Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

At first, Finney thought he was dead.

He woke in pieces, like something dredged up from the bottom of a lake. He was moving— though it wasn’t him; he was being cradled, the motion swaying him in a loping, uneven rhythm that dragged at his stomach. Then there was a sensation of pressure: a hard arm hooked beneath his ribs, another bracing his back. 

He was being carried, his brain tried to tell him again, and the realization surfaced slowly, thick and sluggish, like pushing through mud.

His head lolled, neck refusing to hold it upright. Every shift sent a dull, splitting ache through his skull, as if something inside it had cracked and was grinding with each step. His throat burned raw, tight when he tried to swallow, like he’d been screaming for hours and forgot.

Thinking didn’t come easy, either. Thoughts slid past each other, half-formed, dissolving before they finished. Soup. Everything felt like soup.

But he knew that much, at least.

He was being carried.

“My fucking arm,” came a furious growl above him, close enough that he felt the vibration of it through the body holding him.

Before he could process it, the grip vanished.

He was abruptly dropped, and his stomach fluttered; he didn’t fall far, but hard enough that the impact knocked what little breath he had left from his lungs. The surface beneath him gave slightly— a shitty, thin mattress, maybe— but it was wrong. It was too soft in places, too stiff in others, like something worn that smelled like metal and salt. His cheek was pressed into the fabric, and he cracked an eye open to blearily gaze up only to find darkness.

He felt sick. The mattress he was on smelled sour. It filled his nose and stuck there, heavy and nauseating.

The world swam, and his stomach twisted sharply, threatening to empty itself, but there was nothing in him to give.

“I should snap your neck for what you did to my arm.”

The voice was closer now, clearer over the sound of his heard thudding in his ears. It sounded meaner, too.

Something behind him rattled, metal on metal, with a loose, hollow clink that echoed behind him. Finney tried to turn toward it, but his body wouldn’t listen. His limbs felt pinned and heavy, like they belonged to someone else and were weighed down with lead.

Moving at all took effort.

The seconds stretched, and Finney could only focus on not throwing up. There were a few long, awful seconds where he lay there, breathing shallow, counting each inhale because it felt like if he stopped, he might not start again. 

Finally, he managed to lift his head just a few inches. It felt like dragging a weight tied to his skull.

His vision lagged behind, but shapes began to settle. Darkness pressed in on all sides, thick and suffocating with shadows swallowing everything whole.

Except- 

There. A door.

Behind the figure standing in front of him, there was a door. A thin line of light bled around its edges, faint and yellow. It haloed the man in front of it, turning him into a silhouette at first; broad shoulders, slightly hunched posture, one arm hanging oddly stiff at his side.

Then Finney’s gaze climbed. Up. And up. Until it caught on the face.

His stomach dropped so fast it felt like it left the rest of him behind.

A mask.

It was pale where the light touched it. The man’s eyes were hidden and unreadable. The mouth was nonexistent.

The man leaned over him, heavy and close, carrying the smell of sweat and something faintly sweet rotting underneath. Behind him, that same clinking noise sounded again. Chains, maybe. Or tools. Something loose, and behind him, but Finney couldn’t look away from the blurry figure in front of him.

His chest tightened, and every part of him wanted to move, to run, to do anything— but his body stayed where it was. Sluggish and useless, trapped under the weight of itself.

The mask didn’t change.

Finney wanted to cry. He wanted to go home.

The words didn’t make it out of his mouth. They stayed locked behind his teeth, pulsing there, loud as anything in his head.

Carefully, the man lowered himself onto the mattress beside him. 

The springs gave with a long, tired creak, dipping under the added weight, and it shifted Finney a fraction closer, the fabric dragging against his cheek. He had to fight the instinct to flinch, but he stayed still. He didn’t trust what would happen if he didn’t.

He focused on breathing— not the look of the mask. Not the shape of him. Not the fact that he was close enough now that Finney could feel the heat coming off his body through the stale, sour air.

Just the breathing, in and out, in short enough bursts that he could keep still.

The man’s inhale sounded wrong behind the mask, muffled and too loud in some places, too quiet in others, and it was like it was echoing around inside something hollow before it came out. There was a faint hitch to it, too— pain, maybe. 

It was so dark.

He could barely see. Everything smeared together, shadows folding into shadows. The door behind him still leaked that thin strip of yellow light, but it didn’t reach far enough. It stopped just short of where they were, like it didn’t want to touch this part of the room.

The man raised his hand, slow and deliberate. 

Finney’s eyes dragged to it, even though he didn’t want them to. His vision lagged, but he saw enough— the dark smear along the man’s arm, wet-looking even in the dim light.

Blood. He thought he was bleeding.

Good.

The thought came sharp, sudden, vicious enough to almost feel like relief.

Good.

But it didn’t stick.

The anger was swallowed up almost immediately by an all-encompassing, heart-stopping fear. The panic crawled up his throat, wrapped around his lungs until every breath felt like it had to fight its way in.

“Jesus,” the man huffed behind the mask, voice rough, grated down to something uneven. Finney swallowed. It hurt. “...It’s covered in blood,” the man said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s like I killed someone.”

Something in Finney’s stomach dropped, because this wasn’t just a man.  

This was the Grabber.

“...You see that?” the man— the Grabber— said.

His hand moved again, forward, gesturing toward something Finney couldn’t quite make out. The motion blurred, doubled, and for a second Finney couldn’t tell where his arm ended and the dark began. He forced himself not to react. 

“S’not like you can see shit,” the man muttered to himself, a quiet, almost annoyed huff.

Finney poured everything he had into keeping his face still. It took more effort than lifting his head had.  

“...I know you’re scared,” the man said. His voice changed slightly as it echoed inside the mask, deepening, hollowing out. It sounded bigger than it should have been. “But I’m not gonna hurt you anymore.”

The words hung there, and it was a lie. It felt like a lie.

And still— 

Some desperate, ugly part of him wanted to grab onto it and hold it tight. He wanted to pretend it was something solid instead of what it was, because the alternative—

He didn’t let himself think about it. 

Something behind him moved again, and it sounded like fabric dragging against something rough. Then that same hollow clink— metal tapping metal, light but sharp enough to echo.

Chains, or something like them.

The sound crawled up his spine, slow and cold. He didn’t turn. His eyes stayed locked on the man in front of him.

“What I said about snapping your neck…” the man trailed off.  There was a pause like he was considering it again, turning it over in his head. “I was angry, so…” he let out a short, breathy laugh.

It didn’t sound right; too high and sudden, like the idea of it— of any of this— was funny.

“And you did a number on my arm,” he went on, and gave another breathy laugh. “...But I’m not gonna hold it against you.”

Finney didn’t move. He didn’t breathe any deeper than he had to.

The man’s hand came toward him, slow but impending, and Finney couldn’t stop the way his body tensed, muscles locking up under the weight of themselves. The fingers touched his hair; the Grabber’s hands were light and almost careful in the way they slid through his strands, pushing it back from his face, tucking it away from his eyes like— 

Like it was normal. Like any of this was normal.

His stomach dropped out as he carefully exhaled through his nose. His heart kicked hard against it, once, twice. Don’t move—

He froze.

“I guess we’re even,” the Grabber— the Grabber the Grabber the Grabber, god, the Grabber had him, Finney was dead— said.

