Touch
Finnick didn't want this life. Sure he had a nice body and all, but that didn't mean he wanted to share it with everybody.
.
He rolls over in the bed, pulling the covers tighter around his body as if to offer some type of protection, or maybe just to help deflect memories of what had happened earlier that night. The cool fingers that raked his neck, pulling at his hair, whispering dirty secrets and monotone jokes while the scent of alcohol stayed pungent in the air. He remembered the musk, the number of different perfumes and other scents highly overbearing as they beat down on him, suffocating in his throat.
"S-stop, stop," his voice gargles from beneath the thick comforter, the woman and possibly men, as it's hard to tell with the gaudy creatures of the Capitol, have long since retired for the evening, but he stills fears their touch, their taunts.
The pulse of nonexistent drums echoes around him growing faster and faster. And then there's the sudden cool of a coin as it hits his bare back. First one, then another, and another. It's a shower of them, a rainstorm of money as the crowd below reaches into pockets and wallets, slapping shoulders of the ones next to them asking to borrow, just so they make throw a dime or nickel at the boy on stage. As if he were some type of attraction.
"Take it off!" one woman shouts from the crowd, her eyes gleaming mischievously as he watches her discreetly slip the silver band from her finger, "Go on, take it all off!"
But he won't. And he's shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut as if this is some sort of nightmare he can pinch himself and wake up from.
He backs up across the stage, fingering for the curtain, or for the door the attraction – as he now realizes that must be what he is to these people of the Capitol, exits, when he feels a strong arm on his shoulder and someone's shoving him back out onto the stage, saying threatening words about his District, about his people, and about her. And no, he just can't let that happen. Not to his District, and specifically not to her.
He doesn't want to. No. But he's doing it. The crowd urges on, their catcalls and howls growing louder and stronger as they realize what he's doing. He's finally giving in to their sick wishes.
He plays with his belt, fingers on the little latch as he pulls back and releases it. And now his pants feel looser. And they're egging him on and he's doing it. He's unhooking the buckles.