the way we call each other baby

Classes ended later than usual. Noah stepped out of the university building as the sun was already beginning its descent toward sunset, painting the sky over Manhattan in those particular, uneasy shades of orange and violet that only come in autumn, when the air smells of smoke, decaying leaves, and something else, elusively sad. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, and started walking toward the subway, still feeling inside him the echoes of the morning's warmth. After a full day of lectures and seminars, it had faded slightly but hadn't disappeared, still flickering somewhere under his heart like an ember dusted with ash. He thought about Finn—about the way he'd smiled at him across the table, the way his thumb had traced patterns on his knuckles, the way his lips had tasted of coffee and cinnamon. At these thoughts, a smile bloomed on his face again, one he couldn't have controlled even if he'd wanted to. All day, he'd caught himself not hearing his professors, not writing down notes, but instead drawing tiny guitars and someone's curls in the margins of his notebook. Every time his phone buzzed in his pocket, his heart jumped in his chest, because he knew: it was Finn, it was his message, it was a continuation of what had started at dawn and now, it seemed, would never end. But when he turned the corner toward the subway entrance, someone called his name. — Noah. The voice was familiar—too familiar. At that voice, ringing out in the evening air like a false note, all the warmth inside him instantly evaporated, replaced by a cold, clammy wave that rose from somewhere in his stomach and squeezed his throat. He stopped, even though his entire being was screaming: "Go, don't turn around, run." But his feet seemed rooted to the asphalt. Slowly, as if in a dream, he turned. Mark stood a few steps away from him, leaning against a lamppost. He looked nothing like he had that night—not smug and confident, but somehow subdued, faded, with dark circles under his eyes and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. — Can I talk to you? — Mark asked. His voice was quiet, almost pleading. — Just one minute, please. Noah was silent. He looked at the person who just a few days ago had made his heart beat faster, who had seemed steady, calm, real. And he felt nothing but a dull, aching emptiness, mixed with a hurt that hadn't yet had time to heal, despite everything that had happened this morning. He wanted to turn and leave, but something—maybe the remnants of that trusting nature he'd always considered his weakness—made him stay. — About what? — he asked. His voice came out surprisingly steady. Mark stepped closer. Noah instinctively took half a step back, maintaining his distance. The gesture didn't escape Mark, who winced as if in pain and shoved his hands back into his pockets. — I wanted to apologize, — he began. His words were jumbled, uncertain, as if he'd rehearsed them many times but never quite learned them by heart. — For that night. For everything. I don't know what came over me. I just... I was drunk, Noah, I didn't know what I was doing. And it didn't mean anything. That guy means nothing to me. I don't even remember his name, and... — Stop, — Noah cut him off. His voice trembled, betraying what he was trying so hard to hide. — Please, just stop. Mark fell silent mid-sentence, looking at him with a mixture of remorse and hope that Noah had once mistaken for sincerity. Now he saw it for what it was: a pitiful, desperate attempt to get back something that was already impossible to get back. And at that look, at those words, at that "I was drunk" spoken as if alcohol could serve as an excuse, something inside Noah cracked. It didn't break completely, no. But it fractured. And through that fracture rushed all the pain he thought he'd already started to forget. — You think that changes anything? — he asked. His voice rang with the tears he was fighting with all his might to hold back. — You think if you say "I was drunk" and "it didn't mean anything," everything will go back to the way it was? You shattered me, Mark. You shattered me that night, when I stood in the hallway and watched you... with him... and I thought I'd done something wrong. That I wasn't good enough. That it was my fault. And now you come here and tell me it was just a drunken mistake? Mark opened his mouth to answer, but Noah couldn't stop anymore. The words poured out of him like water through a broken dam, and every one of them was soaked in the pain he'd been carrying inside. — You have no idea what I felt, — he continued. Tears rolled down his cheeks now, and he didn't try to hide them anymore. — You were the first person in a long time I felt safe with. I trusted you. I thought we had something real. And you... you just went and destroyed everything. And you didn't even think about how much it would hurt me. — I'm sorry, — Mark whispered. Tears stood in his eyes—maybe even genuine ones. But Noah could no longer tell sincerity from pretense, because he no longer believed this person and didn't want to believe. — I'm really sorry, Noah. I want to fix this. Give me a chance. Noah shook his head, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He took a step back, toward the saving entrance of the subway, where trains rumbled and people crowded, indifferent to someone else's drama. — Goodbye, Mark, — he said quietly. His voice wasn't angry. It was just tired, like that of someone who