![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grumkin_snarkTitle: Exit Light, Enter Night
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: G
Word Count: 203
Summary: Finnick hasn’t owned a bed since he was sixteen.
Author’s Notes: Response to this prompt.
Finnick doesn’t own a bed. The one provided for him at fourteen on Victors’ Cape had been plush, the finest Capitol money could buy. It had taken some getting used to, a soft mattress after three weeks with nowhere to rest but dirt, but he’d nonetheless been able to enjoy it for two years.
There is a grand celebration in the Capitol for Finnick’s sixteenth birthday. When the train spits him back onto District Four soil a month later, he rids his house of its bed, silken sheets and all. He sleeps on the floor, now. Occasionally the couch, if the numb spot in his side gives him fits. The Remake Center had rendered the knife wound invisible, but now and then, when the weather turns or he twists wrong, he’s brought straight back to his arena and Two’s blade between ribs five and six.
But never a bed. Annie asks about it, once, when she spends the evening and eyes his sparse furniture.
“I don’t like them,” is all he says, and she doesn't press.
Finnick sleeps on the beach sometimes, during the nights he returns home from the Capitol, where the sea swallows his screams and clouds cover him in shadow.
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: G
Word Count: 203
Summary: Finnick hasn’t owned a bed since he was sixteen.
Author’s Notes: Response to this prompt.
Exit Light, Enter Night
Finnick doesn’t own a bed. The one provided for him at fourteen on Victors’ Cape had been plush, the finest Capitol money could buy. It had taken some getting used to, a soft mattress after three weeks with nowhere to rest but dirt, but he’d nonetheless been able to enjoy it for two years.
There is a grand celebration in the Capitol for Finnick’s sixteenth birthday. When the train spits him back onto District Four soil a month later, he rids his house of its bed, silken sheets and all. He sleeps on the floor, now. Occasionally the couch, if the numb spot in his side gives him fits. The Remake Center had rendered the knife wound invisible, but now and then, when the weather turns or he twists wrong, he’s brought straight back to his arena and Two’s blade between ribs five and six.
But never a bed. Annie asks about it, once, when she spends the evening and eyes his sparse furniture.
“I don’t like them,” is all he says, and she doesn't press.
Finnick sleeps on the beach sometimes, during the nights he returns home from the Capitol, where the sea swallows his screams and clouds cover him in shadow.
