the way we call each other baby

Finn hung up the phone and was on his feet a second later. He didn't even notice his bare soles hitting the cold floor, didn't even feel the guitar he'd been holding on his lap slide off and thud dully against the couch cushion. Everything that had mattered a second ago—the loneliness, the silence, the cold coffee—ceased to exist, shoved aside by a single, blinding impulse that hit him in the gut harder than any adrenaline: somewhere on the other side of the city, his baby was crying. And the world around that fact shrank to the size of a cramped, stuffy taxi cab racing through the night of Manhattan. He threw on his jacket right over his sleep shirt, didn't even zip it up, shoved his feet into the first sneakers he found, and flew out the door without even checking if it had latched shut all the way. Screw it. Screw everything. The staircase thundered under his footsteps as he leaped down the steps like a man possessed, feeling his heart hammer somewhere in his throat. Only one thought ran through his head: "Just let me make it in time. Just let me get there. Just let nothing have happened to him." He didn't know what exactly had gone down at that godforsaken party, didn't know who was at fault or what had happened with Mark. But from Noah's voice—from that broken, trembling whisper that had come through the receiver—he understood enough to hate every single person who had dared to hurt his person. He caught a taxi almost immediately—a yellow strip of light that emerged from the stream of nighttime traffic as if the universe itself had decided to play along with his desperate hurry. Finn threw the address at the driver and leaned back against the rear seat, watching the lights of the nighttime city rush past the window, blurred by speed and by that particular, sharp clarity that only comes in moments when something truly important depends on you. He didn't pray—he hadn't believed in any god for a long time—but now, gripping the phone with its darkened screen in his pocket, he repeated the same thing in his mind, like an incantation, like a prayer: "Let him be okay. Let him wait for me. Let me make it in time." When the taxi turned onto the right street, Finn saw him immediately—a lone figure curled up on the sidewalk by a cast-iron railing, under a streetlamp that cast a trembling yellow circle onto the asphalt. Noah was sitting there, arms wrapped around his knees, and even from a distance, even through the car window, you could see his shoulders shaking—soundlessly, pitifully, like a child's. Finn threw a bill at the driver without waiting for change, jumped out of the car, and was beside him in two steps. — Hey, baby, — he called out, crouching down right onto the cold asphalt. His voice came out softer than he'd expected from himself, softer than the fury already starting to boil somewhere deep inside would allow. — I'm here. I came. It's okay, I'm with you now. Noah lifted his eyes to him—tear-streaked, red, his long lashes clumped together in wet triangles. His face, usually so bright, so angelically carefree, was now twisted into that particular, childlike grimace that only appears on people who haven't yet learned to hide their pain behind masks and smiles. He tried to say something, but all that came out of his throat was a strangled, ragged sob. He pressed his forehead into Finn's shoulder, his fingers clutching at his jacket like a drowning man who'd finally found a lifeline. — He... he was in there, — Noah forced out through his sobs, and every word seemed to cost him, as if he were pushing them out along with the shards of his shattered heart. — He was with someone else, Finn. Right there, in the bathroom. I thought he... I thought we... and he just went and... He didn't finish, because the sobbing overtook him with fresh force. And Finn, pressing him close and feeling the stranger's tears soaking through the fabric of his t-shirt, felt a wave rise inside him—a rage so pure, so searing, the kind he'd never experienced in his life. It was cold, calculating—not the kind that clouds your vision, but the kind that, on the contrary, makes the world crystal clear, outlines every object with a razor-sharp line. He looked over the top of Noah's shoulder at the lit windows of the loft, from which muffled music could still be heard, and suddenly understood with absolute certainty exactly what he was about to do. And nothing in the world could stop him. — Where is he? — Finn asked quietly. His voice sounded strangely calm, but in that calmness there was something that would have made the blood of anyone who knew him well enough run cold. — Where is that piece of shit, Noah? Is he still in there? — Finn, don't, — Noah whispered, lifting his tear-streaked eyes to him and clutching at his sleeve with that desperate, drunken grip only a person crushed by grief and alcohol at the same time is capable of. — Please, just take me home. I don't want... I don't want you to... But Finn wasn't listening anymore. Carefully but firmly, he freed his arm from Noah's fingers, got to his feet, and, letting his gaze linger on him for a second—a gaze that said, "I won't let anyone hurt you, you hear me, no one"—turned around and strode quickly, flying toward the entrance, where basslines, someone's laughter, and the clinking of glasses could still be heard. Inside the loft, it was stuffy and smoke-filled. The music pounded against his ears. Someone tried to stop him, slap his shoulder, say hello, but Finn moved through the crowd like a knife through butter, not dignifying anyone with even a glance. Because the image of Noah's face stood