His heartbeat drowned everything else out. The hand stayed in his hair a second longer than it needed to. Then again, maybe it did need to. Maybe that was the point.

“Now you don’t have to be scared,” he continued, still smoothing his hair back, still too close, “because nothing bad is going to happen here. And that I give my word.”

Something jerked behind him. There was a sharp inhalation of breath.

Finney’s entire body locked up.

“...You like soda? Hm? I'll tell you what. I’m gonna go get you a soda. And then…” The Grabber’s voice sounded distracted, and his attention snagging on something else entirely. 

Finney felt it in the way the hand in his hair paused, just for a second. 

“...Is that the phone? You hear a phone ringing?” he went on, turning slightly, like he was listening to something far away. “I’m gonna go see who it is, then I’m gonna go getchu a soda. Then I’ll come back and explain everything, hm? Unless your new friends would like to do it for me.”

New friends.

The words slid across Finney's skin, and he was about to panic harder until the Grabber’s hand came down against his face, rough and hot and calloused— and he gave a light pat, almost casual. Finney tried to pull back on instinct, but his body lagged and pain flared up everywhere at once for the effort. His vision swam harder and darkness pressed in at the edges.

He still felt sick. His head hurt.

He wanted to leave.

The weight beside him lifted. The mattress creaked as the Grabber pushed himself up, and suddenly the space felt bigger and colder without him there, but he could finally breathe. The door opened with a soft, worn sound, and that thin strip of yellow light widened, spilling across the floor just enough to almost reach the mattress. 

Then it was gone. The door shut, and the darkness swallowed everything again.

For a second, there was nothing.

No voice. No movement. There was just Finney’s own breathing, too fast, too shallow, catching halfway in like something inside him. His chest tightened, lungs not filling right, and panic clawed its way up from somewhere deep and ugly. He blinked hard, over and over, like he could force the world back into focus. His hand came up, clumsy and slow, scrubbing over his face. It came away damp, and he hadn’t even noticed when that started.

Then there was a quiet exhale.

“How many more is he gonna get?” someone asked, voice low and miserable, and Finney whipped around, squinting. He felt disoriented and the movement was clumsy, and he held himself up on the shitty, dank mattress.

“What, like it’s getting crowded down here?” another voice replied dryly, like it was supposed to be a joke but wasn’t.

Finney swallowed, his throat burning, and rubbed his eyes harder. Everything blurred together, shapes barely separating from the dark, but he could tell that there was more than one shape. More than one person.

There was another jingle, closer this time, like metal shifting against metal.

“Finney?”

There came a voice, but not just any voice because it was Robin, but it couldn’t be Robin because Robin was dead, the Grabber got him, but the Grabber got Finney too and Robin’s here, talking and—

“Finney, holy shit—”

The voice broke on his name, close and real and right there. 

He still couldn’t see, but before he could even think to pull away arms grabbed him tight, hauling him forward. The sudden movement sent his head spinning, pain flaring white-hot behind his eyes as he was dragged upright and into someone else. His head knocked against someone’s— Robin’s, Robin’s alive— Robin’s jaw, and Finney clutched onto him like second nature.

Robin.

His hands moved before he could stop them, grabbing onto him, fingers curling into fabric with a hiccup.

“I thought you were dead,” he choked, the words muffled against a mouthful of shirt, his voice breaking halfway through. His eyes burned. 

Robin’s not dead. Robin’s still here.

“You know this guy?” someone off to the side asked idly. 

“Yeah,” Robin choked, which was wrong, because Robin didn’t cry. Finney didn’t understand it, didn’t understand any of this, and the confusion just slid off him without sticking. Everything felt distant, dulled at the edges. All he could do was hold on. “He’s my friend. From school.”

Finney didn’t let go. He couldn’t. His hands tightened in Robin’s shirt, grip desperate, almost painful, but if he let go Robin would be gone again. His fingers twisted tight in the fabric of his shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

“...I think we met once,” another voice said, and it took Finney a second to place it, to drag the name up through the fog. Bruce— because Bruce was here too, somehow, impossibly, God, they were all here. They’d been down here, all of them, for months. “You almost had me.”

“Bruce?” Finney asked, breathless, his voice scraping on the way out. His head tipped back against the spot where his head was tucked into Robin’s shoulder. “Bruce Yamada?”

And fuck, they were all here.

His vision lagging behind his hearing, shapes resolving into bodies the longer he forced himself to look. There were five of them— god, all five of them— spaced out across the room in a way that made his stomach turn when he understood why. Each of them had one hand shackled, metal locked tight around their wrist and bolted straight into the floor. The chains weren’t the same length— some had enough slack to move a few feet, others barely any at all.

At the far end, the biggest one— Vance, his brain supplied, late and sluggish— had it worst. His face was smattered with bruising along one side of his cheekbone and jaw, and his arms were chained above his head; pulled taut enough that there was no give, no slack, nothing. It looked like it hurt, and it looked like he’d been put there and left that way on purpose.

Maybe it was because he was the biggest.

Vance looked exactly like Finney remembered, and not at all the same. There was a permanent snarl carved into his face now, something meaner, like it had settled there and refused to leave. He didn’t look relieved. Didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked irritated at Finney’s arrival.

“Everyone knows our names now,” one of the smaller boys said from somewhere off to the side, his voice edged with something bitter and tired.

Finney didn’t look at him. He tucked his face back into Robin’s shoulder instead, breathing in something that smelled like sweat and dust and something familiar underneath it. His breath came in shaky, uneven pulls.

“When you’re done anytime, ladies,” Vance snapped, voice cutting through the room. “You. New kid. You’re not tied up. Make use of it. See if there’s anything else we can use.”

“Vance,” Bruce sighed, like this was an argument they’d had before. “There’s nothing else.”

“There’s something,” Vance shot back immediately, his voice sharpening. “You’ve got your arms, fucking use them, you stupid fucking—”

“Dude,” Robin cut in, tighter now, protective in a way that made Finney’s grip tighten again without thinking. “Give him a second.”

“He’ll have more than a second once he’s chained up,” another voice— Billy, Finney realized distantly— added from somewhere nearby dryly.

Chained up.

Finney swallowed hard, his throat tight, and forced himself to pull back. It wasn’t easy. For a second, Robin didn’t let him go either, his grip tightening like he didn’t want to release him, but then he did.

Finney wavered where he sat, the room tilting slightly before settling again. “Okay,” he choked, dragging in a breath that didn’t feel like enough. “Okay, okay. What am I doing? What do I—”

“Just— look around,” Vance snapped impatiently.

“There’s a loose tile in the hallway,” Bruce added after a beat. “I didn’t have time to dig it out, but it’s still there.”

“What am I gonna do with that?” Finney asked, the question coming out more helpless than he meant it to.

Robin made a small motion with his hand, like he was waving the others off. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, softer now, like it was just him and Finney and they had actually made it home, like they were sitting at Robin’s dining room table and quietly sneaking candy for every problem Robin had gotten right, knees knocking together under the table. “It’s— he’ll be back down soon, anyway. Just… stay put.”

Stay put.

That, at least, sounded doable.

It didn’t take much convincing for Finney to sink back into Robin’s arms.

It took a long time for anyone to say anything after that. Not because there wasn’t anything to say, but because there was too much of it, all of it sitting heavy in the air and pressing down on them until it felt harder to breathe than it should have— but maybe that was just the stale basement air. The smell was worse now that Finney was aware of it— damp concrete, old metal, something sour underneath it all that clung to the back of his throat.

