the way we call each other baby

Monday Morning, New York The apartment didn't wake up all at once. It woke up slowly, in layers, the way an old house does when it's used to the voices of its tenants. First, somewhere deep in the hallway, there was the faintest tremor of floorboards—bare feet touching wood in the back bedroom. Then, a rustle, almost inaudible but unmistakable: the whisper of pages being turned by long, musical fingers. That was the sound that started every morning in their little world on the seventh floor of a brick building tucked away among the loud avenues. Noah opened his eyes not because of the noise, but because of the light. The sun, still soft and golden, not yet scorched harsh by the city smog, was slipping through the loosely drawn curtains and falling in a warm stripe right across his face, kissing his eyelashes and grazing the wavy chestnut strands scattered across his pillow. He lay there for a few moments, letting the morning light trace patterns on his eyelids, feeling the world outside kick off its never-ending, rumbling symphony: a distant siren wail, an impatient car horn. But in here, for now, there was a different kind of quiet—one filled with the presence of someone else. He sat up in bed, stretching his solid, athletic body, shaking off the last bits of sleep. His green irises flashed for a second in the sunbeam, a bright, emerald fire framed by impossibly long lashes. He looked like an angel straight out of a Renaissance painting who'd accidentally thrown on headphones instead of a halo and moved into the concrete jungle. But his beauty wasn't cold or distant—it radiated a kind, almost childlike warmth. The smell of coffee, bitter and inviting, was already drifting down the hallway, mixing with something sweet—cinnamon toast, maybe. Noah smiled his famous smile, the one that could probably melt glaciers, and, pulling on a stretched-out hoodie as he went, walked out into the living room. Finn was sitting on the wide windowsill of their shared living room, one leg tucked under him. As always at this hour, he had a book in his hands. It wasn't just a ritual; it was a part of him, as essential as his black curls falling in tight rings to his cheekbones, as the thick line of his brows, now slightly drawn together in thought. The morning light outlined his profile, and Noah, like anyone who'd ever seen this sight, felt his breath catch for a second. Because Finn was devastatingly beautiful—the kind of piercing, almost tragic beauty that borders on art. High, razor-sharp cheekbones, the perfect curve of lips that even in silence seemed about to form a wry smirk or recite a poem, long lashes casting shadows over chocolate-colored eyes that were currently hidden, lost in reading. His lean, athletic body, relaxed in rest, looked like a drawn string, ready at any moment to make a sound, to spring into motion, to embrace. Everything about him was woven from that feeling. He looked like a person from paradise, but the kind of paradise that has room for quiet melancholy and half-tones. — Morning, baby, — Noah said, his voice soft and clear, filling the room. The affectionate word slipped off his tongue easily and naturally, like breathing. Finn looked up from his book, and the world seemed to freeze for a split second as the chocolate depths of his gaze met the emerald light of Noah's. That invisible but palpable current ran between them—the one that had been the foundation of their friendship for years. — Morning, baby, — Finn echoed, and the corners of his incredible lips curled into that smirk that drove millions crazy, but here, in their kitchen, it was just warm and familiar. — Coffee's on the stove, toast is almost ready. And Chloe called, asked me to remind you about lunch on Sunday. Noah walked into their small but cozy kitchen, where every object held a story from their life together, and poured himself some coffee. He watched as Finn finally set his book aside and stood up gracefully, his movements fluid. Finn came closer and paused next to him for a moment—just to grab his own mug, but that moment was enough for Noah to feel the warmth radiating from him and the faint scent of sandalwood and old book pages. Finn was always tactile and couldn't just walk past; his shoulder would inevitably brush Noah's, his fingers might fleetingly graze his forearm. It was a body language that spoke louder than words. — Do you have classes today? — Noah asked, taking a sip of the scalding drink and feeling every cell in his body wake up. He watched his friend carefully, noticing everything: the slight shadow of tiredness under Finn's eyes, the way he nervously twisted the ring on his finger. Noah was always intensely attentive to people, and to Finn especially. — Yeah, later, — Finn replied, looking away and burying