had finally stopped fighting the inevitable. — I can't. I don't want to. He turned and, without looking back, almost ran down into the subway. Only when the train started moving and the dark walls of the tunnel flickered past the windows did he let himself cry for real. He covered his face with his palms and felt the salty drops running down his fingers. People in the car glanced sideways at him, but he didn't notice them. All he felt now was the dull, aching pain of a wound he'd thought was nearly healed opening up again. And this time, it bled worse than before. He got home in the twilight. Outside the windows of their apartment, shadows had thickened. In the living room, only one lamp was burning, casting a soft, yellow light onto the walls. Finn was sitting on the couch with a book in his hands. But when the front door opened and Noah appeared on the threshold—tear-streaked, with swollen eyes and trembling lips—he instantly tossed the book aside and jumped to his feet. — Baby? — he called out. In his voice was an alarm that cut through Noah's heart sharper than any knife. — What happened? Who hurt you? Noah didn't answer. He just stood in the hallway, clutching his backpack to his chest, tears streaming down his cheeks again. Finn couldn't take it. In two strides, he crossed the room and wrapped him in his arms, tightly, almost to the point of cracking, pressing him close and feeling Noah's body tremble in his hands. — It's Mark, — Noah forced out through his sobs, burying his face in Finn's shoulder and clutching at his t-shirt with that desperate grip people use to hold onto a lifeline. — He was waiting for me after class. He wanted to apologize. He said it was a mistake, that he was drunk. And I... I told him to leave. But it hurts so much, Finn. Why does it still hurt so much? Finn silently stroked his back, his hair, his shoulders. Rage boiled in his chest, but he didn't let it out, because Noah didn't need his anger right now. He needed his warmth. His presence. — Come on, — he said, guiding Noah into the living room and lowering him onto the couch, onto that very same sagging spot where they'd spent so many evenings. — Tell me everything. Everything he said, everything you're feeling. I'm listening. And Noah told him. He spoke for a long time, disjointedly, sometimes falling silent to wipe his tears, sometimes starting over. Finn listened without interrupting, only occasionally squeezing his hand or brushing the strands of hair clinging to his face. He listened to how Mark had waited by the subway, how he'd said it was a mistake, how he'd begged for a chance. And he listened to how Noah, despite everything, still felt the pain, because he'd once truly believed in this person, and that belief couldn't vanish without a trace, just as a scar from a deep wound can never fully disappear. — I just want to stop feeling this, — Noah whispered when the story was over and they were both sitting on the couch, pressed against each other, the world outside the windows now fully dark. — I want it to go away. I want to feel something else. Something good. Finn looked at him—at his tear-streaked green eyes reflecting the lamplight, at his swollen lips, at his wet lashes. Something shifted inside him. He understood that right now, in this moment, he wanted to do something for Noah he'd never done before: not just be there, not just comfort him, but give him everything, without holding back. — Then let's drink, — he said, unexpectedly even to himself. Noah blinked at him in disbelief. — We've got that bottle of wine somewhere, the one Chloe gave us for the housewarming. We were going to open it for some occasion anyway. I think tonight is the perfect occasion. He got up and went to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew. Watching him pour the dark ruby liquid into the glasses, Noah suddenly felt something inside him let go—maybe not forever, but at least for this evening. They drank the first glass to leaving all the bad things behind. The second—to having each other. The third—just because, because the wine turned out to be good, and sitting on the couch pressed shoulder to shoulder was too nice to stop. And somewhere between the third and fourth glass, something shifted. The air in the living room grew thicker. The silence between them became more charged. Noah suddenly noticed they were no longer just sitting next to each other but almost pressed together. Finn's thigh was against his thigh. Finn's arm was draped over the back of the couch, almost embracing his shoulders, but not quite touching yet. — Baby, — Noah whispered, turning his head and meeting his gaze. His voice came out lower than usual, with that particular, drunken honesty that tears all the locks off. — I need to tell you something. I think... no, I know. I love you. Not like a friend. Not like a friend at all. I love you the way I've never loved anyone. Finn froze, looking at him. In his eyes, dark and deep, the flame of the candle he'd lit instead of the lamp was reflected. The entire world outside their apartment ceased to exist. — I love you too, baby, — he answered. His voice came out hoarse, with a low vibration that sent shivers running down Noah's skin. — I've loved you for a hundred years. Maybe longer. And Noah, hearing that, couldn't hold back. He leaned forward and kissed him. This time, the kiss wasn't like the one in the morning—not tender and trembling. It was deep, hungry, filled with everything they'd been holding