It was miserable. 

Not just in the obvious ways— the chains, the walls, the door that stayed shut— but in the way sound carried strangely, every small shift or breath echoing just enough to remind him how enclosed it all was.

Robin hadn’t let go of him completely. Even now, he stayed close, shoulder pressed against Finney’s, like he didn’t trust the space between them— or maybe like he didn’t trust that Finney wouldn’t disappear if he moved too far away.

“Did—” Robin started, then stopped, like the word caught on something. He swallowed, tried again. “Did people notice? When I… went missing?”

The question came out careful, and Finney felt something tighten in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, because there wasn’t any version of this where the answer was no. “Yeah, they noticed. It was… It was really scary.”

Robin nodded a little at that, like he’d expected it, but he’d needed to hear it anyway. His fingers flexed slightly against his own arm, restless, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Did they look?” he asked, quieter now. “Like— did they actually look for me?”

“...They looked,” he said finally. “They— there were searches. Flyers. Your uncle—” He paused, throat tightening again. “Your uncle’s still putting up posters.”

Robin went very still beside him.

“And my family?” he asked after a second, voice thinner now, stretched tight. “They— are they… okay? How’s my brother?”

Finney shifted slightly, the movement small but deliberate, forcing himself to stay where he was instead of pulling away, because he thought that might kill him. “They’re—” he started, then stopped, because it was hard to put a million tangled messy thoughts into words. “They’re not okay,” he said instead, quieter. “Robin, everyone thinks you’re dead.”

Robin didn’t say anything right away. Finney could feel the way he tensed, though, and he squeezed his wrist.

Across the room, someone let out a short, humorless sound.

“I mean,” one of the other boys said— Billy, maybe? His tone was flat, almost incredulous, “yeah. What else did you think was happening?”

There wasn’t any bite to it, but it was blunt. 

Vance shifted where he was, the chains above him giving a faint, strained rattle. He looked away, jaw tight. “No one’s looking for us,” he said.

“Don’t say that,” Bruce cut in immediately.

Griffin laughed, a short, sharp sound that didn’t carry any real amusement. “They’re not,” he said. “Do you honestly think anyone still thinks we’re alive?”

The question hung there.

Finney swallowed, then shrugged slightly, even though the movement felt stiff. “They’re still looking,” he said. “Even if they think we’re not… they’re still looking. Mr. Yamada put up new posters a month ago. People are still looking for Robin.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Vance huffed out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite. “No one’s looking for me,” he said, wry and detached. “Or Griffin. Or Billy. It’s been months now.”

Finney didn’t have a good answer for that.

He just shrugged again, smaller this time. “Maybe,” he said. “But they haven’t forgotten. They’re still investigating, so—”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you got grabbed,” Billy said from the side, his tone light in a way that didn’t match the words. “It’ll get them to pay more attention.”

For a second, everything in Finney jolted. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with that— whether he wanted to snap back, or curl in on himself, or just pretend he hadn’t heard it at all. It all surged up at once, messy and overwhelming and it made his eyes burn.

Instead, he just turned his head and stared at Billy.

“Hey,” Bruce said quickly, cutting in before anything else could build. “Ignore them, dude. I’m glad it’s you.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say. It wasn’t even a good thing to say. But it was something, and Bruce’s tone was kinder than pitying, and that made it feel like a kind of comfort anyway.

Robin’s arm shifted gingerly, and his wrist clinked as the chains shifted. Finney kind of wanted to reach out to tug on them, to pull them off, but they looked big and heavy and he didn’t know how to fix it.

Everyone else had a chain. He could hear them if he focused, or even if he didn’t— small shifts of metal against concrete, the faint scrape when someone adjusted their weight. 

His wrist was bare. There was no metal, no weight. No immediate tether locking him in place or bolting him to the floor. It still didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like a test, or a mistake, or something worse— something intentional.

Finney stayed where he was, pressed in close to Robin, shoulders pressed in, their arms still brushing, and he tried to breathe evenly. His thoughts weren’t soup anymore— not entirely— but they weren’t clear, either. They snagged on things, circled back, doubled over themselves.

Why wouldn’t he chain me?

The question kept coming back as he carefully reached out to trace over the shackle on Robin’s wrist. Robin let him do it.

Finney didn’t believe for a second the lack of chains was kindness. That wasn’t part of this. Nothing about this had anything to do with kindness.

So it had to be something else. A mistake, maybe. Or a test to let him think he had a choice, and let him move to see what he did with it. To see if he’d try something.

Finney’s stomach tightened.

He stayed still.

Time stretched again, long and shapeless— there was no clock, no way to measure it except the slow shift of his own breathing and the occasional movement from the others. There was a window, but all it gave was a sliver of light. No one pushed him this time. No one told him to get up, to search, to do anything at all. 

That almost made it worse.

Eventually, the door opened.

The sound cut through everything— a low, dragging creak that made something in Finney’s chest seize instantly. His body reacted before his brain caught up, pressing in toward Robin automatically, his hand grabbing for him without thinking.

The thin strip of yellow light spilled into the room again, wider this time, stretching farther across the floor. Finney squeezed Robin’s wrist, and Robin squeezed back, his grip bony and vice-like.

The Grabber stepped inside. He filled the doorway for a second before the light shifted around him. Finney was half tempted to dart forward and up the stairs, but Robin’s grip tightened. Finney knew, deep down, he wouldn’t make it past the man anyway. He was carrying something— a tray, maybe. Something flat. The faint smell reached him a second later— warm and greasy, and Finney was starving.

Food.

Finney pressed his back against the wall, dragging Robin with him just slightly. His fingers tightened around Robin’s wrist again.

“Everybody hungry?” the Grabber asked, like this was normal— like they were sitting around a table somewhere instead of—

He crouched down, setting things carefully on the floor in front of him. Containers. Bottles. The soft clink of plastic and something heavier.

“I brought eggs,” he went on. “A couple bottles of soda, too.”

Finney didn’t move.

His eyes stayed fixed on the man, on the way he moved, the way he positioned himself between them and the door. None of the other boys moved forward, so Finney stayed put.

“What did you put in it?” Finney heard himself ask, and his voice sounded thin. 

Vance snorted from somewhere off to the side, the sound sharp and dismissive. The Grabber’s head tilted slightly in his direction, like he was frowning under the mask. He didn’t say anything to him, though. Vance wasn’t even looking at him.

After a second, the man’s attention shifted back to Finney. There was a shrug in the movement. “Salt,” he said, and there was something like a grin in his voice now, something that curled at the edges of the word. “Pepper. A little bit of love.”

Bruce made a small, involuntary sound— half wince, half something else.

The Grabber hummed softly, like he hadn’t noticed, or like he had and didn’t care. “Eat it, don’t eat it,” he said. “Up to you.” He gestured vaguely toward the others without turning his head. “These boys already know I don’t have any reason to drug you anymore.”

A pause.

Then, almost conversationally, “I mean… you’re already down here, right?”

Finney swallowed.

“Let me go,” he tried, voice wavering. 

Billy snorted, off to the side. Finney, though, could practically hear the Grabber’s eyebrow raise when he said, “I’m not even touching you yet.”

Yet.