his face in his mug. — Studio first. Gotta finish the arrangement for that song that won't get out of my head. It's just too personal, I think. And it's hard pulling words out of yourself and putting them to music when you're afraid someone might actually hear them and understand. He fell silent, and in that pause hung all of his guardedness, all his reluctance to let anyone into his inner world full of music and unspoken rhymes. Noah knew that expression and didn't push. Instead, he just took a piece of toast from the plate and smiled—a smile capable of healing. — Whenever you're ready, I'd love to hear it, baby. You know that, — he said softly. Finn shot him a quick glance, and for a moment his armor cracked. A deep gratitude flickered in his chocolate eyes, almost invisible to an outsider. — I know, — Finn said quietly. — Alright, I gotta get ready. Oh, hey, by the way, Sarah was asking if we wanted to hit that new restaurant downtown on Friday. — Sarah? — Noah repeated, and something unreadable flickered in his voice. — Are you seeing her again? — Sort of, — Finn shrugged, the kind of shrug that means a hundred unspoken things. — And you, baby? How's Mark? You got back late last night. — Good, — Noah answered shortly, his smile becoming a shade less bright for just a second. — He's nice, really. Very... calm. Finn snorted, and the sound held more meaning than a long speech, but he didn't comment. He just picked his guitar pick up off the table and shoved it into his jeans pocket. The silence that hung between them wasn't awkward. It was filled with all those unspoken thoughts they both preferred to keep to themselves—thoughts about those other people they were trying to build something with, something that was maybe supposed to distract them from something else they were still afraid to name. Finn went off to his room to get ready, leaving Noah alone in the morning sunlight with their half-empty coffee cups. Somewhere in the back of the apartment, a guitar string plinked softly as Finn accidentally brushed against it. A single, clean, slightly sad note hung in the air. Noah stood leaning against the kitchen table, looking at the empty windowsill where his best friend had been sitting just minutes before. The scent of sandalwood and old books still lingered. It was just an ordinary Monday morning in New York—the same as dozens of others. But in Noah's chest, right where his infinitely tender and kind heart beat, a strange, warm, slightly aching feeling was spreading. It felt like the anticipation of a storm under a clear sky, like the first, still-fuzzy line of a future Finn song, like the feeling that this familiar, shared life, this shared paradise, was just a quiet harbor before something huge and inevitable that was already breathing invisibly down both their necks. He shook his head, brushing off the weird thoughts, and took another sip of his now-lukewarm coffee. He walked into the living room and sank onto the couch, sagging right in the middle—the result of countless evenings spent together watching old movies or having endless conversations about nothing that were really about everything. The room held the evidence of their shared life: on the coffee table, buried under Noah's philosophy notebooks and a couple of Finn's dog-eared paperbacks—Rilke, maybe, and some modern poetry collection—sat two mugs they were forever mixing up. Next to them lay another guitar pick, because Finn had a habit of scattering them all over the apartment like breadcrumbs marking his routes from bedroom to kitchen and back. Noah's hoodie was draped over a chair, the one Finn had stolen last week, claiming he was cold. He just liked wearing Noah's clothes, really—he'd admitted it once when they'd stayed up late on the fire escape, looking at the Manhattan lights. He'd said it so quietly that Noah had barely caught the words. — You coming? — Finn's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Noah looked up to see his friend standing in the living room doorway, already fully dressed, his ever-present guitar in its case on his back, making his silhouette look slightly more fragile than it actually was. His black curls, still damp from the shower, coiled in thick rings, sticking to his temples and framing his face with that almost unnerving, cinematic sharpness that made random strangers on the street turn around to stare. — Yeah, one sec, — Noah replied, getting up from the couch. He felt the warm floorboards, heated by the morning sun, creak under his bare feet. He went to his room to pull on jeans and grab his backpack full of notebooks. When he got back to the hallway, Finn was already at the mirror, making his thousandth attempt to tame his unruly curls, which still stuck out in every direction, creating that exact "artfully disheveled" look