but maybe it's a good thing, somewhere. finn was happy how he was and moreover he was healthy -- but he was vulnerable. weak. he never wanted to fight, he wanted peace keeping and togetherness, he saw the world as something beautiful with many mysteries to unveil, some treasure to held like lost plant species, like flowers, like radioactive havens in the woods, where blue light is so beautiful it's almost enough to forget all the dead they're walking on. he remembers what it was like to see beauty, to see clarke's smile and the way she'd look at him like she was keeping a secret -- he remembers being excited by the flowers and the trees, and uncovering forgotten nothings from the people before his time and thinking about the cities -- tall skyscrapers and busy streets, wealthy stores, places with cars and buses and people talking on cellphones. he remembers when he thought they could recreate that, and when he cared that they would.
he doesn't, now.
now he knows dreams are impossible, just as he knows that clarke won't ever be his, but that's fine because he doesn't want her -- he doesn't want his tar hands to touch her and leave stains in their wake, she's good, they all are, and finn is like a mosquito, sucking the blood out of society. there was a time he added to it, but now he only takes, lives and dreams and peoples expectations -- he crushes them, now that he's akin to destruction, stomps his boots on flowers and grinds them into the dirt, because that's life for you. innocent things never stay innocent. people die. people go rotten apples. people fade into the wind and sands of time, and mostly people don't care whether you win or lose or die, because everyone's watching their own neck. that's the place finn draws blood from, that's what finn ingests and enjoys, the competition between men and their friends, the struggles everyone faces. he loves it.
but he doesn't care.
there isn't much he cares about, too bleached in war and hate to feel much of anything. sometimes he feels breezes on his cheeks when he sneaks out of camp, because people keep too close an eye on him all the time -- sometimes he feels the sharp jabs of raven's glares at the back of his neck, or the slow pain of clarke's pitying glances as if saying i should have loved you better. but it's not the lack of her love that made him this way -- it's too much of it, too suffering, too all encompassing, and now finn feels nothing towards her at all, except the vague thrum of a fire gone out someone that he used to know.
ironically, that's how he feels about himself too. he looks at his reflection in river banks and can't recognize the person staring back at him -- he doesn't feel anything then, either. sometimes there's aches in his knees and his throat from thirst -- more commonly there's an ache in his throat when murphy shoves his dick down it, or a pain in his knees when he's ordered to beg. it's the last good feeling there is, feeling useful towards murphy who's the only person he hasn't completely shattered his relationship with -- whatever that relationship is, when they fuck hard against trees away from camp, or when finn can't lay on his cot because his ass hurts too much, or the scratches on his back sting too much when he puts them under pressure.
but he likes the sting, he likes the burn, he likes murphy's hands yanking out his hair and he likes that murphy is the only one who can supply it. there's an understanding there, but there's more than that -- the common desire of hurt and be hurt. finn wants to feel pain. he wants to bleed.
the ruins of the ark are cold inside -- people steer clear normally, except the jailer's cell, except this place and that. theirs is the presumed unoccupied one, a small room apart from the others, with a cot and finn and murphy, and finn's teeth sinking into murphy's lip to bleed, to fight and tear and rip -- taste blood, because maybe he's just as interested in hurting as murphy is, just as interested in delving further into violence. his true place is the hurt, though, it's what he wants, it's what he deserves and he likes it -- because in the absence of emotion there is pain, there is murphy, and maybe, accidentally, he taught finn how to feel one thing, one more time.
he doesn't put a name to it, though, just shoves his hands under murphy's shirt, teeth clawing over his lips in rough clashes for kisses. more and more and more, fire and bloodied hands, finn shoves him up against the wall of their strange, not quiet abode, fighting like he's a grounder and finn is out for the kill. )
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but maybe it's a good thing, somewhere. finn was happy how he was and moreover he was healthy -- but he was vulnerable. weak. he never wanted to fight, he wanted peace keeping and togetherness, he saw the world as something beautiful with many mysteries to unveil, some treasure to held like lost plant species, like flowers, like radioactive havens in the woods, where blue light is so beautiful it's almost enough to forget all the dead they're walking on. he remembers what it was like to see beauty, to see clarke's smile and the way she'd look at him like she was keeping a secret -- he remembers being excited by the flowers and the trees, and uncovering forgotten nothings from the people before his time and thinking about the cities -- tall skyscrapers and busy streets, wealthy stores, places with cars and buses and people talking on cellphones. he remembers when he thought they could recreate that, and when he cared that they would.
he doesn't, now.
now he knows dreams are impossible, just as he knows that clarke won't ever be his, but that's fine because he doesn't want her -- he doesn't want his tar hands to touch her and leave stains in their wake, she's good, they all are, and finn is like a mosquito, sucking the blood out of society. there was a time he added to it, but now he only takes, lives and dreams and peoples expectations -- he crushes them, now that he's akin to destruction, stomps his boots on flowers and grinds them into the dirt, because that's life for you. innocent things never stay innocent. people die. people go rotten apples. people fade into the wind and sands of time, and mostly people don't care whether you win or lose or die, because everyone's watching their own neck. that's the place finn draws blood from, that's what finn ingests and enjoys, the competition between men and their friends, the struggles everyone faces. he loves it.
but he doesn't care.
there isn't much he cares about, too bleached in war and hate to feel much of anything. sometimes he feels breezes on his cheeks when he sneaks out of camp, because people keep too close an eye on him all the time -- sometimes he feels the sharp jabs of raven's glares at the back of his neck, or the slow pain of clarke's pitying glances as if saying i should have loved you better. but it's not the lack of her love that made him this way -- it's too much of it, too suffering, too all encompassing, and now finn feels nothing towards her at all, except the vague thrum of a fire gone out someone that he used to know.
ironically, that's how he feels about himself too. he looks at his reflection in river banks and can't recognize the person staring back at him -- he doesn't feel anything then, either. sometimes there's aches in his knees and his throat from thirst -- more commonly there's an ache in his throat when murphy shoves his dick down it, or a pain in his knees when he's ordered to beg. it's the last good feeling there is, feeling useful towards murphy who's the only person he hasn't completely shattered his relationship with -- whatever that relationship is, when they fuck hard against trees away from camp, or when finn can't lay on his cot because his ass hurts too much, or the scratches on his back sting too much when he puts them under pressure.
but he likes the sting, he likes the burn, he likes murphy's hands yanking out his hair and he likes that murphy is the only one who can supply it. there's an understanding there, but there's more than that -- the common desire of hurt and be hurt. finn wants to feel pain. he wants to bleed.
the ruins of the ark are cold inside -- people steer clear normally, except the jailer's cell, except this place and that. theirs is the presumed unoccupied one, a small room apart from the others, with a cot and finn and murphy, and finn's teeth sinking into murphy's lip to bleed, to fight and tear and rip -- taste blood, because maybe he's just as interested in hurting as murphy is, just as interested in delving further into violence. his true place is the hurt, though, it's what he wants, it's what he deserves and he likes it -- because in the absence of emotion there is pain, there is murphy, and maybe, accidentally, he taught finn how to feel one thing, one more time.
he doesn't put a name to it, though, just shoves his hands under murphy's shirt, teeth clawing over his lips in rough clashes for kisses. more and more and more, fire and bloodied hands, finn shoves him up against the wall of their strange, not quiet abode, fighting like he's a grounder and finn is out for the kill. )