Yet, yet, yet—

The Grabber shrugged again, tipping his head towards the smallest boy— Griffin, Griffin Stag— who was settled in Billy’s lap, biting his fingers. “Hey, kiddo. Come here. Dinner’s ready.”

Finney’s gaze followed his, and it landed on Griffin, who was half-curled into Billy’s lap, shoulders hunched, fingers pressed to his mouth from where he was chewing on his nails. He didn’t move at first.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then the Grabber sighed like he was disappointed, and Griffin flinched like he’d been struck. He scrambled out of Billy’s lap so fast the chain at his wrist jerked taut, metal clinking sharply against the floor— the sound echoed, thin and ugly in the room. He stumbled when he stood, unsteady, and for a second Finney thought he might fall.

No one else moved.

Not Bruce. Not Billy. Not Vance. No one said anything.

Griffin stopped a foot or two away from the Grabber, small and rigid, his arms tucked in close to himself. He didn’t reach for the food. He didn’t even look at it.

“Come here,” the Grabber said again, and he opened his arms, wide and inviting.

Finney’s stomach turned.

Griffin stepped around the food on the floor like it wasn’t even there and went straight into them. The Grabber let out a long, satisfied breath, ducking his head down into Griffin’s hair like this was something familiar, something routine. His hand came up, looping around Griffin’s waist, pulling him in close, pressing him there and holding him.

Finney stared. He couldn’t not stare.

Every instinct in him screamed that something about it was wrong— not only because it was the Grabber, but also how easy it looked. How practiced.

How Griffin didn’t fight. He didn’t even hesitate, not really.

The man’s hands settled in Griffin's hair, before sliding down and settling on the back of his neck. Finney couldn’t look away from the dark bruises, the handprints, around his neck. He wanted to be sick.

Time stretched again, thin and tight. Then, eventually, the Grabber lifted his head and gave Griffin a light pat on the cheek. “Good boy,” he said. The words landed with a sick, quiet weight. “Eat.” 

Griffin pulled away immediately, grabbing one of the plates and soda bottles without looking at it, and he ducked back out of reach just as quickly, retreating to Billy’s side and dropping down next to him— close, pressed in shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

They ate with their hands.

The Grabber watched him for a moment. Then his head turned again, slow, deliberate, taking in the rest of them. Finney felt that attention pass over him, a flicker of something cold settling under his skin, before it moved on.

It stopped at Vance.

The Grabber sighed again, heavier this time, like he was already tired of whatever was about to happen. Then he wandered over, unhurried.

Vance didn’t move at first. He sat there with his arms stretched above him, the chains pulled tight, his posture rigid in a way that looked painful even without imagining how long he’d been like that. His face twisted as the man got closer, something caught between a snarl and a flinch.

His lip curled, teeth flashing, but by the time the Grabber was right in front of him, leaning in, Vance’s eyes were squeezed shut.

The Grabber reached up without warning and grabbed the shackles above Vance’s head. He yanked, the chains rattled violently as Vance was pulled upward with them, his body jerking with the force. A sharp, involuntary sound broke out of him— cut off halfway as he bit down on it, jaw clenching tight.

Finney felt it in his own shoulders, but the Grabber didn’t react to it.

He just slipped his hand into his pockets, pulled out a key and worked the lock, metal clicking once, twice. Then the chains slackened, and Vance dropped a fraction, catching himself awkwardly, arms shaking as they came down. The Grabber nudged him with the toe of his boot, not hard, but not gentle either. “Up,” he said. “You’ve got two minutes.”

Two minutes. For what?

He didn’t ask. 

Instead, his attention snapped— pulled, sharp and immediate, toward the door. It was still open. Not wide, not enough to make it easy, but enough. A clear line of sight stretched from where he sat to the basement stairs beyond, where that same golden light spilled in, soft and warm and completely wrong in a place like this.

It didn’t belong here. It looked like something out of reach.

Finney’s chest tightened.

He glanced at the Grabber, who had already turned slightly away, attention divided, not fully on them— not right now. Then back to the door. He squeezed Robin’s hand, sharp enough to get his attention, and jerked his head toward the hallway.

Now.

Robin’s reaction was immediate. His hand clamped down on Finney’s wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt, and he shook his head fervently, almost violently. No. His grip tightened. Don’t.

Finney hesitated. It lasted half a second, maybe less, but it was enough. He swallowed and stayed where he was.

The door stayed open, but something about it already felt farther away.

Vance, meanwhile, was struggling just to stand. His arms trembled as he brought them down, muscles protesting, joints stiff from being held in place too long. Even from where Finney sat, he could see the strain in the movement and the way Vance’s shoulders hunched.

He staggered when he took his first step, catching himself awkwardly before pushing forward again. He ducked straight toward around the corner, out of sight. The chain dragged behind him with a faint, uneven scrape, and then he was gone.

The Grabber didn’t watch him go. He turned back instead.

Finney stiffened immediately, his body reacting before his mind caught up, every muscle going tight as that attention settled over the group again. The man took a step back toward where he’d set the food down, bending to pick up the remaining plates like nothing had happened, like Vance hadn’t just been—

Like any of this was normal.

He moved with that same deliberate care, lifting one plate and crossing the short distance to Bruce. He crouched just enough to place it gently in front of him.

Bruce didn’t move, and he didn’t reach for it.

The Grabber didn’t comment on it. He just picked up the last plate and turned again. This time, toward him and Robin.

Finney felt himself press back before the man even reached them, his shoulders hitting the wall behind him, his body trying to make space where there wasn’t any. Robin shifted too, instinctively pulling away, his back straightening as if that might create distance.

The Grabber huffed softly at that, like it was cute.

His head tilted, the mask catching what little light there was. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, and it was directed at Finney, not Robin, not anyone else. “No need to be shy.”

The plate was set down in front of them. Finney didn’t look at it.

The man’s hand came up again, reaching, and Finney pressed harder into the wall, nowhere left to go. 

The Grabber let out a small sigh, like he’d expected that too. He lowered himself back, sitting on his heels instead of pushing closer. Then he reached forward anyway.

His fingers tapped lightly against Finney’s face, and the contact made something cold shoot straight through him.

“You’ll be okay,” the Grabber said, voice low, almost reassuring in a way that made it worse. “I’m gonna take care of you now.”

Before Finney could react, Vance stepped around the corner. There was a beat or two, before he launched forward, all forward momentum and raw force, slamming straight into the Grabber’s side hard enough to knock him off balance.

For one sharp, impossible second, Finney had hope.

Then the Grabber recovered too quickly. He turned with the impact, not against it, and slammed Vance back into the wall with a force that echoed through the room. The sound cracked sharp against the concrete, loud enough to make Finney flinch where he sat when his head smacked into the wall.

Vance choked on the impact, the sound ripping out of him before he could stop it. It turned into a hiss, then something harsher— spitting, cursing, the words blurring together as he struggled against the grip holding him there.

The Grabber growled, low and warning. His hand moved to his belt, and for a second, the basement disappeared.

Finney could only see his father’s silhouette, the way the light used to catch on the buckle before it came loose, the sound of it sliding free. His sister’s voice somewhere behind him, pleading, breaking, and the sharp, burning crack across his back, over and over until the pain stopped feeling sharp and turned into something dull and endless. He could remember sitting on the floor after, staring at the TV because it was easier than moving— because leaning back against anything hurt too much.

