Ruvenacht (4)
I promised an angsty New Years Party and, dear reader, I have not delivered. It’s going to take way more for me to get that scene right and I want to take my time with it. But, in the meanwhile, perhaps we should round the corner on Finn and Charlie talking about what the WRU is up to. Enjoy!
tags | @vickytokio, @boxboysandotherwhump, @deluxewhump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @itstrueiwasthewraithberry, @whumpthisway, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump
warnings | bbu, wru, insomnia, angst, discussion of training, discussion of conditioning, discussion of disability, memory loss, identity loss, trauma survivor, trauma recovery,
~*~
Finn didn’t sleep much. He never had — at least so far as he could remember. He spent many nights in the bare little room, laying on his cot and staring at the blank ceiling, willing it to bear with him for another night. Nights in the house were passed in his room — his own bedroom, a noted change — pacing, watching the shadows on the ceiling, staring out the windows as midnight passed over the immaculate garden.
Tonight was no different, save for the reason his brain wouldn’t settle. The reason Finn had fallen asleep in a chair the last few nights, dropping heavy into empty sleep after sitting there exhausted for hours on end.
He knew Charlie hadn’t meant to keep him awake, talking about what had made the empty spaces in his head, but he had. It had been all Finn could think about for a full thirteen days.
He had been counting.
He had not spoken his churning thoughts out loud.
Whenever he considered doing just that — while folding Lane’s laundry, serving lunch to whoever was around, turning sheet music pages as Charlie played piano — his training got the better of him. His jaw would tighten and a shiver would run through him, the precursors to the terrible headaches he knew well.
Finn pushed it out of his mind. Charlie had apologized to him for a second time the day after, but hadn’t mentioned it ever again.
But his words still nagged at Finn. He sat with himself, cross-legged on the bed, one lamp illuminating the quilt’s colors spread beneath his legs. Thoughts bounced around his brain, leaving him feeling wobbly. The small voice piped up with words like memory wipe and suppression and contract.
It was unsettling, hollowing. The feeling a little ball bearing let loose to rattle around a massive tin can.
He couldn’t catch it. He couldn’t pin it down. He couldn’t ignore it. And he had tried.