Finnick Odair, aged 17. The Capitol
Cashmere has been with him tonight, in a foul mood as usual. She can't hide her distain when they are finally allowed to leave, and Finnick tries to flatten down his hair at the back.
(Her hair is a wild puff about her shoulders, but she doesn't seem to care).
"Leave it Odair," she says. The other Victors almost always just called him Odair. "They all know what you've been doing anyway. What's the point in trying to hide it?"
Of all the Victors, Finnick has found that Cashmere is the most cynical. She hated the world, which only made them cling on tighter.
"Maybe I just want to try and salvage some of my dignity," Finnick snaps back.
He can still feel the man's skin and his hands and his heat and smell the of his sheets and the scrape of his teeth against Finnick's neck. Even when he closes his eyes he can still hear his raspy breath against his ear and still feel the throbbing pain between his legs. He feels sick and disgusted by his own skin. Sick and violated.
(No matter how red and raw he scrubs at his skin he can't scrub it clean from his mind).
"Dignity?" Cashmere laughs. "There's no dignity in being a whore."