Vance had gone still— not completely— he was coiled and shaking, but the wild thrashing stopped.

“Stop moving,” the Grabber snapped.

Vance froze.

Silence dropped over the basement, heavy and immediate. Finney’s breath sounded too loud in his own ears.

Run.

He glanced back at the door, but his body felt locked in place, every muscle tight and useless at the same time. Robin’s grip on his arm had gone iron-strong again, fingers digging in like he could physically hold him there.

The Grabber shifted slightly, his attention flicking— just for a moment— toward Finney's pale face and wide, horrified eyes, catching his eye out of the corner of that blank, unmoving mask.

Then he groaned, like this was disappointing.

He tipped his head forward, holding there for a beat that stretched too long, before suddenly grabbing a fistful of Vance’s hair and yanking him down with a sharp, forceful motion.

Vance shouted, the sound breaking as he was dragged back, stumbling, forced down and back toward where he’d been chained before. The Grabber shoved Vance’s arms back up over his head. The metal clanged as the shackles were forced back into place, the chain pulled taut again.

Vance yelped as his arms were stretched back into that same position, his body jerking with it, but it didn’t matter.

The lock clicked.

“That’s such a shame,” the Grabber sighed, straightening up again. “I was really hoping you’d changed. You know that, right? I keep giving you a chance, but every time…”

He brushed his hands together lightly, like he was dusting something off.

“You’re still just a naughty boy.” There was that note again— something almost fond, almost disappointed. “Well. I’ll keep trying, because I know you can be better. But you just keep proving me wrong…”

Vance sagged slightly where he hung, breathing hard. Even in the dim light, Finney could see the strain in his face— the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw flexed like he was grinding his teeth down to nothing. He looked miserable, and he looked furious— both at once, tangled together so tightly it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Finney didn’t know how to feel about any of it.

“Eat up,” the Grabber said as he turned back to Finney, like nothing had happened.

Then the Grabber turned and left.

The door swung shut behind him with a dull, final sound, and the thin strip of golden light vanished all at once. The basement dropped back into that same dim, uneven dark.

For a second, no one moved. Then Robin shifted beside him; his hand left Finney’s wrist— just for a moment— and reached forward, grabbing the plate the man had set down. “Eat.”  

Finney shook his head numbly. “No,” he said, voice rough. “I’m not hungry.”

That wasn’t entirely true. His stomach felt hollow, but the idea of eating made something twist hard in his gut.

“Eat,” Robin repeated, firmer this time.

There wasn’t room for argument.

Finney hesitated, then swallowed and reached out anyway. His fingers felt clumsy as they brushed the edge of the plate before closing around a small portion of the eggs. They were cold now, or close to it, the texture wrong— soft in a way that bordered on slimy, sticking slightly to his skin. He hated it immediately. 

He hated eating with his hands, hated the way it felt, but he forced himself to bring it to his mouth. He forced himself to swallow.

Beside them, Griffin and Billy were already done. Their plate sat empty on the floor, discarded without thought, the food gone completely. Griffin had crawled back into Billy’s lap, biting his nails again.

Vance, though, couldn’t use his hands.

Bruce sighed. It sounded tired. He leaned forward and picked up their plate without asking. “I don’t know why you did that,” he said. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought I’d kick his ass,” Vance snapped immediately, the words sharp despite the way his voice strained around them. “I’ll get him next time.”

Griffin made a quiet sound from where he was, something just shy of a laugh as he curled further into Billy. “You’re lucky he was in a good mood today,” he murmured, almost lazily.

“Good mood because he’s got a new kid to tor—”

“Vance,” Robin snapped. “Shut up, dude.”

Vance huffed, something angry and frustrated and useless, and turned his head away.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Bruce said again, as he scooped up a handful of eggs and held them up toward Vance’s mouth, steady despite the awkward angle.

Finney stared. He couldn’t help it, because Bruce just… did it like it was normal.

Vance noticed.

“The fuck are you looking at?” he snapped, bristling as he turned his head just enough to glare.

Finney looked away quickly, something tightening in his chest. Robin snorted quietly beside him and nudged his knee. “Ignore him,” he murmured. “Finish the eggs.”

Finney forced his hands to move. He swallowed another bite before the question slipped out. 

“…why didn’t you want me to run out the door?” he asked as he turned to Robin. “It was open. I could have— I could have gotten help, or—”

“The upstairs door is locked,” Billy cut in flatly from the side. “It’s a test. He did it on purpose. He’d beat you if you ran. You didn’t, though, so he probably likes you more. You’re the first one to listen— Robin ignored us, and it turned out great for him.”

Finney turned to glance up at Robin, stomach sinking, but the other boy stared firmly at the eggs.

“He’ll chain you to the floor tomorrow, probably,” Billy continued tiredly, head tipping back into the basement wall. “Enjoy being able to move freely while it lasts.”

Finney’s stomach dropped. He wanted to cry.

—

Finney knew the sound of the door now; metal against metal, with that horrible, dragging weight to it that made his stomach tighten before his brain could even catch up. By the time the hinges gave their low, whining creak, he was already sitting up straighter against the wall.

The man stepped down slowly, and Finney’s gaze dragged over him. The mask first; happy, this time, a grin twisted up at the corners, the mouth fixed in something that wasn’t quite a smile. Then the hands— empty. No tray this time. No food. Just the sound of his shoes on the steps and the light of the staircase sealed away as the door slammed shut.

“Alright,” the man said, voice light, almost conversational. “Let’s talk about how this is going to go.”

Finney didn’t move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robin shift slightly beside him. The other boys went still, too.

“I like good boys,” the man continued, staring Finney down. “Not naughty ones. And I know you’re not a naughty boy, are you?”

Finney felt the words more than he understood them. His gaze flicked quickly to the door, then back. The man gestured lazily, and Finney’s stomach dropped when he realized who he was pointing at.

Robin.

“It looks like you two are already close,” he said. “That’s good. Makes things easier.” His head tilted slightly, studying them. “You can show him what I want.”

For a second, Finney didn’t understand. His brain stalled, and then he felt something cold spread through his chest, sharp and immediate.

He didn’t look at Robin.  

“Come on,” the man said with a little more insistence now.

Nothing happened. Robin didn’t move.

Finney’s heartbeat climbed, loud enough he was sure everyone could hear it. He kept his face as blank as he could manage, eyes lowered just enough to see the man, but not make eye contact. Think. If something was going to happen, it would happen fast. Too fast to plan around, or-

The man sighed. 

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands once against his knees as he crouched slightly. “That’s a shame. You were doing so well.”

He moved before Finney could fully process it, crossing the space in two quick strides and grabbing Robin by the hair, yanking him up hard enough that Robin let out a sharp, involuntary cry. Finney flinched despite himself, the shocked sound swallowed under the rattle of chains as the other boy was hauled up.

Robin swung back, fist connecting with a dull thud. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. The man barely staggered, and Finney’s body reacted before his mind caught up. He pushed himself forward, aiming low, trying to knock the man off balance. If he could just— if he could make him fall, create a second, anything-

It almost worked.

For a split second, the man shifted, his footing off just enough that hope sparked, a small, desperate wild thing-

Then something cracked against Finney’s head.

The world tilted sideways. Sound warped into a high ringing whine as he hit the tile hard, the impact jolting through his skull. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in.

