Chapter 33: Emotional Reunion (2)
The top floor—Finn and Jake's bedroom—was silent, dark, and suffocating beneath the weight of grief and time. The air was thick with the kind of sorrow that didn't fade but fermented, pressing against the walls like a ghost refusing to leave. The room hadn't changed, not visibly, but it had transformed. It no longer felt like a place of rest. It was a tomb—one that had buried five months of quiet misery and hopeless waiting.
It was enough to choke the breath from Finn's lungs just standing there.
His eyes moved to the familiar sight of his own bed, now entirely consumed by a tangled mass of blankets and sheets. Buried within that pile was the yellow dog—Jake—completely hidden from the world. Not a paw, not a tail, not even the top of his snout peeked out. The only thing that betrayed his presence was the slight, almost imperceptible shifting of the covers, and the dark, wet patches staining the fabric—evidence of endless nights crying in silence.
Finn stepped forward without a word. His foot nudged something on the floor—an old candle, half-used. He crouched, picked it up, and with a casual flick of his hand, melted his index finger and let the flame catch. A soft orange glow filled the room, casting flickering shadows that danced like old memories on the walls.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, right beside Jake, his body heavy with uncertainty. His mind raced in loops—how should he do this? What could he even say? Words weren't enough. Not now. Not after everything. How do you explain vanishing without goodbye? How do you convince someone you're real, after becoming a ghost in their life for so long?
Would Jake think it was a dream? Would he reject him?
Finn didn't have the answers. All he had was instinct.
For all the people he had killed, manipulated, or tossed aside… Jake wasn't one of them. And that hit harder than he expected.
He hadn't realized how much he still cared about the dog—not until this very moment. It wasn't just duty. It wasn't nostalgia. It was something deep, carved into him from years of brotherhood and survival.
He sighed—a low, quiet surrender—and turned to his old friend.
With deliberate care, he peeled away the layers of blankets, one by one. Each layer felt like a barrier to an old life. Finally, after unwrapping what felt like the last bandage from a wounded soul, Jake's familiar yellow fur appeared—dull from neglect, but unmistakably him.
Then came the face.
Finn froze.
Seeing Jake's face again, after everything, after the darkness and fire and death—it broke something open inside him. His heart lurched violently in his chest, and the past came pouring in. Adventures. Laughter. Screaming through the woods. Sleeping under the stars. Fighting side by side. Losing. Winning. Healing.
Jake had never treated him like a burden. Never. Even when Finn had been weak, foolish, or broken, Jake had stood at his side and lifted him up. He was the one who never faltered, who never complained. And now… this strong, playful, invincible dog had been reduced to this.
Alone. Silent. Mourning.
Finn reached out and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. The moment his fingers made contact, Jake's body jerked slightly—then trembled. He stirred beneath the sheets.
The blankets shifted, and Jake's eyes slowly opened. Big, round, puffy eyes—rimmed with a deep, exhausted blue, bloodshot from endless nights without rest. The red veins in his irises pulsed like scars from within.
For a moment, he just blinked, confused and groggy.
Then his gaze sharpened. Focused. He saw the face in front of him—Finn's face.
Jake's heart skipped a beat. His body went still.
No dream could feel this warm. No memory could make his chest seize up like this.
His paw lifted, hesitant, trembling, and touched Finn's arm.
And that was it.
"Finn!!?" he choked out, voice cracking with disbelief. His body moved on its own—exploding forward into the boy's chest. His arms wrapped around him with a desperation so raw, it shook them both.
He cried. He cried hard.
Jake sobbed into Finn's shoulder like a child who had been lost in the dark for far too long. His words stumbled over themselves as he tried to speak, but nothing came out right. Every time he opened his mouth, the pain in his throat blocked him. And when he pulled back, even just to look at Finn's face again, his eyes leaked uncontrollably. He scanned every inch of Finn's expression, like trying to memorize it all over again—afraid it might vanish again if he blinked too long.
There were a thousand questions burning in his brain. Where had he been? Was he okay? What happened to him? Why now?
But none of them surfaced. None of them mattered yet.
Finn didn't resist. He didn't hug back, either. He just sat there, steady and silent, letting Jake unload everything. Letting him fall apart. Letting the storm pass.
Ten minutes passed like that.
Ten whole minutes of sobs, hiccups, gasps for air, and broken whispers. Jake was a mess, shaking, drenched in his own grief. Every time he tried to get control of himself, the emotions came flooding back. And through it all, Finn remained still—watching, absorbing, enduring.
But not unmoved.
Something about Jake's pain—the rawness of it, the depth—gave Finn a strange kind of peace. Not comfort. Not happiness. Just… stillness. A quiet certainty. Maybe he wasn't entirely hollow after all.
Eventually, he raised his hands and gently gripped Jake's shoulders.
"That's enough, Jake."
His voice was firm, low, but not cold. It had an edge of patience, like he understood, but couldn't let it go on forever.
"Stop, please. Okay? I can explain everything."
Jake slowly, reluctantly loosened his grip. His tears kept falling, but he nodded, trying to steady his breath.
Finn let go.
He began to speak, carefully, calmly. His words were measured, void of drama. He didn't tell Jake the truth. No mention of Princess Bubblegum's betrayal. No hint of the manipulation or the fake death. If Jake found out the truth, he'd lose it—and PB wouldn't live to see the sunrise.
So Finn fed him the lie. A convincing one.
He told him he'd been caught in an accident. That he'd barely survived. That memory loss and distance kept him away. That he'd fought his way back, step by step. Jake believed every word, holding onto them like sacred verses. To him, they weren't just lies—they were the salvation of a broken hope.
They talked. For hours.
Jake, eager and starving for connection, filled the time with every dull story and thought he'd bottled up. Every meal he'd eaten. Every weird dream. Every moment of confusion. He didn't care how small it was—he just wanted to speak. To reconnect. To have his brother back.
Finn, for his part, said little. He danced around anything real. The past five months were off-limits.
Neither of them noticed Lady Rainicorn watching from the hallway, her long body coiled near the door. Her eyes were narrowed in suspicion, her frown deep.
[Who is this guy?]
She muttered it low, but with a growing edge of doubt that didn't go unnoticed by Sika—or th e silence between Finn's words.