inside for years and had finally set free. Finn responded instantly, his fingers tangling in Noah's hair, pulling him closer. Their breath mingled. The taste of wine on Noah's lips mingled with the taste of Finn. They kissed as if their lives depended on it. Finn's palm slid down Noah's back, slipping under the hem of his t-shirt, touching hot skin. Noah couldn't hold back a quiet moan into his lips. That sound hit Finn like a trigger. He pressed Noah against the back of the couch, looming over him. His lips moved to Noah's neck—first with light, almost weightless kisses, then more insistently, leaving a wet trail from his earlobe to the hollow between his collarbones. Noah arched up to meet him, offering his neck, his shoulders, his whole body to those lips, to those hands that now stroked his sides, rising higher, toward his chest. — Can I? — Finn whispered. His fingers froze at the edge of Noah's t-shirt, waiting for permission. Noah, unable to utter a single word, simply nodded, lifting himself up to make it easier to pull the fabric off. The t-shirt flew to the floor. Finn froze for a moment, taking in Noah's bare chest in the soft, flickering candlelight—the athletic shoulders, the smooth skin, the barely visible trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. In his gaze was so much adoration, so much unveiled, hungry admiration, that Noah felt the heat of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. — Don't you dare, — Finn said. His voice was so soft, so tender, that Noah had to bite his tongue. — You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen. Let me look at you. He leaned down and kissed his chest—right where his heart beat under his ribs. At that touch, Noah squeezed his eyes shut, because it was too much. Too intimate. Too tender. Too good. Finn's lips moved lower, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake, descending down his stomach, lingering on the hipbones that showed through his skin. Noah no longer held back the quiet, broken moans falling from his lips and filling the room. — I want you closer, — he breathed out, tugging at the edge of Finn's t-shirt. Finn didn't make him ask twice. He pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. Now they were both bare to the waist. Finn leaned down again, and their chests touched. The sensation was so sharp, so all-consuming, that they both froze for a moment, adjusting to this new, impossible closeness. Noah's hand slid down Finn's back, feeling every vertebra, every muscle, every line of his beautiful body. It stopped at the waistband of his jeans. His fingers, trembling slightly—whether from the wine or from desire—tugged at his belt. Finn exhaled loudly into his neck. His own hands were already undoing the button on Noah's jeans. The zipper gave way with a quiet, intimate sound that, in the silence of the room, rang louder than any confession. — Lift up, — Finn whispered. Noah obediently lifted his hips, letting him pull off his jeans, which immediately joined the t-shirt and the glasses of unfinished wine on the floor. Now he lay before Finn almost naked, in just his underwear. Finn, looking down at him, felt the blood rush to his lower belly with such force that everything swam before his eyes. His own jeans had become unbearably tight. — You too, — Noah breathed out, tugging impatiently at his belt. Finn smirked and quickly rid himself of his jeans, left in just his underwear. Now they lay on the couch facing each other, their hips pressed together. Even through the fabric, they could feel how badly they both wanted each other. Noah reached for him and kissed him, deep and wet. His palm slid down Finn's stomach, stopping at the waistband of his underwear. His fingers, shyly at first, then more and more confidently, slipped under the fabric. Finn moaned—low, guttural, pressing his forehead to Noah's shoulder. His own fingers followed the same path. Now they were stroking each other in unison, sometimes speeding up, sometimes slowing down, sometimes almost stopping to prolong this torturous, sweet pleasure. — I love you, — Noah whispered into his curls, into his temple, into his parted lips. With every movement of his fingers, with every answering movement of Finn's fingers, those words filled with new, even deeper meaning. — I love you, baby, — Finn answered. His voice was breaking. His breathing was growing faster and more uneven. The rhythm of their movements quickened, becoming almost uncontrollable. The entire world beyond their sagging couch ceased to exist, shrinking to the size of this room, this candle, this feverish tangle of bodies. They reached the peak almost simultaneously—Noah first, crying out something unintelligible and digging his fingers into Finn's shoulders, and Finn a second later, burying his face in Noah's neck and muffling his moan against his damp skin. They lay there for a long time afterward, motionless, breathing heavily, tangled in each other's arms and legs, unable to let go. The candle on the coffee table had almost burned out. The room had grown completely dark. Only the streetlights seeped through the curtains, tracing pale, trembling patterns on the ceiling. Finn was the first to break the silence. He propped himself up on his elbow and, looking down at Noah, brushed a clinging strand of hair from his forehead. He kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips, swollen from kissing. — How are you? — he whispered. In his voice was that same, familiar care