Work Text:
1.
Finn lived in a house with a curved roof, a warm beacon on a planet where it often snowed. He slept close to the ground on soft, low beds with his parents.
Finn and his family lived in a small apartment in a bustling city in the Mid Rim. Out of his window he could see the whole gleaming world.
Finn lived on a hot planet with a wide purple sky. He played outside with his siblings.
Finn doesn’t remember the roof, or the sky, or the window. He’ll try to build them out of nothing and he won’t succeed. The well will always be dry.
2.
He listens to Nines and Zeroes and Slip, the small differentiation of their breathing and movement. There’s nothing to delineate this room as theirs except them being in it.
They’ll have to wake up in three hours, but he doesn’t sleep.
3.
His quarters on the base have become full of things. Things he owns, things he doesn’t own, which disappear and reappear without warning. The regulation blanket of rough grey-green synthetics has been replaced with a quilt from Kes Dameron. There’s a Keshian kaleidoscope full of colors he can’t see with his human eyes. Karé and Jessika have given him art, of varying degrees of competence.
Finn borrows holofilms and holonovels widely, but his favorites are the ones lent to him by General Leia. History, strategy, stories so full of old, forgotten wonder he gets lost inside of them and can’t get out for days.
And there’s Rey’s garden, which has filled up every conceivable planter. The air itself is full of life.
He keeps any space he’s in meticulous out of habit.
4.
Finn presses a soft kiss to Rey’s neck. She doesn’t look back at him but bits of what she’s feeling brush through his mind like electric shocks. They’ve been flying for hours, soon Rey will land. They’ll see another unfamiliar place, wherever it is they want to go.
5.
(But Finn can remember now, too, places that have been lost. He wonders, if it’s better.)