that drove his fans wild all over the world. — Leave it, — Noah said, smiling. He reached out and brushed a particularly stubborn strand out of Finn's eyes himself. — It suits you. Finn froze for a second under his touch. It was one of those tiny, microscopic moments where his eyelashes fluttered and his breath hitched. But he pulled himself together instantly, smirking as he caught Noah's fingers and gave them a light squeeze before letting go. — You're one to talk, — he mumbled. He turned sharply and grabbed the keys hanging on a hook by the door, next to a dog leash for a dog they didn't have yet but both dreamed of getting from the day they moved into this apartment. They'd made a promise to each other that one morning they'd just walk into a shelter and come back with a third someone to make their little family complete. The stairwell smelled of old brick and a faint hint of someone's perfume drifting up from the floor below. As they walked down the steps in sync, Noah suddenly thought that this smell—the smell of home—was something he'd recognize out of a thousand, even if he wound up on the other side of the world someday, in a city with none of these avenues, no fire escape overlooking the river, no creaky floorboards, no rustle of pages at dawn. They stepped outside, and New York hit them with its eternal, relentless cacophony: the roar of cars, snatches of phone conversations, screeching brakes, the click of heels on asphalt, and the distant, mirage-like horn of a ferry pulling away from the dock. The air was already sharp with autumn, clear, promising an October soon to come with its rust-colored leaves and the smell of burnt sugar from bakeries and cafes. Finn shivered, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets because he always forgot a jacket, even when it was barely sixty degrees out. — You're gonna freeze, — Noah observed, shooting him a quick look that held that special, almost maternal concern he extended to everyone he cared about, but to Finn tenfold. — Won't freeze, — Finn retorted with a stubbornness that was more of a habitual ritual than actual resistance. — It's warm in the studio. Besides, I'm a musician. Suffering is part of the job. Noah laughed, and the sound—bright and lilting—wove into the street noise like a silver thread into rough canvas. A woman passing by with a dachshund on a leash couldn't help but smile when she heard it, because Noah's laugh had that rare quality that makes strangers feel a tiny bit happier. They reached the intersection where their paths usually split: Noah to the left, towards the university campus hidden among brick giants, and Finn to the right, towards the recording studio located in the basement of an old theater that smelled of dust and mildew. But today, instead of saying goodbye right away, they both slowed down, as if unwilling to let go of this morning, so ordinary and therefore priceless. — Text me when you get to the studio, — Noah said, stopping and turning back to Finn. The sunlight fell on his face, bringing out the golden sparks in his chestnut hair and making his green eyes almost transparent, like shallow seawater. — Okay, — Finn nodded, but he didn't move. He kept looking at Noah with that strange, unreadable expression that sometimes appeared on his face in moments when he seemed to want to say something important but couldn't quite bring himself to. — Hey, baby. — Hm? — Noah tilted his head, waiting. — Nothing, — Finn shook his head and smiled, but the smile came out a little sadder than he probably meant it to. — Just... have a good day. See you tonight. — See you, — Noah echoed. He turned and walked down the sidewalk, feeling in his back that Finn was still standing on the corner, watching him go. Only when Noah rounded the corner did the sound of retreating footsteps reach his ears—Finn, finally heading his own way. The city swallowed them both, each into his own whirlpool: one into the buzz of lecture halls, the other into the acoustic gloom of the studio. But between them, that invisible thread remained stretched tight—the thread that connects two souls who still call each other friends but can already feel that word starting to tear at the seams, unable to contain what's really happening. And as Noah's feet carried him towards campus and Finn descended the worn stone steps into his basement paradise full of unfinished songs, they were both thinking the exact same thing, not even realizing how in sync their thoughts were. They were thinking that one day, a moment would come when familiar words wouldn't be enough. And the silence they had so carefully protected would have to either explode with confession or collapse in on itself, burying forever what could have been the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to them.