Stupid. Stupid.

He’d moved too soon.

He lay there, cheek pressed against the cold floor, trying to force his arms to work, to push himself up. His face throbbed, a deep, pulsing ache that made his eyes water whether he wanted them to or not. Across the room, the others recoiled. Robin’s voice broke into a raw, choked yell.

Finney’s stomach twisted violently. He forced himself to roll onto his side, blinking hard to clear his vision, every instinct screaming at him to look away.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

He looked anyway.

He had to know. He had to understand what he was up against.

The man’s hand dropped to his belt, unbuckling it and yanking it loose, and Robin flailed harder from where the man had shoved him against the mattress. One arm was held out towards Finney from the chain, the rest of him squirmed as he tried to buck up or wriggle out. Instead, the Grabber flipped him over, straddled his thighs, and hauled his shirt over his back.

Finney couldn’t breathe.

There were so many scars, belt marks that laced across the skin of his back. Finney could feel each of his own burn in sympathy. Robin twisted again, but the Grabber brought the belt down hard, and he howled. And then he did it again and again and again, and Finney wanted to move, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but watch, and when it hurt too much to watch he squeezed his eyes shut and looked away.

Robin's shouts eventually died out, turning into miserable little moans that faded out even further.

After a second-minute-hour, it couldn’t be less than an infinity, the Grabber sat back on his heels, still crouched over Robin. He sighed, dragging his fingers over the torn skin and the boy cried out, writhing,

“This could have been so much easier,” the Grabber murmured, almost soft, as his hand slid up to settle at Robin’s waist, then his hip. His thumb dipped under the waistband of his pants, and Finney thought he’d be sick.

Robin was barely moving, now. His cheek was pressed against the mattress, and his gaze was flat and dull.

Then the man glanced up at Finney again, and sighed. He gave Robin a dismissive shove that sent him off the thin mattress and onto the floor. Robin didn’t move.

“Well,” the Grabber said, voice almost pleasant again, as if none of it had just happened. “That’s not a good start.” Finney forced himself to meet his gaze— or where the gaze should have been behind the mask. Looking away felt worse.  “You’re on strike two now,” the man went on. “But I get it. Nerves.” A small shrug. “All the boys had them when they first arrived.”

Finney swallowed. His gaze flicked to Robin, then back to the man.

“I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” the man said. “I won’t do anything you don’t want,” the man continued lightly, then paused just long enough for the silence to stretch thin. “But… you know how it is. Naughty boys have to be punished.”

His head tilted again, that same studying angle.

“Don’t make me hurt you again.”

Finney’s face hurt. The words settled into the room like dust. Finney didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could if he tried. His face throbbed, each pulse of pain making him painfully aware of the moment whether he wanted it or not.

Think.

Two strikes. So there was at least one more before— what? Something worse? He shifted slightly, testing his weight, mapping the distance from himself to the door again. 

His gaze flicked, just for a second, to Robin.

Finney swallowed, tasting blood again, and forced himself to stay very, very still. His face still hurt.

“Where’s one of my good boys?” The Grabber asked again as he settled down onto the mattress. His gaze raked over them, flicking over Bruce for a second, then back to Griffin across the room. Billy’s hands tightened on Griffin’s arm. “Hey, Griffin. Come here.”

The other boy stood up and staggered over around Robin, before he abruptly dropped down next to him. The Grabber tugged him into his side, like it was a hug.  

“There’s my good boy,” he murmured, low and quiet. He leaned forward until his mask knocked into Griffin’s cheek; and then his hands slipped around the boy’s waist, dipping into his pants. He hummed when Griffin didn’t move, only waiting a beat before he hauled the other boy into his lap.

Finny couldn’t breathe.

Robin crawled back toward Finney, chains clinking as he hissed through his teeth. His back was still bleeding, and when Finney reached for him, Robin just waved him off and dropped to the tile.

“Eyes up here, new kid,” the Grabber hummed, and Finney’s gaze snapped back up— up to Griffin, to the wandering hands and to the dark, still healing bruises around his throat. Griffin’s face was neutral, kind of absent, almost.  His hand dipped lower, into Griffin’s pants, one hand on the button and one hand under—

Finney wanted to look away, but he couldn’t, and the Grabber had told him not to, but—

Griffin let out a little noise as the Grabber moved his hand again, a little firmer as he reached and groped and—

Griffin’s head tipped back against the Grabber’s shoulder. He made another little noise as the Grabber moved his hand again, faster, and the man ducked his masked face into his shoulder and the bare skin of his neck. He inhaled, one hand coming up to settle on Griffin’s throat, the other furiously working down where Finney refused to watch.

The Grabber murmured something low and gravelly, squeezing Griffin’s throat and the boy spasmed. The Grabber holds him there for a second as he went slack, relaxing against him. 

He wiped his hand on his thigh, and reached around to tuck Griffin back in his pants. 

Finney felt nauseous. 

“Good boy,” the Grabber murmured again, stroking a hand along Griffin’s side. “My good, sweet boy. You did so well again. The others could learn from you.” Then he tapped at his hip, kissed the side of his face with the mask, and carefully deposited back next to Billy with a fond little ruffle to his head.  “See?” he hummed, tipping his head back to Finney. “He likes it. It’s so much easier just to enjoy it. Don’t be naughty like your silly little friend.”

He could hear Robin’s breathing stutter against the tile.

Then, the man turned, reached down, and collected the finished plates before talking and walking out with another word.

The door swung shut behind him.

After a beat, Finney scrambled forward to see the other boy’s form sprawled on the floor in front of him. “Robin,” he breathed, hands hovering. His back wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it didn’t look good. “Hey, I— are you okay? How can I help? What do I do?”

“Lower your voice,” Robin murmured, lips brushing the tile. “There’s not much you can do.”

“Just don’t touch his back,” Bruce said off to the side. “You don’t want it getting infected.”

Robin sighed, forehead pressing against the grimy tile before he carefully pulled himself just enough to bury his head into Finney’s lap, hands clutching at his shirt. Finney swallowed, eyes burning, and tried not to look at the blood; instead, he carefully brushed Robin’s hair out of the way to stop it from sticking.

Bruce sighed and shuffled up before ducking around the corner and reappearing a second later with a wad of wet toilet paper, leaving his hand outstretched for Finney. “Be careful,” he said. “Just get the blood around everything, don’t actually get it in the cuts.”

Finney took the wet clump with shaky hands. Robin didn’t move underneath him when he carefully brushed around the outsides of his back. He avoided the most gruesome areas first, because his fingers couldn’t stop shaking and he didn’t want to hurt Robin more than he already was.

Bruce, though, turned with his chain clinking as he dropped down in front of Griffin, curled into Billy’s shoulder. Finney couldn’t see much from here; Bruce’s back blocked most of their expressions. But he heard Bruce murmur something, and brush Griffin’s hair out of his eyes. Then he leaned forward and kissed his forehead, and Finney couldn’t see much, but he could see Griffin’s fist clench on the fabric of Billy’s shirt and the shaky hiccup that came after.

Finney looked back to the mess of Robin’s back. It didn’t make him feel any better, but at least he could do something to help.

—

The basement smelled wrong. 

That was the thing Finney couldn’t stop thinking about. Not the chains bolted into the concrete floor, not the mattress shoved into the middle of the room, lit by the sliver of light beneath the barred window, not even the fact that the door upstairs had closed twenty minutes ago and still hadn’t opened again. 

