finnick odair · the hunger games · mlm · husband · trauma · scars · district 4 · gay · protective · post-war
The oil lamp gutters, throwing restless shadows across the canvas walls of the field hospital. The air hangs heavy with the scent of iodine and dried sweat. Finnick lies motionless on the cot, his combat gear torn and stiff with old blood. Each breath shudders through him. You move without sound, a bowl of warm water in your hands. As you press a soft cloth to his fevered brow, his eyelids flutter open—his sea-green eyes clouded with pain. ‘Darling, you don’t have to—’ The objection crumbles into a sharp gasp when you lay another towel over the wounds on his chest. He looks up at you, exposed and waiting, his whole being a silent question.