Noah had heard a thousand times. But now it was steeped in something new, something that could only be called by one word: love. — Better than ever, — Noah answered. His green eyes, still glistening from recent tears but in a completely different way now, met Finn's brown ones. He suddenly realized that the pain he'd been carrying inside him after Mark had finally let him go—not because he'd forgotten, but because now he had something far more important. — I think I finally understand what it was all for. Finn smiled and lay back down beside him, pulling Noah close and covering them both with the throw blanket they'd snatched from the back of the couch. — I love you, — he repeated, already falling asleep. His voice was so quiet that Noah barely caught it. The sun seeped through the curtains not all at once, but slowly, timidly, as if it were embarrassed by what it might see in this living room. There, on the couch, covered by a single blanket, lay two people tangled so tightly in each other's arms and legs that they seemed to be trying to grow into one another, to become a single whole. The bottle of wine stood orphaned on the coffee table. The glasses, with dried ruby drops at the bottom, glinted dully in the morning light. Somewhere on the floor lay the forgotten corkscrew. Finn woke first, but he didn't move. He just lay there, feeling Noah's head resting on his shoulder, feeling his breath—steady and calm—brushing the skin just above his collarbone, feeling his fingers clutching the edge of the blanket in his sleep, pulling it closer, as if even in the world of dreams Noah was afraid that all of this might vanish, dissolve, turn out to be a mirage. Finn turned his head—carefully, so as not to wake him—and froze, gazing at Noah's face, lit by the first, still timid rays of light: the long lashes, the slightly parted lips that still bore the traces of yesterday's kisses, the chestnut strands scattered across the pillow and across his shoulder. Such a sharp, such an aching happiness spread through his chest that he had to squeeze his eyes shut and take a deep breath, so as not to suffocate from the feelings overwhelming him. He lifted his free hand to Noah's face. With just the tips of his fingers—barely touching, as if touching the petals of a rare flower—he traced his forehead, his temple, the line of his cheekbone, moving lower, to his chin, to his neck, where the mark of his lips from the night before could still be faintly seen beneath the skin. Noah stirred, mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, and pressed closer, burrowing his nose into the curve of Finn's shoulder. His hand, the one that had been clutching the blanket, moved to Finn's chest, resting right over his heart. The heart immediately began to beat faster. — Baby, — Finn whispered. Noah slowly opened his eyes—first one, then the other. For several seconds, he simply looked at Finn, not understanding where he was, what had happened, why they were both naked, and why his entire body was singing with happiness despite the slight headache and the dryness in his mouth. Then the memory flooded back—yesterday's conversation, the wine, the confession, the kisses, the hands that hadn't wanted to stop. He smiled, slowly, sleepily, but so brightly that a small laugh escaped Finn. — Good morning, — Noah said. His voice was hoarse, and it sent shivers running down Finn's skin. — Good morning, — Finn answered. His fingers reached for Noah's face again—this time not as shyly, but confidently, possessively. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, stroked his cheek, lingered on his sleep-swollen lips, tracing their outline. — How do you feel? — Like I got hit by a truck, — Noah answered honestly, but his smile only grew wider. — And at the same time, like I'm the happiest person on earth. It's weird. — Nothing weird about it, — Finn said. He leaned down and kissed his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the tip of his nose, lingering on each kiss a second longer than simple tenderness required. — It's called a hangover plus love. Classic combination. Noah laughed quietly. His laugh, raspy and low, sounded better than any music to Finn. He reached up, cupped Finn's face in his palms, and pulled him down into a kiss. — You smell like wine, — Noah murmured against his lips. — So do you, — Finn answered without pulling away. — And a little like me. I like it. They lay like that for a long time—an entire eternity, compressed into a few minutes—just touching each other, just stroking shoulders, arms, backs, just getting used to the fact that now this was allowed, this was permitted, this wasn't a dream. Finn traced patterns on Noah's back with his fingers, and Noah played with his curls, winding them around his fingers, letting them go, winding them up again. This simple gesture, so familiar and so new at the same time, soothed him better than any words. — I need a shower, — Noah finally said, but he didn't move. — Me too, — Finn replied, also not moving. — We could... go together? — Noah suggested. His cheeks flooded again with that traitorous blush he couldn't control. — Of course, — Finn agreed. They finally got up from the couch, shivering in the morning chill. Still touching each other—shoulder to shoulder, fingers to fingers—they walked through the hallway to the bathroom, leaving behind them the scattered t-shirts, the empty bottle, and the burned-out candle that had been the witness to their first real confession.