before his eyes—tear-streaked, shattered, miserable—and that sight burned him from the inside hotter than any flame. He didn't even know what Mark looked like in person; they'd never met. But with some sixth sense, sharpened by rage, he picked him out of the crowd without a single mistake—tall, with a stupid, self-satisfied smirk on his face that vanished the very second Finn grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and, without a word, dragged him out into the hallway. — Who the hell are you? — Mark started, but he didn't get to finish. Because Finn slammed him against the wall, and in those chocolate eyes, usually so warm and dreamy, there now burned a cold, merciless fire that transformed him from a creature of paradise into an archangel with a punishing sword. — I'm the guy who's about to decide whether you walk out of here on your own two feet or not, — Finn said. Every word fell like a sentence, like the final chord of a song nobody would ever want to hear directed at them. — You dared to hurt someone who's a thousand times better than you. And now you have exactly one chance to get the hell out of here. Because if I see you anywhere near Noah ever again—you are going to regret very deeply that you were ever born. Do you understand me? Mark, pale, pinned against the wall, feeling the stranger's fingers squeeze the collar of his shirt with a force hard to expect from someone so lean, opened his mouth but couldn't force out a single sound. He just nodded—quickly, convulsively, like a bobblehead. And that was enough. Finn released his fingers, stepped back, and, throwing him one last, annihilating look, added almost in a whisper, but in a way that imprinted every word onto the air like a brand: — You lost the best thing that could have ever happened to you, and you didn't even realize it. Now—disappear. He turned and walked out of the loft without looking back, leaving Mark in the hallway with trembling lips and a shirt twisted sideways. He descended the stairs, stepped out onto the street, and was beside Noah again—who was still sitting on the sidewalk, but no longer crying. He was just staring ahead with an empty, exhausted gaze, in which there were no tears left, no hope, nothing at all. — It's done, — Finn said, crouching down beside him again and reaching out to brush a damp, clinging strand of hair from his forehead. — It's done, baby. He won't bother you anymore. Let's go home. Noah nodded silently, letting Finn pull him to his feet, wrap an arm around his shoulders, and lead him to the curb where a taxi was already waiting. Nighttime New York roared and sparkled around them with millions of lights, but neither of them noticed. Because right now, all that existed for them was this one second—the scent of sandalwood mixed with the smell of night air, and the simple, not yet spoken aloud but already hanging in the air between them realization that no one would ever be closer than they were right now, in this very moment, in the back seat of a yellow taxi carrying them home. In the taxi, Noah was silent, his temple pressed against the cold glass, watching the nighttime streets rush by outside. First the lively ones, flooded with the neon light of bars and 24-hour diners, then the quieter ones, steeped in that particular, thick gloom that only comes in residential neighborhoods deep at night, when even the dogs stop barking and the traffic lights blink into the void. Finn sat beside him, barely moving, only throwing him short, attentive glances every now and then—glances filled with that painfully familiar mixture of care and worry that had settled between them long ago and had become something like a second language, one that needed no translation. He didn't ask questions. He knew now wasn't the time for questions, that Noah would speak when he was ready. Finn offered him his presence with his entire being: in the way his shoulder barely noticeably brushed Noah's on the turns, in the way he automatically straightened the backpack slipping off Noah's knees, in the way his fingers lay on the seat between them—close, but not pushy, leaving a space that Noah could occupy if he wanted to. Noah didn't occupy it. He just sat there, arms wrapped around himself, occasionally shuddering—whether from the cold or from the delayed sobs that had already receded but left behind that particular, cottony emptiness, when it feels like all your emotions have been drained to the bottom and nothing remains inside but a dull, aching void. His temples were still throbbing, the vile taste of alcohol still lingered in his mouth, and the same image kept flashing before his eyes: the tiled wall, the dim lightbulb, a stranger's hands on the body of a person he'd been stupid enough to trust. He squeezed his eyes shut, chasing the vision away, but it came back again and again, like a scratched record. And each time, something inside him broke—not as sharply as the first time, but still painfully enough to make him want to scream. — Almost there, — Finn said quietly. His voice came out so soft, so careful, like he was talking to a wounded animal he was afraid of frightening with a careless movement. — Hang on just a little longer, baby. And that "baby," spoken in the half-dark of the taxi, beneath the steady hum of the engine and the rustle of tires on asphalt, suddenly broke through the thick wall Noah had built between himself and the rest of the world. He shifted his gaze to Finn—to his tired but resolute face, to the curls disheveled after his frantic dash from home, to the ridiculous sleep shirt peeking out from under his unzipped jacket—and suddenly felt tears