Chapter Text
The Art of Staying Alive (for you)
"Who's your favorite person?"
The question is not innocent. The answer is what Finn has been looking for the entire day. His fingers were buried in the Lego they were playing with, and his feet had gone numb a few hours ago; but he stayed put, because he had wanted the answer to this very question for a very, very long time.
"It's you, silly," Micah said, his voice like the gentle spring breeze, "who else would it be?"
Finn was ten years old, Micah was six. This was a stupid question to ask, Finn knew. What would compel a ten year old to even ask such a thing, he didn't know. Or maybe he did.
"I'm not a lot of people's favorite person," He murmured, and grabbed a Lego that looked mildly like a pineapple.
He's right, of course. Finn was only ten, and yet he understood things better than most adults. He could feel when something was wrong, just like he'd felt his parents fall out of love, when he'd been eight; it was a fast, sudden thing, but for someone like Finn, it passed like a lifetime.
When he ended up in his father's care, he also felt that something was wrong. It didn't take long for that feeling to become his everyday reality; it soon became clear to nine-year-old Finn that his father absolutely despised him, and he had the bruises and broken bones to prove it.
His only real relief in the world… it was the boy sitting next to him, his lap covered in Lego and apple slices.
He would invite Finn over whenever Finn's dad wasn't home—which was most of the time. Finn wasn't sure why his parents allowed it, but they did.
His life was the polar opposite of Finn's—happy parents, love, attention, money. Especially the love, and especially the money. Finn had soon realized that those were the two things that mattered most in life, and that they rarely came hand in hand. Micah was a special case.
He was good. Way better than Finn was. He did everything his parents told him to. He helped set the table—but there was never a table in Finn's house. He went to school and did his homework—But Finn's dad had never sent him to school. But most importantly—He was lovable. Finn could never be that. Not with his scrawny, tall frame and his shaggy brown hair and his dull eyes. He could never be Micah.
Was he jealous of a six-year-old, now? Yeah. He was.
"Well, you are my favorite person, so I think that counts," Micah said, moving his Lego house closer to Finn's mess of exterior design. He still couldn't pronounce his Rs correctly.
Finn was overwhelmed with the urge to cry. It was greater than any other feeling he'd had his whole life. He didn't manage to push it down fast enough, and soon, big fat tears were starting to drip down his cheeks. Micah didn't notice.
These were the first of many tears to be shed after that beautiful, happy day. Because Finn's father had something to share with him once he got home, and it wasn't pretty.