Page 29 of Evermore
Every interaction with Finn had become filtered through the lens of his medical condition, every conversation directed toward understanding or managing symptoms. They'd stopped being lovers and become patient and caregiver.
“I don't know how to just ignore what's happening to him.”
“I'm not asking you to ignore it. I'm asking you to remember that he's more than his condition, and your relationship is more than a medical crisis.” Jake stood up and moved toward the kitchen.
“When's the last time you cooked him dinner just because you wanted to, not because you were monitoring his nutritional intake for episode triggers?”
“I'm so scared, Jake. I'm scared he's going to keep getting worse until there's nothing left of the person I fell in love with.”
“That's valid. But you can't prevent that possibility by researching yourself into the ground and treating him like a medical case instead of your partner.” Jake returned from the kitchen with a concerned expression.
“There's nothing in your fridge but condiments and beer. When did you last grocery shop?”
“I don't remember.”
“Right. So here's what's going to happen.
You're going to shower and eat actual food and sleep for more than four hours.
Then you're going to figure out how to love Finn without trying to cure him.” Jake's voice was firm but caring.
“Because right now, you're not helping him.
You're just creating two people who need rescue instead of one.”
After Jake left, River stood in the wreckage of his life and realized his friend was absolutely right. He looked like hell, felt worse, and most importantly, he'd been treating the person he loved not like a partner, but like a puzzle to decode.
First, the shower. He stripped in the hallway, leaving clothes in a trail that felt symbolic.
When he stepped under the hot spray, he stood still for a long moment, letting the water sting his skin.
He used shampoo, actually scrubbed his scalp until he felt like a person again.
He washed his body slowly, letting his hands move over sore muscles, rinsing away the nights spent hunched over data and fear.
Then food. There were groceries on the counter—Jake's doing—and River opened the bag with something like reverence.
He found pasta, sauce, real vegetables. He chopped onions, added garlic, let the scent fill the kitchen like warmth returning to an old house.
When he plated the meal, it wasn't survival—it was care.
He sat down at the small table, lit a candle, and ate each bite slowly. Not multitasking, not reading, not thinking. Just eating. When he finished, he washed the dishes because he wanted to live in a space that felt like life was being lived here.
That's when Finn found him.
He stood in the doorway, the golden spill of the lighthouse beam catching in his hair, and just looked at River.
“You look...” Finn's voice was hoarse, quiet. “You look like yourself again.”
River turned, drying his hands. He hadn't even realized he'd been smiling.
“Jake staged an intervention. Apparently, I was disappearing into your crisis instead of just being present for it.”
Finn stepped closer, slowly, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. River met him halfway.
“I'm sorry,” he said, taking Finn's hands. “I've been treating you like a problem to solve instead of a person to love.”
Finn's fingers tightened. “I missed you. The real you. Not the research-obsessed version.”
River cupped his face, holding it like something worth protecting.
“I love you,” he said, voice steady now. “Not your brain. Not your condition. Not the mystery of what's happening to you. Just... you.”
Finn's eyes filled with tears. “I love you too. So much that watching you try to save me has been breaking my heart.”
They kissed, tentative at first, a remembering. The kiss deepened slowly, as if they were relearning each other's language. River pulled Finn closer, and Finn came willingly, pressing against him with quiet urgency.
“Bedroom?” River asked, breathless.
Finn nodded. “Please.”
The walk down the hallway felt like a sacred procession. River turned down the covers with intention. The room glowed dimly, golden shadows cast by the lighthouse beam circling like a slow heartbeat across the walls.
They undressed each other with reverence.
River peeled away Finn's shirt, baring the pale stretch of his chest. He bent and pressed a kiss to Finn's sternum, then lower, letting his lips chart every inch like a map he never wanted to forget again.
Finn's fingers trembled as he unfastened River's pants, pulling them down carefully.
River reached into the nightstand drawer for lube, setting it beside them. No rush. No assumption. His gaze searched Finn's face. “Okay?”
Finn nodded and leaned in, whispering against River's mouth, “Yes. Please.”
They touched without hesitation now. River let his hands roam over the familiar terrain of Finn's body—his chest, his sides, the curve of his waist. When he slipped a hand between them, cupping Finn's cock, it was gentle and exploratory. Finn moaned, soft and desperate, rocking into his hand.
River slicked his fingers with lube, warming it before trailing lower.
Finn opened for him without needing to be asked, knees parting as he pulled River close.
River kissed him while his hand explored, fingers circling Finn's hole, teasing gently.
When he slid one inside, Finn gasped—soft, sharp, wanting.
River took his time. One finger, then two, slowly working him open with careful, loving strokes. He murmured praise between kisses—how good he was doing, how beautiful he looked like this, how much he loved him.
Finn rocked back onto his fingers, hungry now. “River,” he whispered. “I want you. Please.”