welling up in his eyes again. But these were different tears: not bitter, not desperate, but something warm, almost grateful, born from the realization that here he was, Finn, sitting beside him, in the middle of the night, having rushed out at the first phone call without even asking what had happened or whose fault it was. — Thank you, — Noah whispered with just his lips. And Finn, hearing that barely distinguishable word, didn't answer. He just gave a barely perceptible nod and covered Noah's hand with his own—lightly, almost weightlessly. But that touch was enough for Noah to finally exhale and let himself relax, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes. They got home in silence. Finn paid the driver, helped Noah out of the car—he was still unsteady on his feet, swaying slightly—and, holding him by the elbow, led him toward the entrance. The staircase, usually so familiar and dear, seemed endless to Noah tonight. But Finn walked patiently beside him, slowing his pace whenever Noah stumbled, saying nothing whenever he stopped to catch his breath. The apartment greeted them with silence and that same smell of coffee, now stale and barely noticeable. Everything was the same as it had been a few hours ago: the scattered guitar picks, the forgotten mug on the table, the guitar lying orphaned on the couch. But Noah looked at this familiar mess as if seeing it for the first time, as if he'd come home after a long journey and was now rediscovering every detail, every object that held the memory of a life that just this morning had seemed so simple and clear, and now, for some reason, had shattered into a hundred sharp pieces. — Sit, — Finn instructed, guiding him to the couch and lowering him onto the sagging spot in the middle. Noah obeyed, feeling his body flood with a stupid, heavy exhaustion. — I'll be right back. He went to the kitchen, and almost immediately the familiar sounds drifted out: the rush of water filling the kettle, the clink of a mug being set on the countertop, the rustle of a cabinet being opened—Finn was looking for the honey, it seemed, the one they'd bought together at that little shop on the corner they loved to drop by on Sundays when they had nowhere to rush to. From all of this, Noah's nose suddenly started to sting. He tilted his head back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling, trying to swallow the lump rising in his throat. A few minutes later, Finn returned with two mugs of hot tea. Steam rose from them, smelling of mint and something sweet. He handed one to Noah and sat down beside him—not too close, but not too far either, so that exactly enough space remained between their shoulders for a free breath, but no more. — I liked him, — Noah said after a long pause. His voice sounded hollow, as if from far away, from beneath a thickness of water that hadn't yet fully released him. — I really liked him, Finn. He was so... steady. Calm. Being with him was easy, you know? I thought we had something real. I really thought that. Finn nodded silently, not interrupting, only gripping his own mug a little tighter, his knuckles whitening. But his face remained as calm as the mask he wore in moments when a hurricane was raging inside. — And he, — Noah continued, his lips trembling, — he just went and... with the first random guy, right there, while I was in the next room. I don't even know what hurts more—that he did it, or that I didn't see any of it. I mean... I actually believed him. He fell silent, staring into his mug of tea, which he was holding with both hands as if trying to warm himself against its heat. And Finn, looking at his slumped shoulders, at his wet lashes, at the way his fingers trembled around the ceramic, suddenly felt that cold rage rising inside him again—the one he'd barely managed to tame back in the hallway of the loft. But this time, he didn't let it break free. He just took a deep breath and, shifting a little closer, placed his palm on Noah's back, between his shoulder blades, right where he imagined the biggest pain must be sitting. — Listen to me, — he said, his voice low and steady. — What he did only says something about him. Not about you. You're not to blame for any of this, you hear me? You believed him because that's how you're built—you trust people, you see the best in them, you open yourself up. And that, damn it, is beautiful. That he turned out to be trash—that was his choice and his loss. Not yours. Noah listened without lifting his eyes. But somewhere in the middle of that speech, his shoulders stopped trembling. His fingers around the mug relaxed just a little. And Finn, noticing it, let himself exhale—for the first time since he'd bolted from the apartment after that phone call. — Do you really think that? — Noah asked quietly. In his voice was so much vulnerability, so much bare, childlike need for confirmation that he wasn't wrong, that he wasn't broken, that he was okay. And Finn, looking into his green, still-wet eyes, suddenly understood that right now, in this very second, he wanted to say something far more important than just words of comfort. Something that had been ripening inside him for many months, maybe years. But he didn't say it, because the time for it hadn't come yet. Instead, he simply said: — I know it. And someday you'll know it too, baby. I promise. Noah didn't answer. He just slowly, as if not quite believing what he was doing, lowered his head onto Finn's shoulder. And they stayed like that—in the silence of their shared living room, under the light of a single lamp—two people bound by something far more complicated than just friendship.