It was the smell. 

Damp concrete and old sweat and something stale underneath it all, like a room nobody had aired out in years. It clung to the back of his throat no matter how shallowly he breathed. He sat curled against the wall with his knees pulled up, trying not to look at the chains too long, and trying even harder not to look at the boys attached to them. 

Nobody had tried to comfort him, really, since he woke up down here. That almost made it worse; they’d looked at him with this awful kind of tired understanding instead, like they already knew exactly what stage he was in because they’d all done it themselves already. 

Panic. Denial. Bargaining, even. Then whatever came after.

Robin hadn’t moved from his space next to him, still lying half sprawled across his lap, face down to give the lashings some room to breathe. Finney had been mindlessly tracing shapes into the unmarred sections of skin for the better part of an hour, and Robin hadn’t moved. 

Finney wondered if he was asleep. He didn’t want to wake him if he was. 

Either way, he stayed still on the tile floor and Finney kind of wondered why they didn’t sleep on the mattress. It didn’t smell great, and sure it was a little dirty, but it was probably softer than the tile. It was probably also less cold. Still, each of the other boys avoided it. 

Robin was slumped with his chain loose across the floor beside him. He looked thinner than Finney remembered from school— sharper, somehow or more angular. A little bonier, now that Finney could see the bare skin of his back, the faintest outline of his ribs. 

Finney couldn’t stop staring at that either. 

Because Robin was supposed to be outside somewhere. Robin was supposed to be walking around school halls with his bandana and wrapped knuckles and grease under his fingernails from messing with engines after class. He was supposed to be loud and impossible to ignore and alive in the sun. 

Not here. Not chained to a floor.

He looked so hungry. They all did.  Finney still didn’t think he could eat, but his stomach was definitely empty. These boys, though, looked half-starved. Finney swallowed. “When does he bring food?” 

The room went quiet for a second. That bothered him too— the pauses. The way everybody went quiet, thinking before they answered anything. 

“Morning usually,” Griffin murmured. Finney’s eyes moved toward him automatically. Griffin was pale enough that the freckles across his nose looked almost grey in the dim basement light. He was staring toward the tiny window near the ceiling instead of at anyone else.

“Sometimes,” Bruce agreed. “It’s hard to tell what time. I think he has a schedule, but it’s not like there’s a clock in here or anything…” He sat nearest the far wall, knees bent toward his chest, stained baseball jacket folded beneath his head like a pillow, lying beside Vance’s legs.  “You should just eat whenever he brings anything down. Even if you’re not hungry.” 

“Sometimes, in the afternoon if he forgets,” Robin murmured into the fabric of Finney’s jeans. He jumped, and glanced down at Robin with surprise, because he hadn't realized the other boy was still awake. Then after a beat, he carefully settled his hands in Robin’s hair, fingers carefully working through the tangled strands. 

“He forgets a lot,” Billy muttered, picking at a frayed thread near the knee of his jeans. His chain rattled every time his leg bounced. “Hope you like eggs. It’s literally all you’re getting.” 

That earned a quiet snort from Griffin, stretched out and half across him. 

“I never thought I’d get sick of soda,” Billy added bitterly. “Like actually sick of it. I think if I ever get outta here and somebody hands me a Coke I’ll throw up on their shoes.” 

“Better than water from the toilet,” Vance said. 

Finney’s stomach twisted. The bathroom. He hadn’t wanted to think about that either. 

Everything down here felt designed to humiliate them. The mattress on the floor. The chains. The disgusting toilet in the corner hidden behind the wall. The way everybody talked around certain subjects without actually saying them out loud. 

It was like if nobody named the horror directly, it wasn’t as real. 

Robin sighed again, a small sound, and Finney turned his attention back to curling his hair around his fingers. It had gotten longer since Finney had last seen him. It had only been a little over a month and a half since Robin was taken. He wondered if his hair was that much longer, or if the details Finney had memorized were just starting to blur.

He wondered how long it would take for the details of his sister to blur, too.

—

The hours stretched strangely in the basement. 

Time didn't move correctly down there. It either sprinted ahead so fast it made Finney sick, or it dragged its feet until every second felt swollen and rotten. There was no middle ground. It was just waiting and waiting and listening and trying not to think too hard about anything at all.

The light from the little window near the ceiling had started to fade a long time ago— at first it had been pale gold, dusty and weak, but enough to paint thin stripes over the concrete floor. Now it was turning blue-gray, and the color that made the room feel colder before the temperature had even changed.

Nobody talked much anymore.

That was the worst part, because now the silence sat heavy and exhausted between them. Finney kept his knees pulled to his chest and stared at the floor because every time he looked up at the room, he felt panic start scratching under his ribs again. The dark corners seemed deeper now, like they were hungry and waiting like open mouths. He hated that. He’d never been scared of the dark before.

When he was little, Gwen used to leave his bedroom door cracked open because she hated darkness, but Finney never cared. He used to lie awake staring at glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, imagining spacecraft drifting through empty space millions of miles away from Earth. Darkness had always felt huge to him, but not cruel. Just endless. Quiet. 

Beautiful, even.

This darkness was different. This darkness had walls. It was concrete that pressed in around him from every side, and the tiny basement window didn’t look like a window anymore. It looked like proof of something impossible— it was proof the outside world still existed. Somewhere up there, cars were passing by. Streetlights were turning on. Families were eating dinner. Somebody was probably arguing over what channel to watch on television. The world kept moving while they sat underground like forgotten things.

Finney swallowed hard and rubbed at his palms again.

He couldn’t stop doing that.

His skin already felt raw from it, but he kept scraping his thumb over his hands like he could peel something off himself if he just tried hard enough, from sweat and dirt and memory. He didn’t know. He just knew he felt wrong in his own body now, like he’d been turned inside out.

Across from him, Griffin yawned so hard his whole body curled inward for a second. The movement caught Finney’s attention immediately, because Griffin almost never moved suddenly. He usually drifted around like smoke, slow and detached, eyes unfocused even when he was listening.

Now he blinked blearily and leaned back against Billy’s chest.

Billy had been half asleep already, chin ducked low on Griffin’s shoulder. He stirred automatically when Griffin shifted, arms tightening before he seemed to realize what he was doing. Griffin didn’t complain. He just melted further backward, sprawling bonelessly against him.

Finney stared.

Nothing about this was embarrassing or hesitant like boys at school got whenever they accidentally touched each other for too long. There wasn’t any awkward shoving or muttered insults to cover it up; instead, Griffin simply settled there like it was natural, and Billy adjusted around him without opening his eyes all the way.

Finney looked away quickly, suddenly feeling like he’d witnessed something private.

A chain rattled softly nearby.

Robin shuffled sideways toward Bruce, shoulder bumping against him. Bruce made a tired noise but didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer. Robin stretched one arm upward behind him, wrist still shackled, then lifted the other slightly in invitation.

Finney frowned.

“What’re you doing?” he asked quietly.

Robin looked at him like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Getting comfortable.”

“There’s nothing comfortable about this place,” Billy muttered without opening his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit,” Vance said.

Robin ignored them both. He glanced back at Finney again and jerked his head once. “C’mere.”