River pressed their foreheads together, catching his breath. Then he lubed his cock and lined himself up, hand steady on Finn's hip.
“Tell me if you need anything.”
“I just need you,” Finn said, and pulled him in.
The first push was slow, a stretch that made Finn groan and bite his lip. River kissed his temple, whispering soft reassurances, waiting until Finn gave a tiny nod before sliding in deeper.
It was slow. Reassuring. Not just sex but something deeper—like they were piecing each other back together one stroke at a time. River moved in long, careful thrusts, watching the way Finn's face softened, how his eyes fluttered shut in bliss.
Finn wrapped his legs around River's waist, meeting every thrust with desperate grace. Their mouths found each other again and again, kissing through moans and quiet gasps, hands tangling, hearts pounding in sync.
When Finn came, it was with River's name on his lips, voice breaking into a sound that felt like release and forgiveness all at once.
River followed moments later, burying himself deep and shuddering as pleasure took him. He collapsed against Finn, careful not to crush him, and they lay there tangled, breath coming in heavy, grateful pulls.
The lighthouse beam rotated across the ceiling, a slow rhythm of light and dark.
Finn curled into River's chest, one hand tracing slow circles over his ribs.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Thank you for not giving up on us when I forgot how to be present.” River's arms tightened around Finn. “I promise to do better. To love you more and try to fix you less.”
That night, for the first time in weeks, River slept for eight straight hours without dreaming about research or medical journals. He just slept, peaceful and grounded, with the person he loved safe in his arms.
The next few days brought a different kind of crisis, one that felt less medical and more like something out of a paranoid thriller. River started noticing things that seemed insignificant individually but formed a disturbing pattern when considered together.
Power outages during important conversations with Finn.
Equipment malfunctions when they were making progress understanding his condition.
Subtle rearrangements in the cottage that suggested someone had been inside while they were away—books moved slightly on shelves, papers reordered in ways that preserved their apparent organization while disrupting River's actual system.
“Am I losing my mind, or does it feel like someone's watching us?” River asked Finn one afternoon, noting how his laptop had developed a mysterious glitch that corrupted files related to his research.
“You're not losing your mind,” Finn said, his voice carrying the exhaustion of someone who'd been dealing with reality distortions for months. “I've been feeling it too. Like there's someone else in our story, someone who doesn't want us to figure out what's happening.”
River couldn't shake the feeling that they were being manipulated by someone who understood Finn's condition better than they did, someone who had reasons for preventing them from developing effective treatments.
The universe had different plans for their attempt at domestic normalcy.
River was pulled from sleep around midnight by Finn talking in his sleep, but not the confused muttering that usually accompanied his episodes.
This was conversation, clear and directed, as if he were responding to someone River couldn't see.
“I know you're worried about the research,” Finn said, his voice carrying the tone of someone continuing a long-standing discussion. “But Dr. Voss isn't trying to help. She's trying to document the condition for her own purposes.”
River lay still, listening to one side of a conversation that seemed to be taking place between Finn and some version of himself that had access to information the conscious Finn didn't possess.
“River's trying so hard to fix everything, but he doesn't understand that some things can't be fixed, only managed.” Finn's voice was sad but affectionate. “He loves me enough to destroy himself trying to save me, but that's not what I need from him.”
River felt his chest tighten with recognition—Finn was articulating concerns they'd discussed earlier, but with a clarity and perspective that suggested deeper understanding than his conscious mind seemed to possess.
“The interference isn't random,” Finn continued, his voice growing more urgent. “Someone's actively working to prevent us from understanding what's really happening. But they're not trying to hurt us—they're trying to protect us from making things worse.”
The conversation continued for another ten minutes, with Finn responding to questions and comments from someone River couldn't hear, discussing their relationship and his condition with insights that went far beyond what his waking mind could access.
When Finn finally fell silent, returning to normal sleep, River lay awake wondering what the hell was happening to the person he loved.
“How are you feeling?” River asked over coffee the next morning, studying Finn's face for signs of exhaustion.
“Better, actually. Like I slept really well for the first time in weeks.” Finn smiled, and River's heart broke a little at how genuine and peaceful he looked. “Thank you for just holding me last night. It felt nice to be close without you analyzing everything.”
River nodded and smiled back, not mentioning the hours of conversation Finn had carried out with invisible participants. Because maybe Jake was right about needing to love Finn as he was instead of obsessing over what his condition meant.
But as they prepared for another day of trying to build a relationship alongside an impossible medical mystery, River couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of time to figure out what was really happening before Finn's episodes progressed beyond the point where any kind of normal life was possible.
The lighthouse beam had stopped its rotation with the arrival of dawn, but River felt like they were still navigating in the dark, guided only by love and hope that might not be enough to keep them from crashing against whatever truth was waiting for them in the deepening mystery of Finn's disappearing mind.