hard he’s worried it might be audible, but Finn’s weight, Finn’s heat, is grounding. His hand finds its way to Finn’s hair, which is soft and ridiculous and smells faintly of whatever shampoo Finn stole from set.
Finn kisses him, slow at first, mouths pressed together easy, like they’re in no hurry to get anywhere. It’s almost lazy, like how you’d kiss someone in the back row of a movie theater. Noah has to close his eyes for a second because the sensation of Finn’s lips, the press and pull, is so familiar it’s almost dizzying. They’ve done this a hundred times before—on couches, in cars, in their trailer on set. But every time, Noah’s chest lights up like Christmas.
Finn breaks the kiss but he doesn’t pull away, just leans his forehead into Noah’s and lets out a small, shaky breath. “It would be nice, though,” Finn says, voice pitched soft, like he’s afraid of breaking something. “Not having to hide.”
Noah wants to say something clever, or at least reassuring, but Finn’s mouth is on him again before he can fish up the words—this time with a little more intent, Finn’s tongue tracing the edge of Noah’s lower lip, then slipping past. Noah lets himself be kissed, lets himself respond, and suddenly his whole body feels like it belongs in this scene. Finn’s hands are everywhere—at Noah’s waist, his ribs, under the hem of his shirt, mapping the territory with hungry, uncertain fingers. Noah pulls Finn closer, and Finn makes that pleased sound again, the one that’s all vibration and intent.
The bed creaks under their combined weight, and somewhere in the background the lamp casts their shadow huge and blurred against the wall.
Shirts come off. It’s not smooth, not in the least; Finn gets his head stuck for a second, and Noah has to help untangle him. They’re both laughing, a little embarrassed, a little wild, but that just makes it better. Finn runs his hand down Noah’s chest, slow and deliberate, and Noah feels the goosebumps rise under his touch.
Finn's lips are at Noah’s collarbone, leaving a trail that’s more heat than pressure, and then he’s propped on his elbow, eyes searching Noah’s face for… something. “If we do this,” Finn says, his voice a little rough, “do we have to tell the Duffers first? Like, get permission?”
It’s so Finn, it makes Noah laugh—an actual, full-out laugh, not the careful, calculated ones he does for interviews. He tugs Finn closer by the hem of his shirt, which is still bunched around his arms. “Fuck them,” Noah says, and he means it.
Finn’s smile is crooked, genuine, and it loosens something in Noah’s chest that he didn’t know was knotted. The thought of telling anyone—Matt and Ross, their agents, their parents—feels suddenly hilarious. What are they going to do? Reshoot the whole season? Kick him out of the fandom? It’s not like he hasn’t already spent the last six years being dissected online. At least this way, it’s on his own terms.
He lets his head fall back into the pillow and closes his eyes, riding the waves of sensation as Finn’s hands slip lower, undoing the knot on Noah’s gym shorts. The air is electric, every nerve ending dialed up, but it’s also oddly calm, like everything else has receded.
Finn kisses down Noah’s stomach, slow, almost reverent, and Noah can’t help it—he laughs again, more bark than giggle, and then Finn is mouthing at him, not even hurried, just… there, present, real. Noah groans, letting the sensation wash over him, and for a second he thinks about all the people out there refreshing their Reddit threads, debating whether queer characters on TV ever get happy endings, and he wants to scream at them, at Matt and Ross, at the entire goddamn internet: it’s happening, it’s right here, it’s real and stupid and messy and so, so good.
Maybe there’s no Byler, he thinks, but there is this—Finn’s mouth, Finn’s hands, Finn’s weird little noises and the way he looks up, checking, every so often, to make sure Noah’s okay. Noah digs his heel into the mattress, trying not to come apart too quickly, but Finn is relentless, his tongue soft and insistent. There’s a moment where the world goes white, and Noah’s entire body tenses, a single high wire strung tight—and then he’s gone, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He laughs, dizzy, half-crying, and Finn’s right there, holding him, not at all grossed out or bashful, just proud of himself, the absolute dick.
Noah flops back, arms spread, staring at the ceiling as the lamp throws wild shadows above. He can’t catch his breath, can’t quite get his head around the fact that this is his life. He tilts his chin down to see Finn splayed out next to him, propped on an elbow, grinning like a wolf.
Noah reaches over, musses Finn’s hair, and says, “Okay. Hail FOAH.”
Finn snorts so hard he almost falls off the bed. “You’re such a nerd,” he says, but there’s nothing mean in it, just the usual affection, the kind that’s safe to show, even now.
Noah closes his eyes and lets the moment simmer, the smell of sweat and cheap detergent and Finn’s shampoo all braided together. For the first time in a long time, he feels like happy endings are possible, even if you have to write them yourself.