Finney hesitated immediately, because every instinct in him screamed to avoid people touching him right now. His skin still crawled from it; every brush of fabric felt too noticeable. The thought of being crowded against someone else should’ve made him panic.

But the room was getting colder, and he was so tired.

And this was Robin. This was no different from the afternoons where they were sitting pressed up against each other at Robin’s dining room table, Finney leaning over him as he corrected his math. This was like being curled up on the floor in front of the TV, sharing a bag of candy. This was like the way they walked side by side, and sometimes if Finney got brave he’d like his hands brush Robin’s as they walked.

Slowly, uncertainly, he shifted closer.

Robin moved over enough to make space without saying anything about it. Griffin slid down beside them a second later, apparently deciding movement sounded like too much work now that it had already started. Bruce adjusted next, then Vance with a long-suffering groan because Bruce had practically collapsed into his lap.

The whole thing happened awkwardly and gradually, like a pile of magnets pulling together. Finney found himself pressed between Robin and Griffin before he entirely realized what was happening, and the proximity startled him at first.

Griffin’s hair brushed lightly against his neck when he settled against Finney’s shoulder. Robin’s arm rested warm and heavy along his side. Bruce’s socked foot was shoved somewhere against Finney’s ankle, and Billy kept muttering sleepy complaints every time someone accidentally elbowed him.

It should’ve felt claustrophobic. Instead, horrifyingly, it felt nice.

Finney hated how quickly his body reacted to warmth now. He leaned into Robin before he could stop himself, chasing heat like something starving. Robin smelled like him underneath sweat and concrete dust. Familiar and human and safe. The realization made Finney’s throat tighten painfully.

Robin snorted softly at whatever expression crossed his face. “Relax,” he murmured. “Gets cold at night.”

“Sure,” Griffin drawled sleepily from Finney’s other side. His voice sounded rough with exhaustion. “Just for warmth. Nothing else.”

Bruce laughed quietly, and even Vance made a low sound that might’ve been amusement.

The normalcy of it hurt worse than panic did.

Finney closed his eyes for a moment because suddenly he could picture all of them somewhere else entirely. Not here, not underground. He could imagine Griffin half asleep on somebody’s couch after staying up too late. Billy arguing with Vance over television channels. Robin throwing popcorn during a movie while Bruce complains about it.

A normal life. The kind they should’ve had.

Something warm curled around Finney’s hand. He opened his eyes again and found Robin loosely holding onto him, fingers squeezing once before relaxing. In the dim light, Robin’s eyes looked almost black. For the first time since waking up down there, Finney felt something besides terror.

Comfort.

The realization nearly made him cry. He pressed his mouth shut hard enough to hurt.

Nobody spoke for a while after that. The basement settled around them with creaks and distant house noises overhead. Pipes groaned occasionally somewhere behind the walls. Once, something that sounded like footsteps moved faintly across the ceiling above them, and every single body in the pile went rigid at once. 

Silence followed. Eventually everyone relaxed again, though not completely. Maybe it was just the house settling. It was hard to tell anymore.

Finney stayed awake longer than the others. 

He could tell when sleep started dragging them under one by one. Bruce’s breathing evened out first, slow and deep where he rested his head in Vance’s lap, face tucked into the other boy’s stomach. Griffin drifted next, twitching occasionally like he was dreaming. Billy kept jerking awake every few minutes before finally losing the fight entirely.

Vance lasted longer than Finney expected.

He stayed alert with that familiar tight anger still simmering under his skin, eyes fixed toward the stairs even while exhaustion dragged at him. Vance always looked ready for violence. Even before this place, in the very, very limited interactions Finney had had with him. He acted like he expected the world to swing first if he ever let his guard down. Finney used to think Vance was scary, but now he just looked tired.

At some point, Bruce shifted in his sleep and accidentally headbutted Vance in the chest. Vance cursed under his breath automatically, then very carefully adjusted so Bruce wouldn’t wake up.

The gentleness of it made Finney’s chest ache.

People at school acted like Vance was some rabid dog, and the Teachers talked about him in exhausted voices before he’d even entered classrooms. Kids either avoided him or provoked him for fun because they wanted stories afterward.

This version of Vance was quietly making sure Bruce stayed comfortable despite the awkward angle of his cuffed hands high above his head and the concrete floor.

Finney wondered if that was how people saw him too— not who he actually was, instead just whatever version was easiest. Weak and quiet and easy to target.

The thought curled ugly inside him.

His father called him soft sometimes, usually when he cried. Usually with liquor thick on his breath and disappointment hanging heavy in every word. Finney used to think if he could just become harder and meaner somehow, people would stop hurting him.

But Robin was soft too, underneath everything sharp and defensive. Bruce was gentle. Griffin seemed to wander through the world like a daydream. Billy traced shapes into the ground when nobody was looking. Even Vance, furious Vance, carried kindness buried underneath the anger, so maybe softness wasn’t the problem.

Finney stared toward the basement window again.

It was dark now— completely black, and fear twisted through him immediately. He hated not being able to see outside, and he hated how the darkness erased proof that anything existed beyond these walls. His breathing started shortening before he caught it.

Robin shifted slightly beside him. “You okay?” he murmured sleepily.

Finney almost lied automatically, then he realized nobody down here expected honesty to sound pretty anymore. “No,” he whispered.

Robin hummed softly like that answer made sense, because it did. After a second, he squeezed Finney’s hand again. 

Griffin stirred against him suddenly, face pressing briefly into Finney’s shoulder before settling again. Half asleep, he murmured, “You’re cold.”

“So’re you,” Finney whispered back automatically.

Griffin made a vague noise of agreement, and Finney looked at him properly for the first time in hours. Griffin looked almost ghostly in the dim basement light with pale skin, freckles standing stark across his nose and cheeks. He didn’t look much like the missing posters.

Robin finally drifted asleep beside him not long after that. Finney could tell because his grip loosened and his breathing deepened, head tipping lightly against Finney’s shoulder. His hair brushed Finney’s temple, and for a second, panic flashed hot through him again.

Too close, too trapped, so incredibly surrounded by heat and weight and bodies. His body locked instinctively.

Then Robin sighed softly in his sleep, exhausted and harmless, and the panic cracked apart almost immediately under the weight of something sadder.

Bruce slept curled against Vance because he missed human contact. Billy twitched every time a noise startled him awake. Griffin was clinging unconsciously to whoever sat closest. Robin was holding onto Finney’s hand even in sleep, and Finney suddenly wondered what his mother would think if she saw him right now.

The thought hit so hard it nearly stole his breath.

He remembered her hands first— soft hands, warm hands, always reaching for him without hesitation. She used to smooth his hair back when he got nightmares. She used to call him Finney so gently it sounded like the safest thing in the world.

Finney had stopped letting himself think about her much after she died, because grief in their house became dangerous afterward. His father drank harder every year, and Gwen got sharper around the edges trying to survive it. Finney learned quickly that missing their mother out loud only made things worse.

But now, trapped underground in the dark, he missed her so badly he thought it might split him open.

He wanted someone to tell him this wasn’t his fault. 

Finney stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry. Beside him, Robin shifted closer unconsciously. The warmth helped, and it shouldn’t have. Finney knew that. A few half-asleep boys huddled together on a basement floor couldn’t fix anything waiting for them outside this moment. Morning would come eventually, and fear would return sharp and ugly.

But right now, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the darkness, none of them were alone.